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Transcriber's Note:

  Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original book have
  been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
  The book frequently omits punctuation before quotes. The punctuation
  has been retained as in the original. The length and spacing of
  ellipses (...) has also been retained as printed.

  There is no Chapter IV.

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




  [Illustration: _Elizabeth_.]




     THE
     ORDEAL OF
     ELIZABETH


     NEW YORK
     GROSSET & DUNLAP
     PUBLISHERS




     COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY
     J. F. TAYLOR AND
     COMPANY, NEW YORK




     THE ORDEAL
     OF
     ELIZABETH




_Chapter I_


The Van Vorst Homestead stands close to the road-side; a dark,
low-built, gloomy old place. The horse-shoe on the door, testifies to
its age, and the devout superstition of the Van Vorst who built it.
However effectual against witches, the horse-shoe cannot be said to
have brought much luck otherwise. The Van Vorsts who lived there, a
junior branch of the old colonial house, did not prosper in worldly
matters, but sank more and more as time went on, in general respect
and consideration.

There was a break in the deterioration, and apparently a revival of
old glories, when Peter Van Vorst married his cousin, a brilliant
beauty from town, who had refused, as tradition asserts, half the
eligible men of her day, and accepted Peter for what seemed a sudden
and mysterious caprice. The marriage was a nine days' wonder; but
whatever the reasons that prompted her strange choice--whether love,
indifference, or some feeling more complicated and subtle; Elizabeth
Van Vorst made no effort to avert its consequences, but settled down
in silence to a life of monotonous poverty. She did not even try, as
less favored women have done under harder circumstances, to keep in
touch with the world she had given up. She never wrote to her old
friends, never recalled herself, by her presence in town, to her
former admirers. As for the Homestead, it wore, under the inert
indifference of her rule, the same neglected look which had prevailed
for years. The foliage grew in rank profusion about the house till it
shut out not only the sunlight, but all view of the river. Perhaps
Madam Van Vorst, as people called her, disliked the idea of change; or
perhaps she grudged the cost of a day's labor to cut the trees; or it
might be that she liked the gloom and the feeling of confinement, and
had no desire to feast her eyes on the river, after the fashion of the
Neighborhood. It reminded her too much, perhaps, of the outside world.

She was a stately, handsome old lady, and made an imposing appearance
when she came into church on Sunday, in the black silk gown which
rustled with an old-time dignity, and her puffs of snow-white hair
standing out against the rim of her widow's bonnet. Her daughters,
following timidly behind her, seemed to belong to a different sphere;
dull, faded women, in shabby gowns which the village girls would have
disdained. If you spoke to them after church, when the whole
Neighborhood exchanges greetings and discusses the news of the week,
they would answer you shyly, in embarrassed monosyllables. Still, in
some intangible way, you felt the innate breeding, which lurked behind
all the uncouthness of voice and manner.

Their life, under their mother's training, had been one long lesson in
self-effacement; they never even drove to the village without
consulting her, or bought a spool of cotton without her permission.
The stress of poverty, as time went on, grew less stringent at the
Homestead; but with Madam Van Vorst the penury which had been first
the result of necessity, had grown to be second nature. She let the
money accumulate and made no change in their manner of life. Her
daughters had no books, no teachers; no occupation but house-work; no
interest beyond the petty gossip of the country-side.

With Peter, the son, the downward process was more evident and had
taken deeper root. His voice was more uncouth than that of his sisters
and his manner less refined; it was hard to distinguish him if you saw
him in church, from any farmer, ill at ease in his Sunday clothes. He
spent his days at work on the farm, and his evenings, more often than
his mother dreamed of, at the bar in the village. Like his sisters, he
bowed beneath her iron rod and lived in mortal fear of her
displeasure. Yet he had his plans, well defined, and frequently
boasted (at least at the village bar) of what he should do when he
became his own master.

With the sisters a certain inborn delicacy of feeling prevented them
from formulating, even to themselves, those hopes and aspirations
which, nevertheless, lay dormant, needing only a sudden shock to call
them into life. When that shock came, and it was known all over the
Neighborhood that Madam Van Vorst was dead, the news brought a mild
sense of loss, the feeling of a landmark removed; and people hastened
at once to the Homestead with sincere condolences and offers of
assistance to the daughters. Cornelia and Joanna were stunned, but not
entirely with sorrow; rather with the sort of feeling that a prisoner
might experience, who finds himself by a sudden blow, released from a
chain which habit has rendered bearable, and almost second nature, yet
none the less a chain.

It was not till the evening after the funeral that this stifled
feeling found expression. The day had been fraught with a ghastly
excitement that seemed to give for the moment to these poor crushed
beings a fictitious importance. All the Neighborhood had come to the
funeral; some grand relations even had journeyed up from town to do
honor to the woman whom they had ignored in her lifetime; these last
lingered for a solemn meal at the Homestead. The whole affair seemed
to bring the Van Vorst women more in contact with the outside world
than any event since their father's death, many years before. Sitting
that evening, talking it all over, it might have been some festivity
that they were discussing, were it not for their crape-laden gowns,
and the tears they were still shedding half mechanically, though with
no conscious insincerity.

"It was kind of the Schuyler Van Vorsts to come up," said Cornelia,
wistfully. "I thought they had quite forgotten us--they are such fine
people, you know--but they were really very kind, quite as if they
took an interest."

"I'm glad the cake was so good," said the practical Joanna. "I took
special pains with it, for I thought some of them might stay."

"It went off very nicely," said Cornelia, tearfully, "very nicely
indeed. Mrs. Schuyler Van Vorst spoke of the cream being so good."

"She ate a good deal of it, I noticed."

"One thing I was sorry for," said Cornelia, reluctantly. "I saw her
looking at the furniture. You know poor Mamma never would have
anything done to it."

The sisters looked mechanically about the familiar room whose
deficiencies had never been so glaringly apparent. The Homestead
drawing-room had been re-furnished, with strict regard to economy many
years ago, after a fashion too antiquated to be beautiful, and too
modern to be interesting. The chairs and sofa were covered with
horse-hair, and decorated, at intervals, with crochet anti-macassars.
In the centre of the room stood a marble-topped table, upon which were
ranged, at stiff angles, the Pilgrim's Progress, Paradise Lost, and
several books of sermons. There were no other books and no pretty
knick-knacks; but some perennially blooming wax flowers, religiously
preserved beneath a glass case, contrasted with the chill marble of
the mantel-piece. Above them hung one of the few relics of the past--a
hideous sampler worked by a colonial ancestress. The room was much the
worse for wear, the wall-paper was dingy, the carpet faded to an
indefinite hue, some of the chairs were notoriously unsafe, and the
sofa had lacked one foot for years.

"I think," said Cornelia, with sudden energy, as if roused at last to
the truth of a self-evident proposition, "I think it is about time
that the room was done over."

Joanna attempted no denial; but after a moment she remarked
tentatively, as if balancing the claims of beauty against those of
economy; "Some pretty sateen, I suppose, for a covering would not cost
much."

Cornelia shook her head with melancholy decision. "It would be quite
useless to do anything with the furniture," she declared, "if we
didn't first change the carpet and the wall-paper."

Joanna was silent in apparent acquiescence; and Cornelia, after a
moment's hesitation, brought out a still bolder proposition. "I've
been thinking," she said "that we ought to have a piano. Of course I
can't--we can't either of us play," she went on in hurried deprecation
of Joanna's astonished looks, "poor Mamma would never let us take
lessons; but people have them whether they play or not, and--it would
give such a nice, musical look to the room."

Joanna sat lost for a moment in awe over this radical suggestion. "It
would be very expensive," she said, practically "and--there are a
great many things we need more."

But the more imaginative Cornelia refused to be daunted. "What if it
is expensive!" she said boldly "and if we don't actually need it,
that's all the more reason why it would be nice to have it. We've
never spent money on a single thing in all our lives except for just
what was necessary. Couldn't we for once have something that isn't
necessary, that would be only--pleasant?"

Thus Cornelia struck the key-note of resistance to that doctrine of
utility which had enslaved their lives, and Joanna, after the first
shock of surprise, followed willingly in her lead. It was decided that
the piano should be bought at once, and in discussing this and other
changes, time passed rapidly, and they went to bed in a state of duly
suppressed, but undoubted cheerfulness. It was altogether quite the
pleasantest evening that they had spent for many years, though they
would not have admitted this for the world, and sincerely believed
themselves in great affliction. There was another being in the house
who rejoiced in his freedom and meant to make the most of it.

The next morning at breakfast the sisters might have perceived had
they been less engrossed in their own thoughts, that Peter was
meditating some communication, which he found it hard to express. His
words, when he spoke at last, chimed in oddly with his sisters'
wishes. "I never," he said, speaking very deliberately and looking
about him in great disgust, "I never saw a place that needed doing
over so badly as this does."

There was a moment's pause of astonishment; and then Cornelia looked
up in glad surprise. "Why, Peter," she said, "I had no idea that you
would care"--

"Care!" said Peter, importantly. "Of course I care. I've always meant
to have the place fixed up when--well, she couldn't live for ever, you
know" he broke off half apologetically, as he caught the look of mute
protest on his sisters' faces. "It did all very well for her and for
you," he went on, coolly, "but it's not the sort of place I can bring
my wife to." The last words came out with an air of indifference, that
might have befitted the most commonplace announcement.

Upon Peter's hearers, however, they fell like a thunderbolt. It was
several minutes before Cornelia repeated, in a very low voice:

"Your--your _wife_, Peter?"

"Yes, my wife." Peter rose and faced his sisters squarely, his hands
in his pockets. He thrust out his under lip, and his florid Dutch face
wore an expression of mingled defiance, exultation and embarrassment.
"Why, I've been married some time," he said. "You didn't suppose I was
going to stay single all my life, did you?"

"But who--who"--Cornelia's mind, moving with unusual rapidity, had
already passed in review and rejected as improbable all the eligible
young women of the Neighborhood, with none of whom she had ever seen
Peter exchange two words. "Who can it be, Peter?" she concluded,
lamely.

"Is it--any one we know?" chimed in Joanna, hopefully.

Peter looked them full in the face; he had always held his sisters in
some contempt. "You know her well enough," he said, deliberately "or
if you don't--you ought to. She's a young lady who lives near here,
and her name is Malvina Jones."

There was a dead silence. The old Dutch clock on the mantel-piece,
which had kept its place undisturbed through the trials and changes of
several generations, seemed to beat in the stillness loudly and
fiercely, almost as if it shared the consternation of Peter's sisters,
who stared at him aghast. Cornelia was the first to speak. "Malvina
Jones!" she repeated, slowly. "You don't mean the--the girl whose
father keeps the bar?"

Peter flushed angrily. "There's only one Malvina Jones that I know of"
he declared, "and she's my wife and will be the mistress of this
house. And so, if you don't like it, you can leave--that's all I have
to say."

With this conclusive remark Peter betook himself to his usual
avocations, and his sisters were left to resign themselves to the
situation as best they might.

"Malvina Jones!" Joanna repeated, still lost in astonishment.

"One of the village girls!" said Cornelia, bitterly, "a--a
bar-keeper's daughter."

Joanna seemed to hesitate. "That isn't the worst of it," she said at
last. "There are some very nice girls in the village, you know, but
Malvina Jones is not--I'm afraid she really is _not_ a very nice
girl."

Cornelia was silent. She knew enough of the petty gossip of the
village to be aware that Joanna was stating the case mildly. Before
her mental vision there rose a picture of Malvina as she had often
seen her on Sunday, with her glaring red hair, her smart attire and
her look of bold assurance, undisturbed by the disapproving eyes of
the congregation. Then she thought of her mother, the stately old dame
whom they had been so proud of, even while they feared her. She looked
at the breakfast-table, at the quaint, old-fashioned shapes of the
glistening silver and the Dutch willow-ware which had been in the
family since time immemorial; she thought with affection even of the
old horsehair furniture, which must surely be preferable to such
improvements as Malvina might suggest, and she pictured the
bar-keeper's daughter entertaining her friends in the room where Madam
Van Vorst had received with old-world stateliness the visits of the
Neighborhood. To poor Cornelia the family dignity--what little there
was left of it--seemed to be crumbling to ashes.

"I don't think we need to bother now about--about the piano," she
said, and the words died away in a sob.




_Chapter II_


It was a June morning twenty years later, and Elizabeth's hands were
full of June roses.

"Look," she said, holding them out "how beautiful!" She placed them in
a flat china dish and proceeded to arrange them, humming, as she did
so, a gay little tune from some favorite opera of the day. The Misses
Van Vorst, her aunts, who had been talking rather seriously before the
girl entered, broke off in their conversation and brightened as they
watched her.

There had been times in Elizabeth's childhood when the heart of each
sister had been contracted by a secret fear, which they concealed even
from one another, when they had offered up in seclusion fervent
prayers that certain hereditary characteristics might not be revived
in this treasure which fortune had unexpectedly bestowed upon them.
These prayers had been to all appearance more than answered. Elizabeth
did not look like her mother. It was true that the beautiful, wavy
hair, which grew in soft ripples on her forehead, showed in the full
glare of the sunshine or the firelight a trace, a suspicion of the
deep red which in her mother's locks had been unpleasantly vivid; but
with Elizabeth, it was a warm Titian shade which would delight an
artist. In other respects, it was her grandmother whom she resembled,
as very old people in the Neighborhood would sometimes inform you,
wondering to see the beauty and distinction which had perversely
skipped one generation, reproduced in this bar-maid's daughter.
Certainly it was from Madam Van Vorst that the girl inherited the
haughty turn of the head and the instinctive pride of carriage. The
older woman's beauty may have been more perfect. Elizabeth's features
were admittedly far from classical. Her nose tilted slightly, the chin
was too square, the red, pouting lips were perhaps a trifle too full.
But her skin was dazzlingly fair and fresh, and there was a glow of
color and wealth of outline about her which disarmed criticism. The
eyes, under their long lashes, were large and lustrous. Like her hair,
they varied in different lights, or perhaps it was in different moods.
They seemed a clear gray when she was thoughtful, blue when she
smiled, and they grew, in moments of grief or acute emotion,
singularly deep and dark. But such moments had, at this period of her
life, been rare.

To her aunts, as they watched her that morning, she was the visible
embodiment of all those stifled aspirations, to which Peter's marriage
had apparently given a fatal blow. They could think now without
bitterness of that great humiliation, and if they spoke of their
brother's wife, it was with due propriety as "poor Malvina." They owed
her after all, a debt of gratitude, since she was Elizabeth's mother,
who had died most opportunely when Elizabeth was a baby.

The girl had been their sole charge from the first, for Peter
concerned himself little about his motherless child. His death, when
she was still very young, could hardly be considered an unmitigated
affliction. As for Elizabeth, it was chiefly remarkable in being the
occasion of her first black frock, on the strength of which she gave
herself airs towards her less afflicted playmates.

Thus the Misses Van Vorst were free to carry out certain cherished
plans in regard to their niece's future, which they had formed when,
hanging over her cradle, they had fondly traced a resemblance to the
grandmother after whom she had been named, through some odd,
remorseful freak of Peter's. Impelled, as she grew older, by a wistful
consciousness of all that they had missed, they heroically resigned
themselves to part with her for a while that she might enjoy the
advantages of a very select and extremely expensive school in town.
And after five years she returned to them, not over-burdened by much
abstruse knowledge, but with a graceful carriage, a charming
intonation, a considerable stock of accomplishments, and the prettiest
gowns of any girl in the Neighborhood.

Her return was the signal for the changes at the Homestead, which now
made the old house a cheerful place to live in. The sunlight, no
longer excluded by the overgrown foliage, flooded the drawing-room,
and from the long French windows, opening out on the well-kept lawn,
you caught a charming glimpse of the river. The fire-place was
decorated in white and gold, the polished floor was strewn with rugs.
Amid the profusion of modern chairs and tables and bric-à-brac were
old heirlooms which had mouldered in the attic for generations,
un-thought of and despised, till Elizabeth routed them out and placed
them, rather to her aunts' surprise, in a conspicuous position. The
walls were hung with fine engravings, books and magazines were
scattered here and there. Across one corner stood the much-coveted
piano.

The improvement was not confined to the furniture. The Misses Van
Vorst, too, seemed to have progressed and assumed a more modern air,
in harmony with their present surroundings. They were old women now,
and people of the present generation placed carefully the prefix
"Miss" before their Christian names; but in many ways, they were
younger and certainly far happier than they were twenty years before.
It was Elizabeth who had made the change, it was she who had filled
their narrow lives with a wonderful new interest. And yet, it was on
her account that they felt just then the one anxiety which disturbed
their satisfaction in the warmth of her youth and beauty, nay, was
rather intensified because of it.

"We were saying, dear," Miss Cornelia could not help observing after a
moment "just as you came in, that it is a pity the Neighborhood is so
dull. There is so little amusement for a young girl."

"We used to think it quite gay when we were young," said Miss Joanna,
her knitting-needles clicking cheerfully as she talked. "There was
always a lawn-party at the Van Antwerps', and Mrs. Courtenay was at
home every Saturday, and then the fair for the church."

"But Mrs. Courtenay doesn't stay at home any longer," said Miss
Cornelia, dejectedly, "and the Van Antwerps haven't given a thing for
ever so long, and as for the fair--the church has everything it needs
now--steeple, font, everything, so there is no object in having a
fair."

"And so few people to buy if there were," sighed Miss Joanna, becoming
despondent in her turn. "I quite miss it--I used to enjoy making
things for it. Really now, if it were not for knitting socks for Mrs.
Anderton's new babies, I should be quite at a loss for something to
do."

Elizabeth, who had turned and stared from one to the other, as if in
surprise at the introduction of a new subject, here broke in with a
soft little laugh. "Well, auntie, Mrs. Anderton certainly keeps you
busy," she said, consolingly "and as for the fair--why, I don't know
that it would be such wild dissipation." Insensibly at the last words,
her mouth drooped at the corners, the eyes, which an instant before
had sparkled with amusement, grew thoughtful. A slight cloud of
discontent seemed to drift over the buoyant freshness of her mood.

Miss Cornelia observed it and continued to lament. "Well, at least, a
fair would be _something_," she insisted "and then in old times there
used to be dances. If you went out to tea--oftener, my dear--even that
would be a diversion."

The cloud on Elizabeth's face deepened. She bent down with elaborate
care to place the last rose in position. "Oh, I don't know that it
matters much," she said, and there was a sudden hardness in her tone.
"There are no men for a dance, and as for the tea-parties--they don't
amuse me very much. There are always the Andertons, or Johnstons, or
both; and they talk about Mrs. Anderton's babies, of Mrs. Johnston's
rheumatism, or the way the village girls dress; and the Rector asks me
to take a class in Sunday-school, and looks shocked when I refuse;
and--and it is all stupid and tiresome. I--I s--sometimes--I hate this
place, and all the people in it," Elizabeth broke off, with a sound
not unlike a sob.

Her aunts were paralyzed. This outburst of revolt was to them an
entirely new phase in the girl's development. They did not attempt any
response, or rebuke, and Elizabeth, after a moment, went over and
kissed them each remorsefully. "There, don't mind me," she said. "I'm
a horrid, discontented wretch." Then, as if to put an end to the
subject, she added quickly: "I'm going to drive to Bassett Mills. Is
there anything I can do for you?"

Her aunts gladly accepted the change of mood.

"It's a lovely morning for a drive, dear," said Miss Joanna, "and will
do you good. But I wish, if you go, you would stop at the Rectory--the
baby is ill, so the butcher tells me, and I have some beef-tea I'd
like you to take."

Elizabeth's smile again lit up her face into its former brilliance.
"What would you do without the butcher, Aunt Joanna?" she asked.
"He's a perfect mine of information. Did he have any other news this
morning?"

"Only that he had just come from the Van Antwerps'--they are up at
last for the summer."

"Are they," said Elizabeth, carelessly. "Ah, well, they don't make
much difference, one way or the other." She seemed to reflect a
moment, while again her face clouded. "If I go to the Rectory," she
said abruptly, "I suppose I must stop to see Aunt Rebecca. She will
see me pass, and she is always complaining that I neglect her."

The Misses Van Vorst again looked distressed. The aunt of whom
Elizabeth spoke, Malvina's sister-in-law, kept a small dry-goods shop,
much patronized by the Neighborhood, and had risen considerably above
the original position of the family. Yet the older ladies of the
Homestead could never be reminded of her existence without a sharp
recollection of a painful chapter in the family history. Had they
consulted only their wishes, Elizabeth would never have been informed
of the connection. They were just women, however, and admitted the
claims of Elizabeth's only relation on her mother's side, and one who
had a daughter, too, of about the girl's own age.

"Of course, my dear," Miss Cornelia said at last, reluctantly, "we
wouldn't have you neglect your aunt."

"No, poor thing," said Joanna "we wouldn't have you hurt her feelings
for the world. So perhaps you would better stop there, my dear; and
if you do, will you get me some sewing-silk from the store?"

This proved by no means the only commission with which Elizabeth was
burdened when she started, half an hour later; for Miss Joanna had had
time to remember several other things she wanted from the store, to
say nothing of the beef-tea for the Rector's wife, and numerous
messages of advice and sympathy, which the girl was earnestly charged
not to forget. Miss Cornelia had no commissions, and merely asked
Elizabeth to remember, when she came home, every one whom she had
seen, to inquire of the Johnstons, if she met them, how their
grandmother was, and to notice, if she saw the Van Antwerps, if they
had their new carriage, and what Mrs. Bobby had on. At last Elizabeth
drove off, in the old-fashioned pony-chaise, behind the fat white pony
whose age was wrapped in obscurity, and who trod, with the leisurely
indifference of a well-bred carriage-horse, the road which he knew by
heart.

It was a pleasant, shady road, that ran between stone fences, across
which you caught the scent of honey-suckle. Beyond were fine places,
once the pride of the Neighborhood, now for the most part neglected,
or turned into pasturage for cows. The trees interlacing, formed an
arch over-head, through which the sunlight flickered in long, slanting
rays; the air was very still, except for the soft hum of bees, and a
gentle wind that occasionally rustled the foliage and caressed the
petals of the wild-roses, which grew in careless profusion along the
road-side. Here and there, in sheltered nooks, wild violets still
lingered, and the fresh green grass in the fields was thickly strewn
with buttercups and daisies. But for all this beauty of the early
summer Elizabeth seemed to have no eyes. Her brows were knit and her
face clouded, and now and then she gave a vicious pull to the white
pony's reins more as a relief to her own feelings than from any hope
of hastening the movements of that dignified animal.

Her thoughts matched the day as little as her looks. Her mind still
reverted with remorse to the outburst of an hour before. Why had she
displayed that childish petulance, and given audible expression to the
discontent which had smouldered unsuspected for many months? To speak
of it was useless and only distressed her aunts; it was not their
fault if the place was dull. And then she could, as a rule, amuse
herself well enough. There were always drives and walks, the garden
and the flowers, her books and her music, a hundred resources in which
she found unceasing pleasure. There was even to her warm vitality a
delight just then in the mere physical fact of living. And yet the
times were growing more frequent day by day, when all this would fail
her, when she would long passionately for novelty, for excitement, for
something--she hardly knew what. There were desperate moments when it
seemed to her that she would welcome any change whatsoever, when she
thought that even storm and stress might be preferable to dull
monotony.

After all, it was not the dullness of the place which lay at the root
of her discontent. There was another trouble which went far deeper of
which she never spoke; yet it affected her whole attitude towards the
world, and more especially the Neighborhood. She did not feel at home
in the small, charmed circle of those who knew each other so well, not
even with the girls with whom she had played as a child. There had
always been a tacit assumption of superiority on their part, which
Elizabeth instinctively felt and resented. The most disagreeable
episode in her life was a quarrel with one of her playmates, in which
the latter had won the last word by an angry taunt against Elizabeth's
mother, who was "a horrid, common woman, whom no one in the
Neighborhood, would speak to--_her_ mother had said so." Elizabeth,
paralyzed, could think of no retort, but walked home in silence,
shedding bitter tears of rage and mortification. She did not repeat
the remark to her aunts--it was too painful and she somehow suspected
too true; but that night she cried herself to sleep and had consoling
dreams of a time when she should be a great personage, and able to
turn the tables on her tormentors. This was a long time ago; but the
old wound still rankled, and she held herself proudly aloof from her
former playmates. They, on their part pronounced her hard to get on
with, and their mothers made no effort to encourage the intimacy. In
the conservative society of the Neighborhood, Peter's marriage was
still vividly remembered, and could not easily be forgiven. Elizabeth
was pretty and to all appearance, well-bred, but still people thought
of her antecedents and maintained towards her an attitude of doubt.
It was the perception of this fact, the consciousness of having begun
life at a disadvantage, which embittered Elizabeth's thoughts as she
drove through the country lanes that June morning.

The sun was high in the heavens when she reached Bassett Mills, a
nondescript place, neither town nor village, and much over-shadowed by
the glories of Cranston, not ten miles away. "The Mills" is not very
prosperous, but it has its factory, and the mill-stream, dashing
precipitously through its midst, lends some picturesqueness to the
squalid houses on its banks. There was a certain life and movement
this morning about the steep High Street, down which the white pony
took his leisurely way. A stream of factory people passed by to their
noon-day dinner; the street was full of wagons and carriages from the
Neighborhood. Elizabeth saw the Van Antwerp dog-cart standing in front
of the hardware shop, and caught a smile and bow from Mrs. Bobby,
which surprised her by their graciousness. Later on she met the
Courtenays, whom she knew better, but who greeted her more coldly.
Elizabeth's own bow was stiff, and the cloud which Mrs. Bobby's
cordiality had dispelled, again darkened her face.

She went on to the Rectory, but here she found that the baby's illness
had developed into measles, and she could deposit her beef-tea at the
door and take her leave with a clear conscience. Outside she stood in
the hot sun debating if she should or should not stop to see her aunt
and cousin. It was a long time since she had been there, and her aunt
would be sure to assail her with reproaches. Amanda, too, would feel
injured, and look the spiteful things which she never actually said.
But then Elizabeth could usually rise superior to any spitefulness
that Amanda might display. She felt on the whole very kindly towards
her cousin, she liked to show her pretty gowns, and her good-nature
had even stood the test of several bungling attempts on Amanda's part
to imitate them. There were moments when, in the dearth of society,
Elizabeth would turn with a certain affection to this uncongenial
cousin, who at other times jarred upon her greatly.

It was the remembrance of Miss Joanna's commissions that on this
occasion turned the scale in favor of the intended visit. Elizabeth
left the white pony, who would stand an indefinite time, and entered
the small dry-goods shop, where her aunt or Amanda generally presided.
It was empty. Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then she crossed the hall
that led to the living-rooms of the family. Here she paused in
astonishment. From behind the closed door of the parlor came the sound
of a man's voice; a rich, barytone voice singing from Tannhäuser the
song of the Evening Star. Elizabeth waited till it was over; then she
opened the door and went in.




_Chapter III_


The young man who had just sung was still at the piano, softly playing
variations on the same air. She gave him one hurried glance. He was
tall and fair, with blue eyes and a silky blonde moustache, and he
wore a velveteen coat, much the worse for wear, and a turn-down collar
that showed to advantage the fine outlines of his throat and the
graceful poise of his head. These details Elizabeth grasped at once
before her gaze wandered to her aunt and Amanda, who were sitting idle
as she had never before seen them in the morning, with eyes intent on
the young man at the piano. Elizabeth noticed that Amanda had on her
Sunday frock and her hair very much frizzed.

The girl had entered so softly that the three people already in the
room did not at first notice her presence. When they at last did so,
it seemed to cause something of a shock. Her aunt and Amanda stared at
her in silence, and Amanda turned a trifle pale. The young man rose
from the piano and looked at her intently for a moment with his bright
blue eyes; then he re-seated himself and went on playing, but much
more softly, and as if hardly conscious of what he did.

Elizabeth's aunt was the first to recover herself, and upon second
thought it occurred to her that her niece had arrived at an opportune
moment--when she and Amanda had on their best clothes, and were
entertaining company. This reflection tempered the usual austerity of
her greeting. "Why, Elizabeth, is that you? You're quite a stranger.
It isn't often you honor us with your company."

"You know," said Elizabeth, quite used to the formula of reproach and
excuse, with which these visits invariably opened "the white pony has
been lame, and I have driven out very little."

"And you couldn't come on your wheel, I suppose? Nothing short of a
carriage would do for you. I wonder you don't insist on a groom in
top-boots. But well, never mind," Aunt Rebecca went on, feeling that
she had sufficiently maintained her dignity "you're very welcome now,
I'm sure, and you're just in time to hear some music. This is Paul
Halleck, who has been kind enough to sing for us. Mr. Halleck, this is
Amanda's cousin Elizabeth, whom you've heard us speak of." There was
an odd note of grudging satisfaction in her voice as she made the
introduction. Mrs. Jones's feeling towards her niece was a complex
one, characterized on the one hand, by an involuntary sense of
resentment at the elevation of Malvina's girl, on the other, by an
equally involuntary pride in the connection. The latter sensation
predominated when she introduced Elizabeth to a stranger whom she
wished to impress.

Elizabeth's chief feeling was one of annoyance, and it brought an
angry flush to her cheek. Then she caught the look in the young man's
eyes, as he rose and bowed with much deference; and her own eyes fell
and again she blushed, but not with anger.

"I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Van Vorst before," said Paul
Halleck, "though she has not, of course, noticed me."

"Why, yes, of course," said Elizabeth's aunt, still in high good
humor, "you've seen her when you were out sketching. You see,
Elizabeth, he's a painter as well as a singer; he's quite a genius,
altogether. We find him a great acquisition to our parties here at The
Mills. And to think that he was born here, and lived here part of his
life! You remember the Hallecks that went West when you were a child?
They settled in Chicago, you know. He only came to New York awhile
ago, and thought he'd look up his folks in this place. But there,
Elizabeth, sit down, and perhaps Mr. Halleck will give us another
tune."

Elizabeth silently took the chair the young man placed for her, while
her aunt still talked on volubly. The girl was bewildered by what she
heard. She could not imagine this handsome young singer, with his air
of picturesque Bohemia, as an acquisition to the parties of Bassett
Mills; nor did he seem at home in her aunt's parlor. She glanced about
the commonplace, gaudy little room, every detail of which impressed
itself upon her with a new sense of its crudeness; the plush-covered
furniture, staring wall-paper, the lace anti-macassars, the
photographs of the family, the men in high hats, the women simpering
in their Sunday clothes. It did not seem the fit atmosphere for an
artist. And then, with a sudden, sharp misgiving, Elizabeth looked at
Amanda, and asked herself for a moment if she could be the attraction.
The doubt vanished instantly. Poor Amanda was not pretty at the best
of times, and there was a sullen look on her face just then that made
her appear at her worst. She had a dull, pasty skin and very light
eyes. All the color seemed to be concentrated in her hair, which was a
deep, dark red, all the more striking for the contrast to her pale
face. The gown she wore, of a bright yellow, was peculiarly successful
in bringing out the faded tints of her complexion and the jarring
vividness of her hair.

Amanda at that moment felt to the full the unkindness of fate. She had
not shared for an instant her mother's gratification at Elizabeth's
entrance. It was hard, she thought, that, having arrayed herself in
her best, and struggled long to look beautiful, she should be
completely over-shadowed by Elizabeth in the cool white gown and shady
hat, which had a provoking air of not being her best, but merely her
natural and everyday attire. Amanda had seen, as well as Elizabeth,
the look in Paul's eyes. Was it fair, she asked herself, that she
should share her good things with Elizabeth, who had so many of her
own? And so Amanda sat silent and sullen, while her mother talked on,
and Halleck ran his fingers over the keys, as if he would fain be
playing.

"What shall I sing?" he asked abruptly, in the first pause, and
looking at Elizabeth as if her wishes alone were of any consequence.

"Oh, the Evening Star again," she responded eagerly. "I only heard the
end of it, and it brought up so many delightful memories."

So Halleck sang the song again. A voice, artistically modulated,
filled the little room, which vanished for Elizabeth. She saw pilgrims
filing past in slow procession, Tannhäuser struggling against the
power of the Venusberg, Elizabeth kneeling in her penitent's dress
before the cross. The whole Wagnerian drama unrolled itself before her
eyes while the song lasted. And then, as the last note died away, she
came back to the present with a start, and realized that the young man
who had just afforded her this pleasure was handsomer far than any
Wolfram she had ever seen before.

"Ah, thank you," she said, drawing a long breath. "That is so
beautiful. It is so long since I have heard any music."

"You are fond of it?" said Halleck, eagerly.

"Yes," she responded, earnestly.

"Ah, I saw it--I was sure of it," he declared. "You have the artistic
temperament. I saw it in your face at once."

Elizabeth blushed for the third time that morning, and now with a
distinct sense of pleasure. Amanda, too, flushed a dull red. She was
not quite certain what the artistic temperament might be, but it was
clearly one of those good things of which Elizabeth had an unfair
monopoly.

"You play or sing yourself, of course?" Halleck went on.

"Oh, I play a little," Elizabeth pouted out her full under-lip, in
charming deprecation of her own powers. "I am ashamed, before a real
musician, to say that I play at all."

"I am not a real musician, alas!" said Halleck, "only a dabbler in
music, as I am in art." A thoughtful look came into his blue eyes, and
he went on absently playing fragments from Tannhäuser. "I am glad you
like that," he said, abruptly. "You remember the heroine was called
Elizabeth."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember." It gave her an odd little thrill
of pleasure to hear him pronounce her name, and yet she wondered if
his remark were not too personal to be in good taste. "But I don't
think I am at all like that Elizabeth," she added, after a moment,
following out his suggestion in spite of this doubt.

"No, perhaps not," said Halleck, regarding her with a calm scrutiny,
in which he seemed to appraise her no longer as a woman, but purely
from an artistic point of view. "You are not exactly that type; you
have more life and color, less spirituality, perhaps; but you are
fair, and your hair would do admirably. You would make a beautiful
picture with your hair unbound, kneeling before the cross."

"I have never had my picture painted," Elizabeth murmured, trying to
imagine herself in a penitent's garb.

"Will you let me try it?"

Elizabeth smiled and assented, deciding that no long acquaintance was
necessary, when it was a question of having her picture painted, in a
costume which she was quite determined should be becoming. She sat
mentally reviewing the resources of her wardrobe, while Halleck struck
sonorous chords on the piano, and asked if she recognized this or that
Wagnerian theme, upon which he proceeded to extemporize. Amanda and
her mother were distinctly left out, and the latter began to repent of
her first satisfaction in her niece's visit. She broke in at last,
brusquely, upon the very midst of the love-music from "Tristan and
Isolde." "Well, I don't think much of this Wagner," she said. "His
music all sounds the same--a lot of queer noises, with no tune to
them. What I like now is 'Home, Sweet Home,' or 'Nancy Lee'--something
real nice and catchy."

"I can play those, too," said Halleck, good-humoredly, and immediately
played the first mentioned air, with variations of his own
improvisation. At the end of it he rose from the piano. "Won't you
play for me now," he said to Elizabeth.

"Oh, no, not after you." Elizabeth shook her head and rose to her
feet, with a sudden recollection of the white pony and her aunt's
dinner-hour. "Some other day," she said, "I'll be very glad to play
for you, but really now I have not the time--or the courage." She
spoke with a pretty, smiling deference, and she held out her hand,
which he took in a long, lingering grasp. There was a soft glow of
color in her cheeks, her eyes were cast down till he could see only
her long lashes. "Thank you so much," she said "for the music." Then
she drew her hand away from his and kissed her aunt and Amanda, with
an unwonted display of affection. She felt an odd sense of excitement,
a wish to be friendly with all the world.

Neither her aunt nor Amanda seemed to share it. They did not try to
detain her, and Halleck, though he looked disappointed, said nothing.
They all three escorted her to the door of the shop, where the white
pony stood patiently enduring the heat and the flies. Elizabeth
lingered over her farewells. She wished to ask her new acquaintance to
come to see her, but disliked doing so before her aunt and cousin. It
was he who finally said, leaning over her as he placed the reins in
her hand: "And--a--how about that picture? May I come to see you about
it?"

Elizabeth's eyes were still hidden as she answered demurely: "I am
sure I--we shall be very glad to see you at the Homestead."

And then she drove off, and the others stood for a moment and looked
after her in silence.

"She--she's pretty--isn't she," said Amanda, suddenly speaking for the
first time since Elizabeth had appeared. Her voice, even to herself,
sounded harsh and grating. Her lips were very dry.

Halleck started and looked at her as if reminded of her existence.
Then a smile stole over his face and sparkled in his handsome blue
eyes.

"Yes, she's rather pretty," he answered, carelessly "but--a little
disappointing on a close view. However, she'll do very well as a
model--she's picturesque, at least."

Amanda drew a long breath of sudden and intense relief.




_Chapter V_


"And so you say this young man lives at The Mills, my dear?" Miss
Cornelia paused, the heavy, elaborately chased tea-pot suspended in
her hand. Her gentle, near-sighted eyes looked anxiously across the
table at Elizabeth.

It was the first time that the girl had spoken of her new
acquaintance, though it was now some time since her return from
Bassett Mills, and she had told at once of the measles at the Rectory.
This piece of news, however, had lasted them well through dinner, and
in the country it is improvident to use up all one's information at
once. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of this; or it might be that the other
item did not strike her as of any special importance. She only
mentioned it very casually at tea-time; but her aunts' anxiety was
easily aroused at any suggestion of new acquaintances at Bassett
Mills.

"I don't think he lives at The Mills," Elizabeth made answer now
reluctantly to Miss Cornelia's question. "I think he--he is just
staying there--I believe Aunt Rebecca said something about his coming
from Chicago. But his family used to live at The Mills."

"You don't mean those Hallecks who went West a long time ago?"
exclaimed Miss Joanna. "Do you remember, sister?--the man was in jail
the most of the time. The children used to play on the road behind the
church--poor little neglected things, I was quite worried about them.
It was a relief, I remember, when they all went away."

Elizabeth found this piece of ancient history peculiarly inopportune.

"Well, that was a long time ago, Aunt Joanna," she said. "It doesn't
matter, I suppose, so much what people's parents were like. Mr.
Halleck is very nice himself. He is an artist, and he wants to paint
my picture." She brought out this last information, which she had been
longing to tell for some time, with a certain triumph; but it fell
unexpectedly flat.

"An artist!" Miss Joanna repeated. "Dear me! One of those little
Hallecks who used to play in the road."

"To paint your picture, my dear?" repeated Miss Cornelia still more
doubtfully. "When he has only met you once! I am afraid he is rather a
pushing young man. But of course, dear, you won't encourage him."

Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her plate; her cheeks were painfully
flushed and she bit her lips to keep back the scalding tears that rose
to her eyes. "I don't think he is pushing," she murmured, but she said
no more. How could she explain to her aunts the vast difference that
existed between this young man and any other friend of Amanda's? They
were dear, good women, but so hopelessly narrow and antiquated, with
their little old-fashioned ideas of propriety, their distinctions
founded on the conventional laws of the Neighborhood. Elizabeth, too,
was not without an involuntary respect for these distinctions. She had
her full share of the pride of birth which was instinctive in every
Van Vorst, even in the most ignorant country lout that had ever borne
the family name and lowered the family credit. With Elizabeth it was
only intensified, perhaps, by a doubt of her own position. But then
she belonged to the new generation; and there was a side of her nature
that recognized the futility of these old traditions. Elizabeth did
not analyze her feelings; she was only conscious of a vague sense of
revolt, a desire to beat her wings as it were, against the cages of
conventional distinctions, and test her powers of flight.

But she did not put all this into words. Her aunts would not have
understood. She did not understand herself. She rose from the
tea-table presently, with a murmured excuse, leaving the food on her
plate untasted, to Miss Joanna's great distress, and wandered into the
drawing-room and sat down at the piano. The keys seemed to respond
with unusual readiness to her touch, the music expressed in some vague
way what she could not put into words. She played on restlessly,
feverishly, for more than an hour, passing from one thing to another;
Chopin nocturnes, waltzes, Hungarian dances, fragments from Wagner;
anything she could remember.

The drawing-room remained dim for the sake of coolness; it was
unlighted except for a lamp at a corner-table, beside which Miss
Joanna sat with her knitting. As Elizabeth played she nodded
comfortably and presently fell asleep. This was always the effect of
Elizabeth's playing; she said she found it very soothing. Miss
Cornelia sat upright in an old-fashioned, high-backed chair close to
the piano. She moved her head in time to the music, and the thin
little silvery curls that framed in her worn, delicate face seemed to
sway in unison with the melody. She wore a black gown, a trifle
antiquated in fashion but falling about her in graceful folds, and
some rich old lace softened the outlines of her throat. There was a
gentle, tremulous dignity about her nowadays. Miss Cornelia was very
happy in moments like these. It was touching to see the pride she took
in Elizabeth's music. But after awhile this evening the girl let her
hands drop on the keys, and said impatiently: "Oh, it's no use, I
can't say what I want to say. The music's in me, but it won't come
out. If you could have heard that man to-day at Aunt Rebecca's."

"Do you mean that young Halleck, my dear?" said Miss Cornelia in
surprise, and pronouncing his name with evident distaste. "I didn't
know that he played."

"He can do anything," Elizabeth declared. "He paints, he can improvise
by the hour, he sings as well as any opera-singer, and--he is very
handsome. He would make a superb Lohengrin or Tristan," she added,
thoughtfully "only, unfortunately, his voice is barytone. I wonder why
Wagner showed such partiality to tenors."

"But he is not--going on the stage, is he, my dear?" asked Miss
Cornelia, tentatively. She felt more anxiety than pleasure at hearing
of this paragon.

"I don't know," said Elizabeth, "and it doesn't much matter. I am not
to know him, you see, because his people used to live in the village
years ago, and Aunt Joanna saw him playing on the road." She spoke
bitterly.

"But, my dear, I--we never meant anything of the kind," protested Miss
Cornelia. But Elizabeth went on without heeding her.

"Of course I know the rules of the Neighborhood. They would no more
think of knowing a young man from Bassett Mills than they would a
convict. But I don't really belong to the Neighborhood; I'm only on
the outskirts, as it were--tolerated for your sake and for
Grandmamma's. I'm tired of being a sort of nondescript--neither flesh,
fowl, nor good red herring." The girl's face was hard, but she spoke
quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if stating inevitable truths.

Miss Cornelia sat mute, bewildered, her whole soul wrung by a
powerless resentment against fate. If by any sacrifice on her part she
could have provided for Elizabeth congenial society--the charming
young girls and attractive young men of whom she and her sister had
often dreamed--she would have made it thankfully; but with all her
love, there was nothing--or there seemed to her nothing that she could
do. They had given Elizabeth every advantage, she was beautiful and
charming; and the result of it all was that she felt herself to be "a
sort of nondescript, neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring." It
was a very bitter thought for Miss Cornelia.

Elizabeth, seeing this, felt remorseful for the second time that day.
"Don't look so unhappy, auntie," she said, quickly. "It's not your
fault--no, nor mine either; and, I suppose, it's not the fault of the
Neighborhood. People can't help being narrow and conservative; they
were born so. But then, Aunt Cornelia, when--when I don't have so many
friends, you can't expect me to draw the line so awfully closely."
Something like a sob crept into the girl's voice, but she went on with
hardly a pause: "You mustn't think that I would want to know--any one.
This man isn't like the rest of Amanda's friends. Only wait till you
hear him sing--you would lose your heart, I'm sure, on the spot. And
now, confess, auntie, you would like me to have my picture painted.
The girls at school used to say that I would make a glorious picture.
Do _you_ think I would make a pretty picture, auntie?" She went over
to Miss Cornelia and put her arms around her, looking up into her face
with laughing, brilliant eyes, from which all bitterness had
disappeared.

"My darling." Miss Cornelia, bewildered by the quick change of mood,
could not find words. She thought that Elizabeth would make the
prettiest picture in the world; but to have told her so would have
been to run counter to all her ideas of propriety. So she finally
said, with due regard for accepted formulas: "You shouldn't think so
much about looks, Elizabeth. If you are good, that's the main thing."

"Of course, it's the main thing," Elizabeth assented, "but I'm afraid
if it came to a choice, I'd rather be pretty, auntie, and so would
most people." She ended with a light little laugh, and Miss Cornelia,
in spite of her principles, attempted no rebuke.

The look of gaiety soon faded from Elizabeth's face. With a quick,
impatient little sigh, she walked over to the window, and looked out
into the night. It was still and sultry; heavy storm clouds were
gathering and obscured the sky. The old elm trees, growing close about
the house, cast sombre shadows; they seemed to keep out what little
air there was. Elizabeth, as she leaned her hot cheek against the cool
glass of the window-pane, felt again a sense of stifling, of being in
a cage. It was useless to beat her wings; life was outside, but she
could not reach it. "Oh, I would give anything in the world," she
thought "just to breathe, to be free, to know what life is."

Suddenly she turned around with a start. There was a voice in the
hall; some one spoke her name. A moment later a young man was
advancing towards her across the dimly-lighted room. Mechanically she
went to meet him. She did not think of her aunts, she did not think of
anything but his presence.

"Have I--come too soon?" Paul Halleck asked, as he took her hand.




_Chapter VI_


Elizabeth drove again, a few weeks later, through shady, fragrant
lanes, on her way to Bassett Mills. It was early in the morning, but
the sun was already hot. The wild-roses along the road-side had mostly
departed, the grass in the fields had a parched look. It was a long
time since any rain had fallen, and the roads were thick with dust.
All the freshness of the early summer had faded. But for these signs
of premature blight and the scorching effect of the sun, Elizabeth
seemed to have no eyes.

She drove along in a happy dream. There was a brilliant color in her
cheeks, a radiant light in her eyes. She bloomed like a rose that has
unfolded every petal to the summer sunshine. The fields through which
she passed were not the familiar pasture-lands and "places" that
skirted the road to Bassett Mills; they were the flowery meadows of
poetic Arcadia, on the road that led to Paradise.

It was something of a bore, under the circumstances, that she must
first of all go to Bassett Mills, but Miss Joanna had intrusted her
with numerous commissions, that she could not very well refuse to
discharge. That was the reason why she had started so early. There was
a brook in a meadow near by; a brook shaded by weeping willow trees,
under which nowadays a young artist sat sketching for many hours at a
time. Elizabeth's drives, or walks had for the last few weeks led no
further. But to-day she had decided to go first to Bassett Mills, and
be back in time for the usual engagement, of which her aunts knew
nothing.

The affair was not really so clandestine. There was no reason why she
should have kept it secret beyond a vague embarrassment, an
unwillingness to speak about the one subject that occupied her
thoughts. Miss Cornelia and Miss Joanna had, after the one protest,
yielded to the inevitable; they had not even discouraged young
Halleck's visits to their niece. They had gone so far as to admit,
when he had come to tea at the Homestead, and sung and played for them
afterwards for hours, that he was an extremely talented young man. It
had been a most successful evening, Miss Joanna had not even gone to
sleep. And yet, with it all, in both sisters there was some innate
distrust, some lingering prejudice perhaps, that prevented them from
succumbing entirely to the charm of his handsome face and beautiful
voice. They were civil to him--painfully civil; but they did not
welcome him as they would have welcomed young Frank Courtenay, who
used to stare at Elizabeth in church every Sunday, but had never
apparently mustered up courage to come and see her. He was much under
the influence of his mother, who considered Elizabeth's hair
"conspicuous" and had remarked that it was bad taste for a young girl
to be _too_ well dressed--a fault that could not in justice be
alleged against her own daughters.

Elizabeth, too, might have welcomed the visits of young Courtenay.
There had been times when she had doubted, sadly, if she were really
so pretty as the girls at school had seemed to think. But these times
were past, and she had not a thought to spare for Frank Courtenay's
heavy, commonplace good looks. Paul Halleck had assured her many times
that she was beautiful, and had sketched her in every variety of pose,
in that impressionistic style which Elizabeth had secretly thought
rather ugly, before she learned to regard it as the last word in Art.

Elizabeth had learned many other things in the last few weeks. Halleck
undertook her education in all artistic and literary matters, showing
her how little she had hitherto known of this or that great light. He
quoted Swinburne and Rossetti; he read her extracts from Maeterlinck
and Ibsen; he opened for her the treasures of that school which Nordau
calls degenerate. He had all the intellectual and artistic jargon of
the day at his tongue's end. She sat at his feet and devoutly learned
it all.

She knew his history, now. It was very romantic, and it lost nothing
in the telling. He had a keen eye for artistic effect, and spared not
one sordid detail of his early surroundings which served to throw into
more brilliant relief his subsequent career. He told how the
possession of a lovely childish soprano had raised him literally from
the gutter, and procured him a position as boy soloist in a Chicago
church, and how, later on, a patron was found, who sent him abroad to
study. He had wandered from one European centre to another; learned to
play in Dresden and to paint in Paris, and developed a fine barytone
voice, of which great things were prophesied. In fact, he was a
universal genius, and could do anything, except apparently earn a
living, which indeed has been always hard for genius. And so at last
he drifted back to Chicago, where he sang for a while in the same
church where he had begun his career; but finally left for some reason
or another, and tried his fortune in New York. He was debating now
whether to go abroad again to study in earnest for the stage, and
meanwhile he was on a walking tour, sketching about the country. He
had come to Bassett Mills for the sake of old associations, and had
stayed--well, he left it to Elizabeth to imagine _why_ he stayed.

All this was very interesting and romantic; far more so, Elizabeth
thought, than any ordinary affair could have been, with some
commonplace youth of the neighborhood. She had only one regret; she
could not help wishing in her heart that Paul's early surroundings had
been, if not more exalted, less familiar. She would have preferred him
to have no associations with, no friends at, Bassett Mills. The place
seemed to her, as she drove through it that morning, so hopelessly
common, so unusually prosaic. The ugly, sordid houses, the people with
their faces of dull stolidity, jarred upon the ecstatic tone of her
mood. She could not imagine that genius could be born in such
surroundings.

The discordant note was still more striking when, having discharged
the greater part of her commissions, she entered the dry-goods shop,
and found Aunt Rebecca in her most trying humor.

"So that's you, Elizabeth," she said, looking her niece severely up
and down, while her thin lips moved at the corners. "It seems to me
you're very much dressed up, driving round these dusty roads. The way
you wear white is a caution! But I suppose for a millionaire like you
it don't matter about the washing."

Elizabeth bit her lip. "I'm not a millionaire, you know Aunt Rebecca,"
she said, "but I like to wear white, and it's as cheap as anything in
the end. Is Amanda in?" she added quickly, anxious to stave off
further criticism. "I'll go back and see her if she is."

"She's in the parlor," said Amanda's mother, shortly. "She's got a
headache. I guess she don't feel like seeing company," she added
hastily, but the words came too late. Elizabeth had already left the
shop, and was crossing the narrow, dark little hall that led to the
parlor. Her heart beat rapidly as she did so. She felt an odd, utterly
irrational desire to feast her eyes on the spot where she had first
experienced such new and delightful sensations.

There was no music in the room now, no air of festivity. The
atmosphere was close and musty, the sun poured in at the window beside
which Amanda sat sewing. She bent closely over her work, her skin was
more pasty than ever and her eyes were red and swollen. Elizabeth
remembered her aunt's words about the headache; otherwise she might
have thought that her cousin had been crying. She went over and kissed
her with a friendliness born of her own superabundant joy. The lips
she touched were dry and hot. Amanda did not respond to the caress.
She stared stupidly at Elizabeth, as if half dazed by her sudden
entrance.

"How are you, Amanda?" Elizabeth said. "I'm sorry you have a headache.
Perhaps it's the heat. It's a terribly hot day, and the roads are so
dusty. Aunt Rebecca implied that my dress showed that very plainly. It
was clean this morning--does it really look so badly?" She walked over
to the mirror and inspected herself critically, setting her hat
straight and adjusting the white ribbon about her throat. It was a
long narrow glass, framed in black walnut, and there was a shelf
underneath it, which supported a large sea-shell. The whole thing
reminded her of a similar arrangement at her dressmaker's in town, and
seemed in some way the crowning feature of the prosaic, painfully
respectable character of the room. She hated to look at herself
there--the glass brought out all one's defects. But to-day, in spite
of the trying glare of the sunshine, her own image flashed back at
her, so brilliantly fresh, in her white dimity gown, so redolent of
health and beauty, that she could not help smiling back at it, as at
some delightful apparition. Ah, yes, it was good to be young and
pretty, and to have a lover waiting for one near by. Her eyes
brightened unconsciously, and she gave a little caressing touch to
the shining masses of wavy hair which stood out, like red molten gold,
against the broad brim of her shady white hat.

The other girl sat and watched her.

"You like to look at yourself, don't you?" The words rang out harshly,
suddenly. Elizabeth started and turned around. It seemed to her for a
moment as if some third person had spoken--some one with a strange,
mocking voice that she had never heard before. But there was no one
else in the room.

"Yes, you like to look at yourself." Amanda went on after a pause,
more quietly, "you think yourself a beauty, and a good many people,
perhaps, might agree with you. _He_ tells you so, I suppose. I daresay
he tells you your hair's picturesque--he used to tell me that about
mine. He was going to paint my picture, but it went out of his head
when he saw you. Most things did, I guess. He--he hasn't been here
since." The girl's voice broke in a quick, convulsive sob, and she
stopped for a moment, but went on almost immediately: "If you hadn't
come in that day, it would have been all right. We were keeping
company; every one in The Mills knew we were. All the girls were
jealous of me--as if he'd have looked at them! Some of them work in
the factory, there's many of them don't even have a piano and sit in
their kitchens. I know what's genteel, even if I can't talk all that
rubbish about music and Wagner that you learned at school. And what
good will all that do you when you're married? What do you know about
mending and sewing and cooking? What sort of a wife would you make
him? You'd ruin him in a month with your fine clothes. But men are
such fools!" She gave a short mirthless laugh, her eyes glittered
strangely. Elizabeth stared at her paralyzed, glued to the spot in
helpless fascination. She had never heard Amanda talk so much before.
Her words came quickly, fiercely, one upon another, like some
overwhelming torrent that had been suddenly let loose.

"Why should you have so much more than me? Why should you have fine
clothes, and a carriage, and go to school in New York, and have the
swells in the neighborhood call on you? Was your mother any better
than mine, or a hundredth part as good? She wasn't even respectable;
no decent people at The Mills would speak to her before your father
married her--I know that for a fact. And then to give yourself airs!"
Amanda stopped short, panting, exhausted by her own vehemence.
Elizabeth still stood before her powerless. When Amanda spoke of her
mother the color rushed into her white face, and she made an effort to
speak; but the words seemed to die away on her lips. Amanda, after a
moment's pause, went on.

"It isn't that I care so much about that; you might have had
everything else, if you hadn't taken--him. Why did you come in that
day looking like a dressed-up doll? You hadn't been here for weeks,
and I was glad. I didn't want him to know you--I wasn't afraid of the
other girls. But you who've got so much--couldn't you have had the
decency to leave him alone? Couldn't you see that he was mine?"

"Amanda," Elizabeth gasped out. "I--I didn't know. I--I never
thought"--Her brain reeled, she stammered painfully, trying in vain
for words to vindicate herself from this shameful charge. Amanda
brushed her aside contemptuously.

"You didn't think?--no, you never do, of anything but yourself, your
pretty face and pretty clothes! You're selfish and spoiled--every one
knows it; you've had every wish granted till you want everything, and
you won't be satisfied with less. But what's the good of saying all
this to you?" she broke off suddenly, with a sharp change of tone. "I
must be crazy; I've felt so, I'm sure, these last weeks. It won't make
any difference--nothing I say can bring him back. And yet he'd have
married me--if you hadn't come." She went to Elizabeth and gripped her
by the wrist. "He kissed me once," she said. "Has he kissed you yet?"

"No," said Elizabeth, mechanically, "no." She shrank away a little and
set her teeth. Amanda's grasp was painful, but she would not have
cried out for worlds.

"Well, when he does," Amanda said, "remember this--he kissed me first.
You can't take that away from me--I have the first claim." She let go
of Elizabeth's hands and fell back a step. There were two deep red
marks from her grasp. "Now go," she said, "go to him. I knew you were
going to him--I saw you thinking of it, and it made me hate you. Go
to him and tell him that I hope his love for you will last as long as
it did for me." She laughed again harshly and then suddenly burst into
violent weeping. "Oh, it's ignominious," she said, "it's contemptible.
No one can despise me more than I do myself. I haven't any pride. I
hate him--I hate him; yet I'd take him back now, if he'd come to me."
She sank down on the sofa and hid her face in the red plush cushions,
while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs.

Elizabeth stood still in the middle of the floor. Mechanically she
glanced at her reflection in the mirror; white, distraught, with
startled eyes--a ghastly parody of the brilliant vision which had
smiled back at her only a few minutes before. The hot sunlight,
flooding the commonplace little room, seemed to bring out, with
glaring vividness, all the tragic, sordid elements of the scene. A
quarrel between two women about a lover! Could anything be more
hopelessly vulgar and grotesque?

It was the sting of this thought that finally roused Elizabeth to
speech. She raised her head with sudden haughtiness, and her words
came clearly and fluently. "I don't know what you mean, Amanda," she
said "by this scene. If there is any one whom you--you think I have
taken from you, you can have him back to-morrow so far as I am
concerned. I don't want any other woman's lover. It--it would be base.
Whatever else you think me, I'm not--that. If it is Paul Halleck whom
you mean, you can marry him, if you wish, to-morrow. At least you may
be sure of one thing, that I never will." Her low, vehement voice
died away, and she waited for an answer; but none came. Amanda only
sobbed on hysterically, her face buried in the sofa-cushions.

Elizabeth stood looking at her for a moment, with a feeling in which
pity, anger and repulsion were strangely mingled; then she hastily
left the room by the door that led directly to the street. She had
presence of mind enough to avoid the shop and her aunt's unfriendly
eyes. She reached the carriage, and--un-heard-of thing--touched the
white pony with the whip.




_Chapter VII_


They had left the last house behind; they were out in the open
country. Elizabeth dropped the reins and let her tears flow
unchecked--hot, blinding tears, the bitterest she had ever shed. At
each familiar tree and landmark she sobbed with redoubled violence.
Only an hour before she had driven along this same road in the
ecstatic glow of her first romance. Now all the bloom had been rubbed
from that romance, all the glory faded from the hero of her dreams;
she herself was a woman who had been insulted, humiliated, dragged in
the dust.

By degrees a few coherent phrases detached themselves from the
confused mass of painful recollections, and stung more sharply than
the rest. "My mother better than yours--she wasn't even respectable;
no decent people would speak to her" ... Oh, it was too bad--too bad;
she had not thought it was so bad as that. Amanda must have
exaggerated--she would ask her aunts; but no, no she would never speak
of that interview to a soul. It was humiliating enough as it was....
"He kissed me once. Has he kissed you yet?" No, thank Heaven! that
indignity had been spared her. They had hovered as yet on the
borderland of love; she had put off the inevitable declaration with
instinctive coquetry, a vague unwillingness to be won too easily. She
was glad now--glad and thankful; he did not know that she cared,--he
should never know. She had no love for the man who had kissed
Amanda.... "Selfish and spoiled--thinking only of herself?" Yes, she
might be all that; but at least she would not take another woman's
lover. The words "it would be base," rang in her ears. Had she spoken
them, or Amanda? At all events, they were true. It would be base to
marry Halleck now. In fact, she did not wish to marry him. It was he
who had involved her in this horrible, sordid misery. Her aunts were
right; there must be distinctions of classes. Had her father
remembered this, people would not have it in their power to insult his
daughter now.

Through all her complex feelings ran a sharp sense of anger against
Amanda, mingled strangely with an involuntary pity, almost with an
understanding of her point of view. It was not based on justice, but
on fellow feeling. Amanda had resented her superiority; she,
Elizabeth, knew what that was. She had felt the same herself, when
smarting impotently under the patronizing friendliness of the other
girls in the Neighborhood, and then had turned, with unconscious
snobbery, to play the same part towards Amanda. The incongruous,
grotesque humor of the situation struck her suddenly, and she laughed
out loud in bitter irony. She had envied the other girls of the
Neighborhood, Amanda had envied her, the girls at Bassett Mills had
envied Amanda. Strange net-work of classes in a democratic country,
of distinctions the more galling for their intangibility. Of one thing
Elizabeth was convinced, that she could never herself "put on airs" as
Amanda had said, again; there was not a girl in the whole countryside,
blessed with a good mother, who could not look down on her, if she
pleased.

Her tears were falling now so fast and blinding that she could not see
the road; she was not even conscious that they had reached the spot
where the white pony stopped now of his own accord. And even as he did
so, a young man stepped forward and grasped the reins which had fallen
from Elizabeth's nerveless hand; a tall, fair young man who had been
standing for the last half hour, scanning anxiously, with his bright
blue eyes, the glaring dusty road.

"Elizabeth," said Halleck (he had called her that for five happy days)
"Elizabeth, why are you so late? And, for Heaven's sake, what's the
matter?"

Elizabeth looked up and with great effort, stopped crying; but
otherwise she made no sign of pleasure in his presence or even of
recognition. She put up one hand, indeed, and straightened her hat,
but this was a purely mechanical concession to the force of habit. She
knew that her face was flushed and tear-stained, her eyes red and
swollen; she was sure that she looked an absolute fright, and she did
not care. She was past caring, at least for the moment.

"Elizabeth," Halleck repeated, more and more bewildered, "what is the
matter? I've been waiting for you an hour. You've been crying," he
added, stating unnecessarily an obvious fact. "Won't you tell me what
it is?"

"Nothing--nothing," Elizabeth answered at last, in a voice that was
still thick and choked with sobs. "I haven't been crying or," struck
by the futility of denial, she added hastily "if I have it--it's no
matter. Will you please let me pass?" She tried to take the reins from
his hands, but he grasped them firmly, and laid the other hand on the
bar of the wagon.

"Won't you let me pass?" she repeated stubbornly.

"Not till you tell me what's the matter."

He eyed her coolly, determinedly, all the habit of power depicted on
the lines of his handsome face. She stared back at him defiantly, with
her tear-swollen eyes. Her whole attitude breathed the spirit of
rebellion; a spirit new in their intercourse. Halleck saw it, at the
same time that he noted the disfiguring marks of tears on her face.
Oddly enough, he had never admired her so much.

Nevertheless, he was determined to remain master of the situation. He
glanced up and down the road; there were never many people passing,
but it was not safe to rely on this fact.

"We can't talk here," he said. "Come into the field."

"I don't wish to," she said, stubbornly. "I'm going home."

He fixed his eyes upon her. "You shall not go home," he said quietly,
"till you have told me all about it." She sat immovable, her pouting
under lip thrust out in a way that she had sometimes, in moments of
obstinacy and displeasure. She did not meet his eyes. "Don't be
childish," Paul said, pleasantly, after a moment. "You know you must
tell me what it is."

She looked up reluctantly, and met his steady gaze, under which she
turned first white, then red, and slowly, as if fascinated, rose from
her seat. Yet still her words were unyielding. "We may as well have it
out at once," she said, coldly.

Halleck could not repress a thrill of triumph. It was sweet to test
his power over this beautiful, high-spirited girl, to feel her will,
her intellect, like wax in his hands. But he tried not to show this
consciousness in his face. She was in a strange mood; he did not
understand her. Gravely and respectfully he helped her to scale the
stone wall, which separated the meadow from the road. Her hand barely
rested on his, and her eyes were averted carefully, but he paid no
heed. He fastened the white pony to a tree, then slowly and
thoughtfully followed Elizabeth across the field.

The noon-day sun beat down upon them in all its scorching brilliancy;
it was pleasant to gain the shade of their usual trysting-place. Here
the little brook, which had rippled and sparkled over stones and moss
all the way from the mill-stream, formed itself into a quiet pool,
over which weeping willows spread out long branches, and seemed to
admire their own reflection in the cool green mirror beneath.
Elizabeth took her usual seat on a fallen moss-covered log, drawing,
as she did so, her white skirts about her, with what seemed an
involuntary gesture of repulsion, and Halleck, who was about to place
himself beside her, flushed and bit his lip. After a moment's
hesitation, he threw himself down sullenly on the grass a little way
off.

"Tell me," he said, in a tone that was the more determined for this
little episode "tell me now what the matter is."

Elizabeth's eyes were fixed upon the cool, green water at her feet. "I
don't know why you think," she said, slowly "that it has anything to
do with you."

"Not when you are a full hour late for our appointment? Not when you
treat me like an outcast? Oh, Elizabeth,"--the young man's voice
softened suddenly, skillfully--"how can you trifle with me so, when I
love you?"

He caught, or thought he did, a quiver in her face, although her eyes
were still resolutely bent upon the pool. "Yes, I love you," he
repeated. "I've loved you, I believe, ever since the day you came into
that horrid, stuffy little room, looking like an angel--with that hair
and that skin--so different from Amanda."--

He stopped as an indignant wave of color flamed in Elizabeth's cheeks.
"How can you speak of Amanda--like that?" she broke out passionately,
"when you loved her too, or told her so at least, when you said the
same things no doubt to her that you are saying now to me?"

A light broke in upon Paul. In his relief he laughed out loud.
"Amanda," he said. "Amanda! So she has been talking to you? And you
believed all the nonsense she told you? And that is why you acted so
strangely. I thought it was something serious!" And he laughed again
in sheer light-heartedness. So all this had been only jealous pique,
after all.

The gloom on Elizabeth's face did not lighten. "You seem to find the
idea amusing," she said, coldly. "I do not."

"Because you don't understand how absurd it is. I never made love to
Amanda--if she made love to me"--Paul stopped, warned by a curious
stiffening in Elizabeth's attitude that he was on dangerous ground.
She was not like other girls whom he had known--he had noticed this
before; she required special treatment. "My dear child," he said, in a
calm, argumentative tone "really you are a little hard on me. A man
can't measure every word he says to a girl. I may have paid Amanda a
few compliments, flirted with her a little, if you insist upon it,
but--that's not a crime, is it? And I never gave her a thought, I
hardly remembered her existence, after I had once--seen you." There
was unmistakable sincerity in his voice. "Look at me, Elizabeth," he
went on anxiously, "look at me, and tell me that you believe me."

Elizabeth raised her troubled eyes to his. "I--I don't know," she
said, slowly. She did believe him--to some extent, at least. But what
he told her did not alter the fact that it was she who had taken him
away from Amanda, that, but for her, he might have been her cousin's
admirer still. And that, after all, had been the substance of Amanda's
accusation.

"Tell me the truth," she said, suddenly "if I had not come in that
day--if you had never seen me, would you--would you have married
Amanda?" She fixed her eager eyes upon his face, and waited breathless
for his answer. He gave it with a light laugh.

"Marry Amanda!" he declared, "well, hardly! Such an idea never entered
my head."

"Then," said Elizabeth, slowly "you deceived her."

He shrugged his shoulders. "She deceived herself, I think," he said.
"It's not my fault if she--imagined things. Why should I marry a girl
like that? She's not pretty, she's stupid, ignorant. Bah, don't talk
to me of Amanda." He disposed of the matter with a wave of the hand
and another light laugh. Elizabeth felt a sudden conviction of the
absurdity of her own behavior. The painful, scorching flush in her
cheeks was beginning to cool; the burning, angry shame in her heart
was dying away. The remembrance of Amanda's words grew fainter; Paul's
handsome face, his air of triumphant health and life, were again in
the ascendent.

He saw the yielding in her eyes and brought out his most effective
argument. He took boldly the seat beside her on the log and though she
shrank away, it was not, he thought, entirely with aversion. "My
darling," he said, "don't let trifles come between us. I love you, you
love me; isn't that enough? Elizabeth, you are the most beautiful
woman in the world. Elizabeth, dearest" ... He put out his arm and
drew her towards him. She still shrank away, fascinated yet trembling,
frightened at this new delight, this thrill of pleasure in his touch.

"Don't," she gasped out, "Amanda"--He stopped her protest with a kiss.

And it was not till later, when she reached home, that she thought
again of Amanda's words: "Remember, he kissed me _first_."




_Chapter VIII_


Miss Cornelia and Miss Joanna sat at the breakfast-table and looked
aghast at Elizabeth, who had just informed them of her engagement. The
old Dutch clock on the mantel-piece ticked loudly, the sunlight fell
in shining bars upon the snowy table-cloth, the old Dutch china, the
glistening silver. Miss Cornelia was reminded forcibly, painfully, of
a morning in that same room many years ago, when Peter had announced
his marriage. Now the shock was not so great, was not unexpected,
perhaps; but it brought with it, if less horror, an even greater
disappointment.

"Well," Elizabeth said, after a moment, when her important
announcement had produced no response, and she looked proudly, yet
half wistfully, from one to the other. "Well," she repeated, "have you
nothing to say? Can't you--congratulate me?" Her voice faltered over
the last words.

"My dear," Miss Cornelia tried bravely to respond to the appeal in the
girl's tone. "Of course, we--we wish you every happiness," she
stammered out. She stopped, for tears choked her voice. She looked
despairingly at her sister. Was this the moment that they had so often
talked of together, planning with delicious thrills of pleasure all
they would say and do? "This china must be Elizabeth's when--when she
marries, you know." "We must lay by a little for--for Elizabeth's
trousseau." This in demure whispers to each other, for they would not
for the world have suggested such a possibility to the girl herself.
Nice girls, of course, must not think of getting married till the time
came, but--with Elizabeth's beauty, that time could not be long
delayed, not even in the Neighborhood. The fairy prince would appear
some day; though he had never come to them, they believed devoutly
that he would come to Elizabeth. And now--and now--the fairy prince
had come, or Elizabeth thought so; but they were only conscious of an
overwhelming sense of doubt.

"You know so little about him, my dear," Miss Cornelia could not help
at last protesting.

Elizabeth opened her eyes wide in genuine surprise. "So little of
him," she repeated. "Why, I--I know everything, Aunt Cornelia." And
she smiled to herself in silent amusement. Had she not seen him, every
day and twice a day, for a matter of four weeks. How long did they
think, these older women, that it took to know a man? "I know that he
loves me," she said, after a moment, descending to further particulars
"and I love him, and that's enough."

"But you can't live on love," urged Miss Joanna, practically. "You
must have some money, you know, and I shouldn't think he, poor young
man, had anything--at least, judging by his clothes. Those artists
never have, they say. And meat, and everything indeed, never was so
dear as it is now."

"I didn't know you were so worldly, Aunt Joanna," said Elizabeth,
loftily. "Do you want me to marry for money?" Miss Joanna was crushed.
But as she reflected in her own justification, one had to have
something to eat, let lovers say what they would.

"My dear," said Miss Cornelia, coming to the rescue with the little
air of dignity that she could sometimes assume "we certainly wouldn't
want you--not for the world--to marry for money. But one has to be--to
be prudent. We have brought you up in a way--perhaps it was
unwise--poor Mother would have thought so. But at any rate you know
nothing about economy, and--and you have only a little money, my dear,
and he, I suppose, has nothing."

"He--he expects to make a great deal of money soon," faltered
Elizabeth, coming down a little from her heights of romance. All this
prudence was like a dash of cold water in the face. She felt
disconcerted, indignant, and yet conscious, through it all of some
reason in her aunts' objections. Yes, it was true--she had not been
brought up to economy, she was fond of luxury and pretty things. In
all her wishes for change, she had never thought that it would be
amusing to miss any of these.

Miss Cornelia saw that she had produced some effect. "I think," she
went on, still speaking with unusual decision, "that the most
important thing is to find out something about him. You can't marry a
man whom we know nothing about, except that--that he was born at The
Mills. We must investigate his character." Miss Cornelia felt, as she
brought out this last sentence, that it sounded eminently practical,
and it received from Miss Joanna, indeed, its full meed of respectful
admiration. Elizabeth only smiled superior.

"You can investigate as much as you like, Aunt Cornelia," she said. "I
know all about him." And so the matter rested.

But how could two elderly and innocent spinsters, who had never in
their lives stirred two hundred miles from home, investigate the
character of a young man who had lived in Chicago and Paris and Vienna
and all the four quarters of the world apparently? They had no idea
how to set about it. In this perplexity Miss Cornelia again rose to
the occasion, and suggested that the Rector might be a fit substitute
for that invaluable possession "a man in the family," who is always
supposed to accomplish so much. And the Rector, when consulted, proved
unexpectedly resourceful. He had made Paul's acquaintance, and learned
the name of the church in Chicago where he had sung for so many years.
He had discovered, too, that the Rector of this church was an old
college friend of his, and he wrote to him at once, requesting full
and confidential information as to the young man's character,
antecedents, and prospects.

The answer seemed to the poor ladies a long time in coming; as a
matter of fact, it arrived very promptly. The Rector of St. Anne's at
Chicago regretted to inform his old friend and colleague the Rector
of St. Mary's, at Bassett Mills, that he had no good account to give
of Paul Halleck, who had not long ago been dismissed from the choir of
his church, and had left behind him in Chicago many debts and a bad
reputation. The young man was believed to have, as the Rector added,
genuine musical talent; but like many artists and musicians, he was
morally irresponsible, dissipated and reckless.

The Rector of St. Mary's repeated the verdict, as gently as he could,
to the older ladies at the Homestead. They bore it better than he
expected. There were compensations indeed in the very extent of its
severity. Had Halleck been less evidently and irredeemably a black
sheep, there might have been some doubts as to their own duty; but, as
it was, they felt that they must break off the dreadful match at once,
and at any cost.

Yet the heart of each sister misgave her as they sat in a solemn
conclave, and summoned Elizabeth before it. She came, rosy,
bright-eyed, fresh from talks with her lover and happy dreams of a
brilliant future, which they were to share together. She stood
listening in apparent indifference, while Miss Cornelia faltered out
the painful result of their inquiries. And when the worst was told,
she had turned perhaps a trifle pale, but otherwise she seemed
unmoved.

"I don't know why you tell me all this, auntie," she said, slowly.
"I--I am sorry to hear it, but it can make no difference."

"No difference!" Miss Cornelia repeated, stupefied. "No difference,
Elizabeth?"

"No, it can't change my love for him," she said, defiantly. "He told
me that he has enemies at Chicago, and that you would probably unearth
a lot of old scandals; and I promised that it should make no
difference. Perhaps some of them are true; I don't care. Auntie, I
can't--I can't give him up," she went on with a sudden change of tone
and clasping her hands appealingly. "I tried to once before, and--I
couldn't. If he were to go away now and leave me, I--I should die. I
couldn't bear to go on living without him." The girl's face was
flushed, her voice tremulous with feeling; it was evident that she
fully meant--or thought that she meant--what she said. Her aunts
looked at her in helpless perplexity.

"My darling," Miss Cornelia faltered at last, "think how much better
it is to give him up now than to--to marry him and be unhappy. You
don't know--men are very bad;--one reads such things in the
newspapers. If he were to ill-treat you, desert you."

"Ah, but he won't," said Elizabeth, smiling incredulously. "You
needn't worry, Aunt Cornelia; we shall be very happy. But even if we
were not," she concluded, with a sudden burst of defiance. "If I
thought that he would beat me, treat me like a dog--I don't care; I
should marry him to-morrow."

And she thrust out her full under lip, and stood facing them, with a
look of obstinacy on her fair, girlish face, that for the moment bore
a strong resemblance to her father.

To Miss Cornelia's mind there rose again, with startling vividness,
the events of twenty years before. The recollection seemed to endow
her with an unwonted and unnatural strength. She went over to where
Elizabeth stood and took both the girl's hot hands in hers.

"Elizabeth," she said, desperately, "you don't know what you're
saying. You will be miserable if you marry that man. You don't know
what it is to live with a person who is beneath you, who--who drags
you down. We know, my darling, we have seen it. Be warned by us, and
give him up."

Miss Cornelia had never in all her gentle life spoken with so much
vehemence. Elizabeth, in her astonishment, stood for a moment
absolutely passive. She stole a glance at Miss Joanna; she was weeping
quietly. Elizabeth's own face worked, her lip quivered. "I know whom
you mean," she broke out, suddenly, in a quick hard voice. "You're
thinking of my mother." And then, in the dismayed pause that followed,
she dragged her hands away from Miss Cornelia's grasp and fled from
the room.

The two older women looked at one another in silence.

"I didn't know," Miss Joanna said at last in a low, awe-struck tone
"that the child knew anything about--about poor Malvina."




_Chapter IX_


"And so you let all this nonsense influence you?" Halleck asked this
bitterly, staring up with moody eyes into Elizabeth's face. They were
sitting under a wide-spreading tree, in a field not far from the
Homestead. It was late afternoon and the shadows were long and
peaceful. A ray from the sinking sun shot through the foliage overhead
lighting up the red tints of Elizabeth's hair. Halleck's artistic eye
rested upon them fascinated. He had never, as he told himself, been so
much in love before.

"You give me up because of a little opposition?" he went on bitterly,
roused to increased irritation by the thought of losing her.

"Why, what can I do?" The girl's voice was weary, and she threw out
her hands with a helpless gesture. "They will give in to me, I
suppose, if I insist; but it makes them too unhappy. I believe it
would kill them. If they were unkind, I shouldn't care; but they only
cry, and are so wretched, and I can't stand it. It makes me feel so
ungrateful."

"And yet," said Halleck, anxiously, "you think they will give in in
the end?"

"Oh, yes, they'll give in," said Elizabeth, wearily. "They'll give
in, if I insist; and that's the very reason why I--what makes it so
hard, you see."

"No, I don't see," said Paul, bluntly. "If you think they will give
in, why are you so unhappy? But I understand how it is" he went on,
harshly, "you don't love me. I'm too far beneath you--a Bohemian and
an outcast. You are glad of an excuse to throw me over."

"Paul!" The indignant color flushed into Elizabeth's face. "How can
you say such things," she asked reproachfully. "You know they are not
true. I told my aunts that I would never give you up; I told them
that--that I would marry you to-morrow, if I could."

"You told them that?" Paul exclaimed exultantly. He put his arm around
her and drew her towards him. "Then keep your word, darling," he said.
"Marry me to-morrow."

Elizabeth shrank away, startled. "Marry you," she repeated.
"To-morrow, how could I?"

"Why not," said Paul, quietly. "Come up to Cranston and we will be
married. Then let them say what they please."

Elizabeth was very pale. "I couldn't do that," she said in a low
voice. "I don't want to be married so soon; and besides--it would kill
my aunts."

He laughed. "Nonsense! People soon resign themselves to what they
can't help. And then they needn't know--yet awhile. Listen, darling,
this is my plan. You know that I want to go abroad--well, I have had a
letter offering me a position in an opera company in Munich. If I
accept it I start this week."

He stopped as Elizabeth gave a little cry and stared up at him with
reproachful eyes. "This week," she said. "You go away this week?"

"Why, I can't stay here forever, you know," Paul said. "I've idled
away my time unconscionably already--but that is your fault,
Elizabeth. Now it is time I went to work. And that is why I say--marry
me before I go. Then, while I am away, nothing can separate us."

Elizabeth, pale and thoughtful, seemed to ponder the suggestion.
"Marry you," she repeated, slowly. "Marry you--now at once?"

"Yes, to-morrow," said Paul, boldly.

"And--and keep it _secret_?" she went on, with a troubled look.

"Yes, for a little while," said Paul, "for a few months, till I come
back. I shall have made my name and my fortune, darling, I hope, by
that time, and your aunts will be quite reconciled to me."

"Then wouldn't it be better," said Elizabeth, with much reason, "to
wait till then?"

"Are you willing to wait--in uncertainty all this time?" he asked,
reproachfully. "Ah, Elizabeth, it is evident that you don't love me as
I love you. Such an absence would be unbearable to me, if I felt that
some lover was likely to come along at any time and take you from me."

Elizabeth could not help reflecting that the danger of such a
catastrophe did not seem imminent, in the present condition of the
Neighborhood; but she did not put the thought into words. She only
said, with some dignity: "I don't think that I am the sort of girl to
change so easily."

"Ah, you can't tell," said Paul. "Women are fickle beings. I don't
trust you, Elizabeth. I have a feeling that, if you don't marry me
now, you never will. And why should you hesitate?" he went on eagerly.
"It isn't so much that I ask. I don't even say--come abroad with me
now; only give me the certainty that when I come back, I shall be able
to claim you."

"You would have that certainty now," she still insisted. "I promise
that I will marry you when you come back."

"Then why not marry me now," he asked, triumphantly.

Elizabeth could give no good reason to the contrary. The idea was
vaguely alarming, yet it held for her a certain fascination. She sat
listening in troubled uncertainty, while Paul discoursed with
enthusiasm over the many advantages of his plan. He was exceedingly
anxious, as he had said, to make sure of this beautiful girl, who was,
he vaguely felt, a little above him--of a grade superior to that of
the other girls whom he had known and made love to, for the space of a
fortnight perhaps. He had been true to Elizabeth, now, for more than
double that time. He really believed that he should be true to her
always. There were other things that attracted him besides her beauty.
The thought that Elizabeth was Miss Van Vorst of the Homestead was not
unpleasant to him; the old house, the family silver, the family
traditions, appealed to his artistic sense of fitness. And then though
he was no fortune-hunter, and certainly would have made love to no
girl whom he did not for the moment at least sincerely admire, he
admitted to himself, frankly, that it was by no means inconvenient
that Elizabeth should have a little money of her own and the prospect
of more in the future. The Van Vorst property, while it was
insignificant enough when measured by the standard of the Van Antwerps
and other rich people in the Neighborhood, seemed by no means
contemptible to Paul, who measured it by the standard of
poverty-stricken Bohemia.

Elizabeth's feelings were more complex, less frankly selfish, much
more anxious and uncertain. The money question did not enter into them
to any great extent, though she had an instinctive dread of poverty,
and she was convinced that, if once married to Paul, she would not be
able to have the pretty gowns, and other luxurious trifles, which had
hitherto seemed a necessity of life. But she was young and romantic,
and this thought did not weigh with her very much. What most
distressed her, and made her feel in some way vaguely in the wrong,
was the trouble this, her first love affair, seemed to bring to
others; to her aunts, to Amanda. She loved her aunts, and hated to run
counter to their wishes; she did not love Amanda, and yet the thought
of having injured her, though unconsciously, brought with it an
uncomfortable sense of guilt.

She had not seen her since that terrible interview, which she still
could not recall without a feeling of humiliation; but she had seen
her aunt, who told her that Amanda was ill with some low
fever--typhoid malaria, probably; there was always a good deal of that
at The Mills. It was not considered wise that Elizabeth should see
her; and besides, Amanda was delirious, and did not recognize any one.
Elizabeth was more relieved than sorry to hear it. No doubt, she told
herself, Amanda was already out of her head when she uttered that
extraordinary outburst, and it was foolish to attach any importance to
what she said in her feverish excitement. Still, Elizabeth did not
like to think of it, much less of the promise she herself had given,
voluntarily, in such forcible words. She had been so absolutely
sincere in making it; she had broken it so completely within the hour.
The whole affair was unpleasant, and weighed upon her more than those
more serious charges against Paul, which had fallen vaguely upon her
ear, not seeming to make any deep impression. His conduct to Amanda
was at its worst a mere trifle in comparison.

Still she could not give him up. That broken promise to Amanda only
proved this the more strongly. She could not face the prospect of life
without him. And yet she could not face without terrible misgivings
the prospect of further tears and remonstrances from her aunts. The
two claims struggled for the mastery; on the one hand, the claims of
the women who had brought her up, whose every thought for twenty years
had centred in her; on the other, the claims of the man who had loved
her in his light way some five weeks. Under these circumstances, it
was inevitable that the claims of the man should predominate. And yet
Elizabeth longed to satisfy them both.

Paul's plan seemed to suggest a compromise. And Elizabeth had not yet
learned that compromise is never satisfactory to either side.

"Listen," she said, looking at him intently, with eyes that seemed to
hold, even in the moment of yielding, a certain defiance of his power,
"If I do as you wish, if I--I marry you to-morrow, I am free to--to
come home at once, to go on with my life as if nothing were
changed--not to tell my aunts, not to tell any one, till you come
back? Do you promise this, on your word of honor?"

For a moment Paul hesitated. He had hardly expected her to yield so
easily; perhaps if he pressed the matter she might be persuaded even
to go abroad with him at once. But there were financial reasons which
made that inexpedient just then. On the whole, Paul decided not to
test his power too far.

"Upon my word of honor," he said, looking her steadily in the face "I
promise that you shall be free as air, to go on with your life as you
please, till I come back to claim you."

And so the thing was settled. Paul was to go to Cranston early the
next morning to make all necessary arrangements; Elizabeth was to
follow him a little later. They were to be married at once. Then Paul
was to take an afternoon train for New York, Elizabeth was to return
home, the whole affair should remain a secret.

Then Paul, radiantly triumphant, clasped Elizabeth in his arms, and
pressed his lips to hers.

"To-morrow," he whispered, "to-morrow, my darling, at this
time--though the world won't know it--still you will be my wife."

A strange feeling thrilled Elizabeth. She could not have told if it
were pleasure, or some involuntary presentiment. But aloud she
repeated mechanically: "Yes, I shall be your wife."

"You won't fail me, dearest," he said, scanning her face eagerly. "You
won't break your word? You have promised--you won't fail me?"

"No," Elizabeth answered, "I have promised--I won't fail you."

And yet the thought crossed her mind irrelevantly, that she had broken
a promise once already.

She left him and went home through the stillness and the fast
gathering shadows of the evening. The days were already growing
shorter. She noted the fact mechanically; noted too that the deep
glowing crimson of the sunset foretold a hot day for the morrow. She
entered the house and looked in at the dining-room; the table was set
out for tea with all the wonted care. Her aunts sat each at one end;
they were neither of them eating and both had red eyes. In the centre
of the table stood Elizabeth's favorite cake--the kind with the
raisins in it, which she used to beg for as a child, and which was
reserved either as a reward for virtue, or for consolation in some
childish trouble. Now in this trouble that was so far from childish,
poor Miss Joanna had bethought herself of the old attention, and
brought out the favorite cake as the only means of comfort within her
power. Elizabeth could not see it without a lump in her throat.

She smoothed her ruffled hair before the glass and came in quietly to
her usual place at the table. They looked up nervously at her
entrance, but neither spoke; they did not reproach her with being late
or ask where she had been. Miss Joanna pressed upon her the various
dainties, reminding her that she had eaten no dinner; otherwise the
meal was a silent one. It was not till near the end of it that
Elizabeth spoke in a strained harsh voice unlike her own.

"Paul is going away." That was what she said. "He--has an engagement
to go abroad. He goes to New York to-morrow. I--I hope you are
satisfied."

And then she stopped, for the look of tremulous relief on both their
faces was almost more than she could bear. The raisins in her favorite
cake seemed suddenly to choke her. She began to doubt, after all,
whether she would go to Cranston the next day.




_Chapter X_


This was Elizabeth's last thought that night; it was her first in the
morning. She dressed herself carefully, putting on white, according to
the custom which had aroused Aunt Rebecca's criticism; and all the
while she asked of the reflection that stared back at her with
perplexed eyes out of the mirror: "Shall I go, or shall I not?" She
put the question to a rose when she got down-stairs, repeating as she
ruthlessly destroyed each petal. "Yes, no, yes, no?" But the flower
answered with a "no," and she threw away the last petal in disgust.

"I think I shall drive over to The Mills this morning," she announced
quietly at the breakfast-table. "There is some ribbon I want to
match." Her aunts looked up startled. They wondered simultaneously at
what hour Halleck was to leave for New York. Yet what if after all the
child wished for one last meeting?

"You don't think it's--it's too hot to go over there to-day, my dear?"
Miss Cornelia ventured at last uncertainly.

"No, I don't mind the heat," Elizabeth answered indifferently, as she
sat playing with her knife and fork. She was very pale and had no
appetite. This seemed to them only natural. They hoped that when the
young man were once out of the way, their darling would be herself
again.

"We must take her to the sea-shore for a little while," Miss Cornelia
observed when Elizabeth had left the room. "She needs change of air."
Miss Joanna cheerfully assented. The idea and the sacrifice which it
involved (since to go away from home, even for a few weeks, seemed a
terrible undertaking) consoled them both greatly.

And meanwhile Elizabeth went her own way. It was not till she was
seated in the carriage about to start on her drive, that she observed
as if by an afterthought: "Oh, by the way, if I can't match the ribbon
at The Mills, I may go to Cranston for it by the trolley, so don't be
worried if I don't come back till late, and don't wait dinner." Her
aunts looked at one another questioningly; but she drove off at once,
before they could offer any objections.

And so Elizabeth drove towards Bassett Mills. The day was dry and hot,
as were most days that summer. The sun beat down out of a brazen sky,
the roads were white with dust, the grass in the fields was sere and
brown. The locusts all along the way kept up a loud, exultant song,
the burden of which was heat.

To Elizabeth, as she drove on, there began to be something ominous in
it all; in the heat and the dust and the dazzling sunshine and the
locusts with their eternal noise. They seemed all part, and she with
them of some horrible nightmare; she was under some spell which
benumbed her, deprived her of the capacity for thought, of all but
the power to keep doggedly on the way to Bassett Mills. What she
should do when she got there she did not know; her brain was torpid,
there was a strange ringing in her ears. It was the sun, no doubt,
that was affecting her head; it would be wise to turn back, or she
might be ill. But still she kept on.

It was not far from noon when she reached Bassett Mills. There was
little life about the place this hot morning; the mill-stream even
seemed to dash less tumultuously, and showed signs of running dry. A
group of men stood outside the drug-store, which was a great
meeting-place, and discussed the drought. It was decided that if it
continued the crops would be ruined; but hopes were founded on the
fact that prayers for rain were to be offered in all the churches on
Sunday.

"But there's not much use praying for rain," said one skeptic, "when
the wind's due west."

Elizabeth heard the words as she drove up, and, alighting tied the
white pony to a post and bribed a small boy to "keep an eye" on him.
Then she joined the group in front of the shop, who were some waiting
for the trolley, others merely passing the time of day. She did not go
into the dry-goods shop to try to match her ribbon; she knew that such
ribbon as she wanted was not to be had at Bassett Mills. She stood
idly listening to the men's conversation, and wondering if it were
indeed true, as the skeptic had declared, that it was useless to pray
for an event already determined by natural causes. She had been
brought up to believe implicitly in the efficacy of prayer, and had
added to her usual formula that morning a petition of unwonted fervor
that she might be enabled in this perplexing situation to decide for
the best. But perhaps there was no use in praying; perhaps one was not
a free agent. Fate, she thought, had evidently determined that she
should go to Cranston that morning to be married, since it was a thing
that might so easily have been prevented--by an objection from her
aunts, an offer of company on the expedition, even by the white pony
going lame; she would have yielded, or so she thought, to the merest
trifle, glad to have the decision taken out of her hands. But
everything had been made easy; it evidently was to be. And an implicit
believer in heredity might have observed that the matter had been
decided for her, by events and influences which had moulded her
character even before she was born. It was in just such clandestine
fashion as this that her parents had once gone up to Cranston to be
married; and it might be that some mysterious hereditary instinct,
some force over which she had no control, was now constraining their
daughter, under the same circumstances, to act in the same way.

Elizabeth, fortunately or otherwise, did not think of this. She only
knew that she was standing outside the drug-store with the other
loiterers, straining her eyes along the dusty white road for a sight
of the trolley; and that, even while she doubted the wisdom of
waiting, some fascination held her rooted to the spot. When the
trolley came she took her seat at once. After all a trip to Cranston
meant nothing; she might simply buy her ribbon and come back.

The trolley started off fast and jerkily, creating a teasing wind,
that seemed to blow from some fiery furnace. Elizabeth clutched her
hat with one hand, while with the other she tried to shield her eyes
from the flying dust and glare. Soon they were past the cemetery and
the straggling outskirts of Bassett Mills, out into the open country,
with rolling meadow and upland on either side, all withered, scorching
under the sun's fierce rays. An occasional wagon met them, wrapped in
a cloud of dust; the trolley was hailed now and then from some
solitary farm-house, and came to a sudden stop. The ride seemed
endless, but that they were approaching Cranston was at last made
evident by unmistakable signs; by the advertisements staring at them
from trunks of trees and the expanse of stone walls; by the asphalt
pavement that succeeded the rough country road, the increasing
quantity of bicycles, carriages and dust; and finally by the neat rows
of Queen Anne villas, with their gabled fronts and terraced gardens
sloping to the road. Then the car, with a last triumphant jerk, turned
a corner and landed its passengers squarely in the High Street of
Cranston.

Elizabeth alighted rather limply, and stood looking about her in a
dazed sort of way. A country woman laden with parcels addressed her
timidly. "Excuse me miss," she said, "but would you tell me the best
place to go for stockings?"

Elizabeth started and stared at her, as if the simple question had
been put in Hebrew. Then in a moment she recovered herself and
directed the woman very civilly. She watched her bustle off upon her
round of errands, then turned and slowly walked into the
confectioner's shop. It was there that she had promised to meet Paul.

There was no one, as it happened, in the front part of the shop, where
candy and cake were sold; no one in the little restaurant at the back.
Elizabeth sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables; her head
was aching, her eyes blood-shot, she was conscious of nothing but a
feeling of pleasure in the coolness and darkness, of relief from the
outside glare. Mechanically, she glanced at the small mirror, that
hung at an unbecoming angle opposite on the wall, and felt a slight
shock at the sight of herself--pale, worn, with blood-shot eyes, her
white gown dusty and bedraggled. No, she did not look well--she had
never looked worse in her life. Her lips curled in an unmirthful
smile, as she thought irrelevantly of Aunt Rebecca, and of how she
might have held forth on the folly of wearing white for such a dusty
ride. And thereupon with a sudden pang, came the thought of
Amanda--Amanda, tossing no doubt just then in the delirium of fever.
The unpleasant idea struck Elizabeth of a resemblance between her own
white face in the mirror, and her cousin's face as she had last seen
it, with those staring, red-rimmed eyes. Certainly, there was a latent
family likeness; but it took unbecoming conditions such as these to
bring it out. She wondered languidly if any one else had ever noticed
it.

Poor Amanda! Was she still, in her delirium, fretting over Paul? Or
was she, perhaps, secure in Elizabeth's promise, and the pleasure of
having separated them? What would she think if she knew that Elizabeth
was even now waiting for him here in Cranston--waiting to be married
to him? But with this thought the spell of indifference which had
rested upon Elizabeth seemed suddenly to fall away, and there swept
over her a sudden sense of revolt, of shame and repulsion. She started
impulsively to her feet. No, she could not be married--not in that
way; it was clandestine, disgraceful. There was still time to escape.
If only she could reach home, without seeing Paul! She made one quick,
blinded rush for the door, and then, a tall figure stood in her way,
and her hands were seized in a man's eager grasp. His handsome,
exultant face looked into hers.

"My brave girl," he said. "So you have not failed me."




_Chapter XI_


Elizabeth with a great effort wrenched her hands away from Paul's
grasp, and fell against one of the marble-topped tables. Her face was
white, her dull eyes looked up at him with a sort of terror.

"I--I have failed you," she said, speaking slowly and thickly, with
parched lips. "I have come, but I--cannot stay. I was going when you
came in."

"Elizabeth!" The look of exultant joy faded slowly and reluctantly
from Paul's face. "Elizabeth, what do you mean? Why did you come if
you don't mean to stay?"

"Because I--was crazy." She was trembling now, and she clung to the
table for support; but still she was firm. "I--I didn't think what I
did. Now I--I know. It would be wrong to marry like this--so secretly.
I must go home. Let me pass." She spoke the last words quickly,
imperiously, and made a motion as if to brush past him; but he stood
motionless in the door and blocked her way.

He was very angry; she had never seen him so before. The emotion lent
a curious brute strength to his fair, sensuous beauty. His face was as
white as hers, his full red lips were set in a curve of unwonted
determination.

"Listen to me, Elizabeth." He had never spoken to her in such a tone
before. "I won't be trifled with like this. I have made all the
arrangements. I won't have you--jilt me now. You must come with me, or
I--I'll know the reason why."

She met his gaze defiantly. "You can't compel me to come you know,"
she said. And again she would have passed him, and again he stopped
her. She did not try a third time, but sank into a chair and put up
her hands to her face. A sudden faintness came over her; it might have
been the heat, or the sharp, conflicting play of emotion. He followed
her and gently took her hands from her face and looked into her eyes.

"Don't be foolish, darling," he said, persuasively. "You know that you
love me, that you are only playing with me. You wouldn't really throw
me over now."

She looked up reluctantly, fascinated as she had often been before, by
the mere physical attraction of his beauty. "I--I don't know," she
began slowly, and then stopped frightened at the sound of voices in
the shop. A dread flashed over her all at once of a scene in a place
like this. The trifling, frivolous consideration turned the scale in
Paul's favor. She rose, shook off his grasp, and gave a hasty glance
in the glass.

"No, I won't throw you over," she said. "It's all wrong but--as you
say, it's too late now. Take care--some one is coming." She gave a
warning look at the door, as Paul pressed her hand.

So the threatened scene was averted and Elizabeth's fate was sealed.
The people who, after buying candy in the shop, came into the little
back room for some ice cream, saw a young woman arranging her hair
before the glass, and a young man waiting for her--a not unusual
sight.

What followed seemed in after life a dream to Elizabeth. There were
times when she tried to think that it had never happened; that the
whole thing was a mere figment of the imagination. But on that day she
was quite conscious that it was she herself, in very flesh and blood,
Elizabeth Van Vorst, who walked by Paul Halleck's side through the
glaring, sunny streets of Cranston, went with him into a dimly-lighted
church, let him place a ring upon her finger, spoke her share in the
marriage service, and wrote her maiden name for what should have been
the last time, in the parish register. The clergyman was very old and
mumbled over the service; the witnesses, two servants of his, were old
and feeble, also, and took but small interest. The church was damp
like a tomb after the heat without; Elizabeth found herself shivering
as from a chill. It was a relief to come out again into the heat which
had been so oppressive before. But on the church steps Elizabeth gave
a little cry. A funeral was slowly filing past, its black trappings
standing out in incongruous gloom against the noon-day brilliance.

Elizabeth looked at Paul. He had turned very white, and he too was
shivering. "It is a bad omen," he said, in a low voice, as if to
himself. He said no more, but led the way carefully in the opposite
direction from that which the funeral had taken.

They found themselves in a part of Cranston unknown to Elizabeth. The
road was bordered on either side by flowering hedges and led
apparently into the open country. There were no houses in sight; for
the moment, even no people. Halleck suddenly turned and clasped
Elizabeth almost roughly in his arms, while he pressed passionate
kisses upon her brow, her lips, her hair.

"My darling," he cried "I can't--I can't give you up. I was mad to
promise it. Let everything go and come with me to New York."

"No, no, I can't," she murmured faintly. "I can't." His vehemence
stunned, bewildered her; but instinctively she struggled against it.
"You promised," she cried out indignantly, "you promised that I should
be free--till you came back. I've kept my word, you must keep yours."

He let her go and for a moment they eyed each other steadily. This
time the victory remained with her. "Did I really make that promise?"
he said at last with a sigh. "Well, if I did, I must keep it, I
suppose. But, Elizabeth, you must be made of ice--you can't love me,
or you wouldn't hold me to it."

Elizabeth was chiefly conscious of an overpowering sense of relief.

"I do love you," she said, soothingly, "but indeed it is better--much
better to let things be as we arranged them. I can't go to New York in
this dress"--she gave a little tremulous laugh, as she glanced at her
fluffy muslin skirts. "Only a man could suggest such a thing. And then
my aunts!--they would be distracted. No, no, I must go home at once.
You will be back in six months," she went on, trying to console him.
"They will pass very quickly."

"Six months," he sighed. "It is an endless time." He was the picture
of gloom as they turned and walked steadily back to the busy part of
Cranston. And she, too, had her regrets. The compromise was
satisfactory to neither.

At the corner of the High Street they parted. There was no opportunity
for more than a hand-clasp, a few hurried words of farewell. Then he
went his way to the railroad station, and she hurried to the trolley.
The country woman with the many parcels was there before her, and told
where she got the stockings, and how much she paid for them.

Back again went the trolley, along the asphalted road past the Queen
Anne villas with their terraced gardens, past bicycles, carriages,
wagons, and always clouds of dust; out into the open country, with
rolling meadow and upland on either side, simmering in the heat of the
summer afternoon, to which the morning heat was as nothing; Elizabeth
sitting upright, shading her eyes from the glare, with aching head and
burning eyes, and throbbing brain that refused to take in the reality
of what she had done. This was her wedding journey.

An hour later the white pony brought her home.

"Did you--did you match your ribbon, dear?" Miss Joanna inquired
anxiously. Elizabeth stared blankly for a moment.

"I--I never thought of the ribbon," she cried at last, and burst into
hysterical laughter.




_Chapter XII_


It was that time of year when the Neighborhood, and the whole
riverside, are in their glory. Day after day dawned clear and frosty,
to warm at noon-day into a mellow brilliance. On every side stretched
wooded meadow and upland all aglow, resplendent in varied tints of
crimson and russet, magenta and scarlet, blending in a glorious scheme
of color, till they melted at last into the soft gray haze, which
rested, like a touch of regretful melancholy, on the tops of the
distant hills. Over the fields the golden-rod was still scattered
profusely, amidst the sober browns and purples of the bay, and the
pale lavender of the Michaelmas daisies. Red berries glistened on the
bushes, the ground was covered, every day deeper, with a carpeting of
fallen leaves and chestnut burrs.

On one of these autumn days, when the light was fading into dusk, Mrs.
"Bobby" Van Antwerp came to call at the Homestead, and found no one at
home but Elizabeth, who was kneeling on the hearth-rug, staring into
the fire.

Elizabeth's thoughts were not pleasant ones. She had refused to go to
Cranston with her aunts that afternoon, for she had never been near
the place since that hot July day, nearly three months before, when
she had forgotten to match her ribbon. What construction her aunts
placed upon the episode she never knew. They did not allude to it in
words, but treated her with added care and solicitude, as if she were
recovering from some illness. In pursuance of this theory, they took
her to a highly recommended and very dull seaside place, where she was
extremely bored. She returned in better health, though hardly better
spirits. She had now a new trouble, which increased as the autumn
advanced. Paul's letters, at first many and ardent, grew fewer and
colder, till they ceased altogether. Elizabeth's last letter remained
unanswered, and she was too proud to write again. No doubt, she told
herself, his thoughts were occupied by some new attraction. With a
sudden flash of intuition, she realized that for Paul there would
always be an attraction of some kind, and generally a new one.

This unpleasant perception had one good result, at least; it lightened
her sense of remorse towards Amanda. She had long ago got over the
ordeal of seeing her cousin again, and the strange scene between them
had been relegated to a curious phase of unreality, covered up and
almost obliterated, as such scenes not infrequently are among
relations and intimate friends, by the thousand commonplace incidents
of every-day life. And yet some sort of apology had been proffered by
Amanda, as she sat up in her white wrapper, very pale and hollow-eyed,
with her red hair cut short, and just beginning to come in in soft
waves like Elizabeth's--a thing she had always desired.

"You know," she said, in her weak voice "I was real sick that last
time you saw me. I was just coming down with the fever."

"I know you were," Elizabeth said gently, conquering the thrill of
anger which swept over her at the recollection.

"I guess I said some queer things," Amanda ventured next, and gave an
odd, furtive look from her light eyes.

"You certainly did," said Elizabeth, coldly. Not all the pity she felt
for Amanda's weakness could avail to make her speak in any other way.

"Well, I guess," Amanda said, after a moment and closing her eyes as
if wearied out, "people aren't accountable for what they say when
they're sick."

"No," said Elizabeth, "I suppose not." And with this tacit apology and
its acceptance, this episode between the cousins might be considered
closed. Certainly, on Elizabeth's side, it was not only closed, but
forgotten, in the pressure of far more serious troubles.

As she knelt that afternoon looking into the fire, a vision of her
future life--colorless, empty, without joy or love--seemed to stare
back at her from its glowing depths. The years stretched out before
her, a dreary waste--without Paul. She was sure that he would never
come back; the bond between them seemed the merest shadow. He had
forgotten her in three short months, while she was more in love than
ever, since she had never fully realized, at the time, the void that
he would leave behind him. For a short time her life had bloomed like
the summer; and now nothing was left to her but the fast-approaching
gray monotony of the November days, and the bleak cold of the winter.

Upon these cheerful reflections entered Mrs. Bobby Van Antwerp, in a
short skirt somewhat the worse for wear, with dark eyes that shone
brilliantly beneath her battered hat, and her small piquante face
glowing with health and exercise.

"Don't get up," she said. "What a beautiful blaze!" She sat down to it
at once and held out her small, gloveless hands to its pleasant
warmth. "I walked all the way," she announced, triumphantly, "and I
thought I would just drop in, and perhaps you'd give me a cup of tea."

One must have lived in the Neighborhood to appreciate the informality
of all this. People paid calls in their carriages, with their
card-cases and their best Sunday gowns--it was not good form to come
on foot, even had the distances permitted. But the young woman always
spoken of as "Mrs. Bobby" though her claims to a more formal
designation had long since been established, was a law unto herself
and cared little what the Neighborhood's laws might be. Elizabeth had
already noticed that this great lady, the greatest lady in the
Neighborhood, treated her with more friendliness than other people of
less assured position with whom she was, theoretically, on more
intimate terms. This curious fact, and the cause of it, occupied her
thoughts while she rang the bell and ordered tea, a little flustered
inwardly, but outwardly calm, and comfortably conscious of the
becoming neatness of her serge skirt and velveteen blouse. Whatever
her troubles might be, she had not yet reached so great a pitch of
desperation as to neglect her appearance.

"Aren't these autumn days beautiful!" said Mrs. Bobby, making herself
at home by unfastening her coat and tossing aside her hat, whereby she
disclosed to view a somewhat tousled halo of curly dark hair. "I tell
Bobby that just these few days in the autumn make up to us for the
bother of keeping the place, though in summer it is fearfully hot, and
unspeakably dull all the year round. It must be very dull for you,"
said Mrs. Bobby, coming to a sudden pause.

"Oh, yes, it's dull," Elizabeth admitted, with a little sigh.

Mrs. Bobby laughed.

"Why don't you say 'oh, but I am so fond of the place,' or 'but I'm
not at all dependent on society,' as the other girls in the
Neighborhood do?"

"I don't know," said Elizabeth, reflectively. "I don't think, for one
thing, that I am so awfully fond of the place; and as for society--I
have never had any, so naturally I get on without it."

"But you would enjoy it, if you had it?"

A curious brightness shone for an instant in Elizabeth's eyes. "Ah,
yes, I should enjoy it," she said, quickly. "I'm sure I should."

"I'm sure you would, too," said Mrs. Bobby. She seemed to reflect a
moment. "Don't you go away in August?" she asked at last.

"Yes, this year we did," said Elizabeth. "We went to Borehaven.
It--it wasn't very amusing." She stopped short blushing as if the last
words had been wrung from her unawares; but Mrs. Bobby's smile seemed
to invite confidence.

"Tell me all about it," she said. "Was it very terrible?"

"Yes, very," said Elizabeth, frankly. "There were a good many girls
who used to promenade up and down, and a number of old ladies who sat
in rows on the piazza and criticized the people and grumbled about the
table; and they one and all treated us as if we had committed some
crime. We were quite distressed till we found out that it was nothing
personal--only the way they always treat new arrivals."

"Ah, I know the type of place," said Mrs. Bobby "and the people. Were
there any men?"

"A few who were called men--about sixteen, I should think--most of
them--but they didn't interest me particularly." And Elizabeth
blushed, as she remembered the reason which had made her indifferent,
at least to such men as Borehaven could boast of. Mrs. Bobby noticed
the blush.

"What!" she said to herself "another attraction in this wilderness?
Not that stupid Frank Courtenay--I hope not. Yet there isn't and never
has been another man in the place that I ever heard of." While she
pondered this problem the tea-things were brought in, and Elizabeth
seated herself at the small table, behind the old silver urn, in the
full glow of the firelight, which played on her hair and brought out
the warm creamy tones of her skin. Mrs. Bobby watched her silently
with her bright dark eyes, her small, pointed chin supported on her
hand.

"You ought to go to town for the winter," she announced at last
abruptly. This seemed to be the upshot of her reflections. Elizabeth
looked up with a little start, and a momentary brightening of the
eyes, which faded, however, instantly.

"Oh, my aunts could never bear to leave here," she said. "They have so
taken root in this place. Besides," she went on, constrained to
greater frankness by the consciousness of that quality in Mrs. Bobby
herself "what would be the use if we did go? We know so few people. It
would be horrid to be in New York and not know any one or go
anywhere."

"Yes, that wouldn't be pleasant," admitted Mrs. Bobby, to whom indeed
such a state of things was inconceivable. "But you would know people,"
she went on, after a moment "every one does somehow. There are your
cousins, the Schuyler Van Vorsts, for instance."

"Who would probably never notice us," said Elizabeth "or if they did,
would ask us to a family dinner."

"Well, that certainly would be worse than nothing," Mrs. Bobby
admitted. "But--how about your old school friends? You must have known
some nice girls at Madame Veuillet's. You would see, no doubt, a great
deal of them."

Elizabeth shook her head. "I doubt it," she said. "They spoke--some of
them--of asking me to stop with them, but they have none of them done
so. They don't even write to me any more. It doesn't take long for
people to forget one, Mrs. Van Antwerp," said poor Elizabeth, putting
into words the melancholy philosophy which experience had lately
taught her.

"My dear child," cried Mrs. Van Antwerp, "you're too young to realize
that--yet." She put out her hand in her warm, impulsive way, and
touched Elizabeth's. "I can promise you one thing," she said. "If you
come to New York, I'll do what I can to make it pleasant for you."

Elizabeth looked up with glistening eyes. "You're--you're awfully
kind," she began, stammering. In another moment she would have burst
into tears, and perhaps, in the sudden expansion, confided everything
to this new friend--in which case her life's history would have been
different. But just then she heard the sound of wheels, and
immediately she stiffened and the habit of reserve, which had been
growing upon her during the last three months, reasserted itself. When
her aunts entered, in a little glow of excitement after their day at
Cranston, Elizabeth was sitting quite cool and placid behind the
tea-things, absorbed in the problems of milk and sugar.

The rest of Mrs. Bobby's visit seemed to her rather dull. They sat
around the fire, and Mrs. Bobby drank her tea and ate a great many of
the little round cakes which accompanied it, and which she praised
warmly, to the gratification of Miss Joanna, who had made them. She
told them all about her domestic affairs, and Bobby's affairs, and
the family affairs generally, and was altogether very charming and as
the Misses Van Vorst expressed it, "neighborly;" but still she said
not a word further of their going to town, or of that pleasant if
rather vague promise she had made in a moment of impulse, which
perhaps she already regretted. It was not till she held Elizabeth's
hand at parting that she invited her, as if by a sudden thought, to
dinner on the following Friday.

"It will be dull, I'm afraid," she said. "Only the Rector and his
wife, and the Hartingtons, and Julian Gerard, who is coming up over
Sunday. You will be the only young girl, and I want you to amuse
Julian. We dine at eight. Do come early, so we can have a talk
beforehand."

Elizabeth, entirely taken by surprise, had only time to murmur an
acceptance, when Mrs. Bobby hurried off, being hastened by the arrival
of her husband, who had called for her and was waiting outside in the
dog-cart. "Friday, remember," she called out from the yawning darkness
beyond the door, "and come early." Then Bobby Van Antwerp's restless
horse bore her off.

The Misses Van Vorst returned to the drawing-room, in a state of
considerable excitement.

"Think of my dining at the Van Antwerps!" Elizabeth exclaimed, still
rosy from the unexpected honor. "I was so taken aback that I could
hardly answer properly. But how on earth am I to amuse Julian--whoever
he may be, and what have I got to wear?"

"It's a--a very nice attention," said Miss Cornelia, complacently.
"She's never asked the Courtenay girls, I know, from what their mother
told me. She said they thought it a pity she was so unsociable. I
think, sister, when we see them we might mention that we don't find
her unsociable--just casually, you know. As for what you can wear, my
dear--either your white crepe or white organdie is quite pretty
enough, and much nicer than anything the Courtenay girls would have."

"To think of dinner at eight o'clock!" said Miss Joanna, who was only
just recovering her powers of speech. "So very fashionable! I wish,
dear, if you can, you would notice what they have. Mrs. Bobby says her
cook is very good at croquettes. I wish you could tell me, dear, if
they are better than ours."

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to think of croquettes," said Elizabeth,
"what with the burden of being on my best behavior and entertaining
Mr. Gerard. I think by the way, that he must be that dark man I have
seen sometimes in their pew on Sundays. Which would he like me best
in, do you suppose--the white crepe or the organdie? I must get them
both out, and decide which to wear."

Elizabeth's spirits were as easily exhilarated as they were depressed.
She ran up-stairs, humming a gay little tune which had not come into
her head for many a day. This dinner at the Van Antwerps', with the
prospect of meeting a few of her neighbors and apparently, one
unmarried man, might have seemed to many people a commonplace affair
enough; but to Elizabeth it was a great occasion, and for the rest of
the evening, bright visions of future pleasure danced before her eyes.
That night, for the first time in many weeks, she did not cry herself
to sleep, thinking of Paul.




_Chapter XIII_


"And you really think I look nicely?" Elizabeth asked this question in
tremulous excitement, as she stood before the long pier-glass in her
room on the night of her first dinner-party. The maid was on her knees
behind her arranging the folds of her train, Miss Joanna stood ready
with her cloak, and Miss Cornelia hovered a little way off, admiring
the scene. Elizabeth held her head high, there was a brilliant color
in her cheeks, her eyes shone like stars. You would hardly have known
her for the same girl who had struggled with sad thoughts and
disappointed hopes in the twilight only a few days before. This seemed
some young princess, to whom the good things of life came naturally,
unsought, by the royal prerogative of beauty.

"You--you look lovely," faltered Miss Cornelia, forgetting her
principles in the excitement of the occasion "and your dress is
sweet."

"It is fortunate I had it cut low, isn't it," said Elizabeth, as she
clasped a string of pearls, which had once belonged to her
grandmother, about her round white throat. "There, do I look all
right? You're _sure_ my skirt hangs well? I wanted a white rose, but
we have no pretty ones left." A slight cloud of discontent crossed
her face, but vanished instantly; since really, as she said to
herself, she looked very nice even without flowers.

"Don't be late," entreated Miss Joanna. "Just think if the dinner
should be spoiled!"

"Yes, it would be very bad manners," added Miss Cornelia "not to be
punctual."

"I don't know," said Elizabeth, doubtfully. "It's rather countrified
to be too early." But still she drew on her gloves and put on her
cloak, and started a good half-hour before the appointed time, in
deference to Miss Joanna's fears for the dinner and Miss Cornelia's
sense of the value of punctuality.

The clock was striking eight as she entered the wide hall of the Van
Antwerps's house, and read, or fancied that she did, in the solemn
butler's immobile countenance, an assurance that she was unfashionably
prompt. The demure little maid who followed him and took Elizabeth's
cloak, regretted to inform her that Mrs. Van Antwerp was not quite
ready, but would be down directly, and hoped that Miss Van Vorst would
excuse her unpunctuality. Elizabeth's heart sank, but the maid was
ushering her into the drawing-room, and there was no retreat. Yet she
shrank back involuntarily, as the long room yawned before her, empty,
except for one person whom she did not know; and thus she stood for a
moment hesitating, her warm Titian coloring framed against the dark
plush of the portiere, and her white gown falling about her in
graceful folds, of a statuesque simplicity almost severe, but from
which her youth and rounded curves emerged all the more triumphant.
Her heart beat fast and there was a deep burning color in her cheeks,
but she held herself erect, with the proud little turn of the head
that seemed to come to her by nature.

The tall dark man who was turning over the leaves of a magazine at the
end of the room, looked up as she entered and gazed at her for a
moment in silence. Their eyes met; for an instant he seemed to
hesitate. Then he rose and walked slowly towards her.

"You must let me introduce myself, Miss Van Vorst," he said, and his
voice was like his movements, very deliberate, yet it was clear-cut
and pleasant in tone. "My name is Gerard. Mrs. Van Antwerp told me I
should have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner."

He spoke so quietly and naturally, and seemed to accept the situation
with such absolute indifference, that whatever awkwardness it might
have contained for a young girl nervous over her first dinner, was
instantly removed. Elizabeth felt grateful, and yet perversely a
little piqued that this grave, dark man should place her at a
disadvantage, that he should be perfectly at home and know exactly
what to do, when she was nervous and flustered. But that kind
Providence which had endowed Elizabeth with so many good gifts had
given her among others a power to cover inward perturbation with a
brave show of self-possession.

"I'm terribly early," she was able to say now, quite lightly and
easily, though still with that uncomfortable beating of the heart. "My
aunts are very old-fashioned, and insist on punctuality as one of the
cardinal virtues."

"In which they are quite right, I think," said Mr. Gerard, smiling.
"But when you know Mrs. Van Antwerp well, you will have learned that
it is the one virtue in which she is utterly lacking."

"I--I don't know her very well," Elizabeth admitted, regretting
somewhat that she could not assert the contrary. "I have never even
been here before," she added, glancing about the room, whose
stateliness was a little overpowering.

"Really! Then wouldn't you--a--like to come into the conservatory and
look at the flowers?" suggested Mr. Gerard, who seemed to have charged
himself with the duties of host. "Oh, you needn't wait for Mrs. Van
Antwerp," he added, smiling, as Elizabeth hesitated. "I know the time
when she went to dress, and can assert with confidence that she won't
be down for another half-hour."

So Elizabeth found herself led, somewhat against her will, into the
famous conservatory, of whose beauties she had often heard; but with
which, it must be confessed, she was less occupied than with the man
by her side, at whom she cast furtive glances from beneath her long
lashes. He was tall--decidedly taller than herself, though she was a
tall woman, and rather broadly built than otherwise. His dark,
smooth-shaven face, which had lighted up pleasantly when he smiled,
was in repose rather heavy and impassive, with an ugly, square chin,
that seemed to indicate an indomitable will, of a kind to pursue
tenaciously whatever he might desire. In contradiction to this, his
eyes, except when a passing gleam of interest or amusement brightened
their sombre depths, had a weary indifferent look, as if there were
nothing in the world, on the whole, worth desiring.

"And this is the man," thought Elizabeth, "whom I am expected to
amuse. He doesn't look as if it would be an easy task. But no doubt
Mrs. Bobby has given him the same charge about me, and he is trying,
conscientiously, to obey. That's why he's taken me in here to show me
the sights, the way they do to the country visitors." Her heart leaped
rebelliously at the thought, even while she was saying aloud
mechanically: "'What a fine azalea!' I wonder if I look like a
countrified production. My gown isn't, at least; but then--he wouldn't
appreciate that fact. It probably would be the same to him, if it came
out of the Ark; he isn't the sort of man to notice, one way or the
other. I don't believe he cares for women--no, nor they for him. He's
not at all good-looking, and he must be--thirty-five"--she ventured
another glance. "Oh, that, at least. His hair is quite gray on the
temples. 'Yes, those orchids are beautiful. I never saw anything like
them.' I must do my duty and admire properly; he thinks me very
unsophisticated, no doubt. I don't think I like him. Did Mrs. Bobby
think it would amuse me to--amuse him? But perhaps he is thinking the
same thing about me." And she stole another glance at his face, but
could not read, in his half-closed eyes and unmoved expression, any
indication of his real feelings.

They had made the round of the conservatory, when suddenly he stopped.
"Don't you--want a flower for your gown," he asked. He looked about
him reflectively. "Let me see," he said. "You would like it to be
white." Elizabeth wondered how he knew that. After a moment's
hesitation, he chose a white rose and gave it to her. She fastened it
carefully in her gown, where its green leaves formed the only touch of
color.

"How does it look?" she asked innocently, and raised her eyes to his,
where unexpectedly they encountered an odd gleam, of something that
seemed neither wholly interest nor yet amusement, and that made her
look down again quickly, while the warm color mantled in her cheeks.
It was a moment before he answered her.

"It looks well," he said then, quietly, "and suits your gown." And
they sauntered back slowly to the drawing-room.

Mrs. Bobby came hurrying in by the opposite door, fastening as she
went the diamond star in her black lace.

"My dear child," she said, kissing Elizabeth, "what must you think of
me! It is all Bobby's fault for taking us such a long drive, and I see
he is not down yet either, the wretch! But Julian has been
entertaining you, so it is all right. I'm afraid though that he has
been taking away my character unmercifully, telling you that I am
always late, and other pleasing things of the kind."

Gerard's smile again softened his face. "Do me justice, Eleanor," he
said. "You know I don't say worse things of my friends behind their
backs than I do to their faces."

She laughed. "I should be sorry for them if you did," she returned.
"But here," she went on, as voices were heard in the hall, "here, in
good time, are the Rector and his wife. What a blessing they didn't
arrive sooner!"

The words had hardly left her lips before the Rector and his wife were
ushered in, the latter uttering voluble apologies for being late, and
laying all the blame on the erratic behavior of the village hackman,
who feeling an utter contempt for people who did not keep their own
carriages, reserved the privilege of calling for them at what hour he
pleased. The theme of his unpunctuality was so engrossing that the
Rector's wife would have enlarged on it for some time, had she not
caught sight of Elizabeth, and in her surprise subsided into a chair
and momentary silence. And then strolled in Bobby Van Antwerp, fair,
well-groomed, amiable, and mildly bored at the prospect of
entertaining his neighbors; and immediately afterwards followed the
Hartingtons, still more bored at the prospect of being entertained;
after which they all went in to dinner, and Elizabeth found herself
seated between the Rector and Gerard.

"You live here all the year round, don't you?" the latter said to her,
somewhere about the third course, when he had given utterance to
several other conventional remarks, and she had grown accustomed to
the multiplicity of forks at her plate, and had decided that the light
of wax candles, beaming softly under rose-colored shades, was
eminently becoming to every one. She looked at him now with an odd
little challenge in her eyes, called forth, in spite of herself, by
the wearied civility of his conversational efforts.

"Yes, I live here all the year round," she said, in her clear,
flute-like voice. "I--I'm a country girl, you see."

He smiled. "You are to be congratulated, I think."

"Do you think so?" asked Elizabeth, in genuine surprise.

"Why, yes, I love the country; don't you," he said tranquilly.

She was silent for a moment, her eyes resting absently on the graceful
erection of ferns in the centre of the table, which rose, like a fairy
island, from a lake of glass. "It's not a conventional thing to say,"
she answered at last, slowly "but if you want the truth"--

"I always want the truth," said Gerard.

"Well, then, I don't think I do care for the country," she said. "I've
had too much of it. I--there are times when I detest it." She spoke
with sudden vehemence, and she met his wondering gaze with eyes that
were curiously hard.

Gerard's face clouded. "You don't care for the country," he said,
slowly, "and yet you live here all the year round?"

"Ah, that's the very reason," she said, lightly. "People always tell
you that you don't appreciate your blessings; but how can you
reasonably be expected to, when you don't have any voice in choosing
them?"

"If you did, you probably wouldn't like them any better," he retorted.
"And it would be more annoying to think that you had had a voice in
the matter and had chosen wrong."

"Perhaps," said Elizabeth, "but I should like to make the experiment."
And she stared again thoughtfully at the feathery forms of the ferns.

"Well, if you had your choice," said Gerard, lazily, "what would you
choose as an improvement on the present state of things?"

She turned towards him with a slight start. "What should I choose,"
she said, slowly "as an improvement on my life just now?"

"Yes, if you had a fairy Godmother," suggested Gerard.

"With unlimited power?" questioned Elizabeth.

He laughed. "Well, not quite that, perhaps," he said, "but--a fairy
Godmother who could give you a good deal. A very charming one, too,"
he added, in a low voice.

Elizabeth knit her brows and pouted out her full lips, in apparently
deep reflection. "If I had a fairy Godmother," she said, musingly,
"and she were to give me three wishes--three, you know, is the magic
number in the fairy tales--why, I should choose first of all, I think,
a season in town"--

"Which you might tire of in a month," suggested Gerard.

"Not at all," said Elizabeth, decidedly, "because my second wish would
be for the capacity to be always amused."

"And do you really think," said Gerard, "that you would like that--to
go through life as if it were a sort of opera bouffe?"

"Why not?" said Elizabeth. "I'm a frivolous person. I confess I like
opera bouffe."

"For an evening, perhaps," said Gerard, "but after a time you'd get
tired of it--oh, yes, I'm sure you would--and you'd begin to think"--

"Ah, no, I shouldn't," she interrupted him, eagerly "for that's what
my third wish should be. I should ask for the power never to think.
Thought--thought is horrible." She spoke the last words very low, more
to herself than him, and broke off suddenly, as an odd, frightened
look crept into her eyes. Gerard watched her in some perplexity.

"This girl," he said to himself "who must be, I suppose, somewhere
about twenty, and has seen, according to Eleanor, nothing of the
world, talks sometimes like a thoughtless child, and sometimes like a
woman of thirty, and an unhappy one at that. I can't quite make her
out." Aloud he said, in an odd, dry voice that he had not hitherto
used towards her, "Now that you have pretty well in theory at least,
reduced yourself to the level of a brainless doll, why not ask, now
that you are about it, for the power not to feel? Then you would
really be a complete automaton, and nothing on earth could have power
to hurt you."

Elizabeth had grown very pale, and her hands were tightly locked
together under the table. "Ah," she said, wearily "I've exhausted my
three wishes. And, besides, it's too much to ask. No fairy Godmother,
I'm afraid, could give one the power not to feel."

"Be thankful for that," he said, quickly. "A woman who has no capacity
for suffering is--is--would be unspeakably repellant."

"Would she?" said Elizabeth, dreamily. "I should think, for my part,
that she would be rather enviable." She sat staring absently before
her, and Gerard did not try to break the silence. In a moment Mrs.
Hartington on his other side claimed his attention, and Elizabeth was
not sorry. She felt vaguely resentful towards him for having made her
think of unpleasant things, which she had resolved not to do that
evening. The dinner went on, and she helped herself mechanically to
dish after dish which was pressed upon her. The Rector turned to her
and made a few labored remarks, adapted as he thought to her youthful
intelligence, and she answered them absently. Bobby Van Antwerp told,
in a languid way, a funny story for the benefit of the table, and the
conversation grew general for awhile. Dinner was nearly over when
Gerard said, turning to her with a pleasant smile:

"I'm not a prophet, and yet I am going to venture on a prediction. In
a little while, I think, you'll find your fairy Godmother, and have
your season in town, though I don't know if the other things will be
thrown in; and then some time in the course of it, I'll ask you if you
are satisfied, and you'll tell me perhaps, that you are sick of it
all, and are pining for the country, the green fields, and--a--the
view of the river"--

He stopped as Elizabeth interrupted him flippantly. "Oh, no, never,"
she cried. "I'd prefer city streets to green fields any day, and as
for the river--I've looked at it all my life, and I'm afraid I've
exhausted its possibilities." She was quite herself again, her cheeks
were pink; she looked up at him with laughing eyes. "Confess that you
think me terribly frivolous," she said; "confess that you disapprove
of me entirely."

"On the contrary," said Gerard, with rather a cold smile "I think
there is a good deal to be said for your point of view--and as for
disapproval, that's a priggish sensation that I hope I don't allow
myself to feel towards any one. Wait till I see you in town," he went
on, more genially "and then perhaps we'll agree better."

"Ah, but you never will see me in town," she said, sadly.

"Never?" he returned, slightly raising his eye-brows. "That's rather a
rash prediction. I think I may have the pleasure of meeting you there
before very long. You see I believe in fairy Godmothers," he added,
lightly, as Mrs. Bobby gave the signal, and, rising, he pushed back
Elizabeth's chair.

She paused for a moment, as she gathered up in one hand the soft white
folds of her gown. "I wish your faith could perform miracles," she
said. And then she followed dreamily in the wake of the well-worn
black satin gown, which had been seen, on many another festive
occasion, on the broad back of the Rector's wife.

"He does disapprove of me," the girl thought to herself. "He would
have liked me better if I were a little bread-and-butter miss, in
white muslin and blue ribbons, who babbled of green fields and taught
a class in Sunday school. That's the kind of woman he admires. He
thinks me hard and flippant, but--I don't care. At least he dropped
that weary, society manner. It is something to have inspired him with
an emotion of some sort, even if it happens to be disapproval."




_Chapter XIV_


The Rector's wife, after the first surprise, was very glad to see
Elizabeth. It made her feel more at home, and she drew her down now
eagerly, beside her on the sofa by the fire, whose warmth on that
autumn evening modified the somewhat chill atmosphere of the state
drawing-room.

"My dear Elizabeth, I never expected to see you here." Increased
respect mingled with the surprise in her tone. Elizabeth had certainly
gone up several degrees in her estimation. "It's quite an honor to be
asked--the Courtenays never are, I know, though don't repeat that I
said so. Of course we are asked every year, as is only due, you know,
to the Rector's position, my dear; but almost always the children are
ill, or something goes wrong, and it's three years now since we've
been able to come. It was unfortunate our being late this time. Do you
think Mrs. Bobby was much annoyed?" The Rector's wife lowered her
voice anxiously, as she for the first time waited for a response.

"Oh, no," Elizabeth was able truthfully to assure her. "I'm sure she
wasn't annoyed."

"Well, to be sure, the Hartingtons were later"--in a tone of
relief--"but these great swells can do as they please. You look very
nice, Elizabeth, very nice indeed. I never saw that dress before. It
must be pleasant to have something new occasionally"--and the Rector's
wife gave a gentle sigh. "You see I have had the color changed on this
dress--red, I think, makes it look quite different, and it is warm and
pretty for the autumn. Don't repeat this, Elizabeth, but I wore the
same dress here the last time I came to dinner four years ago--only
then it was trimmed with pale blue. It was summer, you see, so it
looked cool. Do you suppose Mrs. Bobby would remember?"

"Oh, I don't suppose Mrs. Bobby cares"--Elizabeth began absently "much
about dress," she added, hastily. She was looking vaguely about her,
wondering as the familiar voice meandered on, if she were really at
dinner at the Van Antwerps', or prosaically seated as she had so often
been before, in the Rectory parlor.

Mrs. Hartington, a large fair woman, very splendidly dressed, had
seized upon Mrs. Bobby and was talking to her on a sofa at the other
end of the room.

"So you have taken up the Van Vorst girl," she was saying, as she
surveyed Elizabeth through her lorgnette. "She is really quite pretty,
and--a--not bad form. That gown of hers is effective--it's so simple.
I wonder how she learned to dress herself, here in the country."

"Oh, she's learned more than that, Sybil, I imagine," said Mrs. Bobby,
in level tones. "I think her very good form, and extremely pretty. Her
coloring is very picturesque, and quite natural." This very
innocently, without a glance at the conspicuously blonde hair which
her friends said had not been bestowed on Sybil Hartington by nature.

"She inherits it from her mother, I suppose--a red-haired bar-maid,
wasn't she?" said Mrs. Hartington, again subjecting Elizabeth to a
prolonged scrutiny. "After all, she lacks distinction," she announced,
dropping her lorgnette and turning to more important subjects.

Mrs. Bobby did not enjoy that half-hour after dinner; neither,
perhaps, did Elizabeth, who had heard several times already the
account of the attack of measles from which the Rectory children had
lately recovered, and was glad when the men appeared in the midst of
it. But if she had expected Mr. Gerard to come up to her to resume
their conversation, as perhaps she had, in spite of her consciousness
of his disapproval, she was destined to be disappointed. Gerard did
give her one long look, as she sat in the full glow of the firelight;
but he turned almost immediately and spoke to Mrs. Hartington, who
had, indeed, the air of confidently expecting him to do so. It was
Bobby Van Antwerp who sauntered up to Elizabeth, hospitably intent on
making her feel at home.

"It was awfully good of you to come to-night, Miss Van Vorst. These
dinner-parties in the country are stupid things, but, after all, it's
a way of seeing something of one's neighbors. I think you're too
unsociable here, as a rule. It's a bore of course to take one's horses
out at night, but if one always thought of that, one would never go
anywhere."

"I'm sure," Elizabeth said sincerely, "I was very glad to come. A
dinner-party is a great event to me."

"Ah, well, it is dull here for a young girl," said Bobby, kindly. "My
wife finds it very dull; but she knows I'm fond of the old place, and
she comes to please me. You and she must try to amuse each other. You
know, between ourselves"--lowering his voice--"Eleanor doesn't always
take to people; it has made some of our neighbors around here feel
rather sore--I'm afraid. But she does take to you, and so I hope we
shall see a great deal of you."

Elizabeth smiled and murmured her thanks, wondering greatly to find
herself thus singled out from the rest of the Neighborhood; and just
then Mrs. Bobby came up and took her hand.

"Come," she said, "I want you to play for me. I'm so fond of music,
and I've heard that you play beautifully."

"Ah, but I don't," Elizabeth protested; but still she allowed herself
to be led to the piano, without undue reluctance. And then that grand
piano, with the name of the maker had been tempting her to try it ever
since dinner-time.

After all, it is doubtful if Mrs. Bobby cared so very much for music;
but it is possible she knew of some one else who did. Elizabeth had a
gift which had come to her, Heaven knows how!--a gift in which far
greater pianists are sometimes lacking--the power to throw herself
into what she played and to infuse into it something of her own
personality. Her playing seemed no mere, mechanical repetition of what
she had been taught, but the unstudied, spontaneous expression of her
own thoughts and feelings. As she passed at Mrs. Bobby's request from
one thing to another, mingling more set compositions with fragments
from operas and songs of the day, the conversation between Mrs.
Hartington and Gerard slackened, and he glanced more and more
frequently towards the piano.

"Music is rather a bore--isn't it--after dinner this way," drawled
Mrs. Hartington, noticing this fact.

"I don't think I agree with you. I'm fond of music," said Gerard, and
after awhile he found an opportunity to saunter over to the piano,
where Elizabeth sat playing, a little absently now, bits from Wagner.
She started and looked up, blushing slightly, as Gerard asked her if
she could play the Fire-music.

"I--it is a long time since I have tried it," she began, impelled by
some vague instinct to refuse, and then she stopped, and almost
unconsciously her fingers touched the keys, as she caught a look that
seemed to compel obedience. He smiled.

"Please play it," he said, and though the tone was caressing, there
lurked in it a half perceptible note of command. She felt it, as she
began to play, and he stood listening, his grave eyes fixed upon her
face. "A severe judge," she thought to herself with a proud little
thrill of rebellion. And then, as she played on, she forgot this
thought, and the fear of his criticism; forgot the strange room, and
the strange people, and the fact that she was dining at the Van
Antwerps'; forgot everything but the eyes fixed upon her, and played
as she had never played before.

Elizabeth had always put the best of herself into her music, her
finest qualities of brain and soul. But now she put into it something
of which she before was hardly conscious, a force and depth and fire,
which stirred inarticulately within her, and found expression in the
throbbing Wagnerian chords. All the magic of the fairy spell thrilled
beneath her touch, as it rose and fell and wove itself in and out
amidst the clash of conflicting motives, while Brünnhilde sank ever
deeper into slumber, and the flames leaped and danced and played about
her sleeping form, and there lurked no premonition in her maiden
dreams of that fatal, all-engrossing love, which was yet to awaken her
from the serenity of oblivion. Then, as the rippling cadence died
away, Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, striking furtive harmonies,
till she passed at length into the poignant sweetness, the passionate
self-surrender of the second act of Tristan, and so on to the
Liebestod, with its swan-song of triumphant anguish, of love supreme
even in death. With the last sobbing chord, Elizabeth's hands fell
from the keys, and she sat staring straight before her, with eyes that
were unusually large and dark.

"Upon my word she _can_ play," said Bobby Van Antwerp, and looked, for
him, slightly stirred. "She has temperament," Mrs. Hartington coldly
responded and again honored Elizabeth with a prolonged stare. "My dear
child," exclaimed Elizabeth's hostess, "I had no idea you could play
like that." The only person who said nothing was the man for whom she
had played. He stood motionless by the piano, and his face was white
and set. When the applause of the others had ceased, and Elizabeth,
blushing now and smiling, looked up at him in involuntary surprise at
his silence as if from a dream, he started and then, recovering
himself, he spoke mechanically a few conventional words of thanks, and
without comment on her performance, turned abruptly away.

Elizabeth still sat, a trifle dazed, at the piano, her hands tightly
clasped in her lap. Her cheeks were burning painfully and she bit her
lip to keep back the tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes. She
seemed to have fallen suddenly from the clouds back to earth. After a
moment she rose and went over to her hostess to say farewell.

"Don't go," Mrs. Bobby entreated, holding her hand, "I really haven't
seen anything of you."

"I must go, thank you," Elizabeth said, quietly. "William,"--this was
the gardener, who on state occasions officiated as coachman--"will be
furious if he is kept waiting."

She felt a sudden eagerness to be gone, and Mrs. Bobby admitted the
force of her excuse and parted with her reluctantly. Both Bobby and
Gerard escorted her into the hall, but it was Gerard who placed her
in the carriage, and yet, as he did so, said not a word further of
seeing her again.

"He probably doesn't wish to," thought Elizabeth, "now that he has
done his duty to the last." The reflection was the only unpleasant one
that she brought away from an otherwise successful evening.

Gerard sauntered back into the drawing-room, and stood leaning against
the mantel-piece, gazing with thoughtful eyes into the fire, while, as
it leaped and flickered, and sent out glowing tongues of flame, a
woman's face looked up at him framed in her shimmering hair, and the
magic of the fire-music still rang in his ear, mingled with the more
passionate strains of Tristan, the deeper tragedy of Liebestod.

He had been standing thus a long time when Mrs. Bobby came and stood
beside him. The other guests had left and Bobby had gone off to his
den.

"Well," she said tentatively, glancing up smiling into his face,
"well, Julian, what did you think of her?"

He started and looked at her blankly for a moment. "Think of--whom,
Eleanor?" he asked.

"You know whom I mean--Elizabeth Van Vorst."

Gerard's eyes wandered back to the fire, where they rested for a
moment absently. "I think," he said at last slowly, and as if weighing
his words with more than his wonted deliberation, "I think there's too
much red in her hair."

"Too much red in her hair," Mrs. Bobby repeated blankly; then
recovering herself: "But there isn't any, Julian, or very little. I
call her hair golden, not red."

"Look at it in the fire-light," Gerard insisted imperturbably, "and
you will see that it's a deep red."

"Well, and if it is," said Mrs. Bobby--"not that I admit for a moment
that you are right--but if it is, red hair is all the fashion
nowadays."

"No doubt," said Gerard. "It's a matter of taste. But for myself I
never see a red-haired woman"--He stopped, but went on presently with
an effort. "I never see a red-haired woman, that I don't instinctively
avoid her. Yes, it's a--a superstition, if you will. I feel that she
will be dangerous, somehow or another, perhaps to herself, and
certainly to others." A note of unwonted feeling thrilled his voice.
He broke off suddenly and stared again into the fire.

Mrs. Bobby sat and watched him in silence. "And so," she said to
herself, "_that_ woman's hair was red."

"You see," said Gerard, presently, looking at her with a smile, "I've
shown the confidence I repose in you by confessing my pet
superstition. Miss Van Vorst's hair is not _very_ red, I admit, except
in some lights, but still it's--it's red enough to be dangerous; and
that fact, and certain other little things I've noticed about her,
incline me to--to avoid her. She puzzles me; I can't quite make her
out. Still, she is certainly a girl whom a great many men would--would
admire. I'm no criterion, I believe."

"I hope not, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bobby, ruefully "for the sake of
most of the women I know. My dear Julian, I despair of ever getting
you married."

"My dear Eleanor, if you would only stop trying. Your efforts are, if
you will excuse my saying so, a little too transparent. Do you suppose
that I imagined this evening that your unpunctuality was entirely
accidental?"

"Imagine what you will, you marvel of astuteness," said Eleanor,
composedly. "I certainly did not intend to hurry down while I knew
Elizabeth to be in such good hands, as I admit yours to be, in spite
of certain faults which I hope marriage will improve. And that's why I
don't relax my efforts, as you call them, while there is such a
superfluity of nice girls in the world, and such an insufficiency of
nice men to deserve them. But I'm disappointed about--about Elizabeth
Van Vorst," she went on, musingly. "I thought--I don't know why,
Julian--but I thought that you would like her."

Gerard started. "I never said that I--didn't like her," he observed.

"No, but your remarks seemed to point in that direction. Now I like
her very much. Indeed, to return your confidence with another,
Julian"--she looked up with a smile--"I was thinking, if Bobby
approves, of asking her to spend the winter with me.

"I knew that," he returned, calmly, "and I approve of the plan highly.
It will be a pleasant change for her, as she doesn't seem exactly
satisfied with her surroundings; and for you it will be a--a"--he
paused, apparently in search of an appropriate word--"an interesting
study," he concluded.

She looked up in surprise. "A--a study," she repeated.

"Yes, a study--to see what a girl like that, with the somewhat odd
antecedents that you told me about once, and some contradictory
characteristics that I think she has--to see how she develops in the
storm and stress of a New York season. I--I think you will find it
quite interesting, Eleanor."

"I'm glad you think so," she returned, softly. "But--how about
yourself, Julian? Couldn't you--just on general psychological
principles--condescend to take an interest in it, too?"

A shadow fell on Gerard's face. "Oh, for myself," he said, carelessly,
"I'm not easily interested in things nowadays, and above all
not--thank Heaven! not in women." He paused. "All the same," he added,
"you have the best wishes--for the success of your protégée." And with
this he bade her good-night, and left her.

She sat for a long time without moving, and watched the fire flicker
and die away.

"On the whole, I'm rather glad her hair is red--in certain lights at
least," she observed at last, apparently to the smouldering embers.
"It--it makes the study still more interesting."




_Chapter XV_


When Eleanor Van Antwerp had uttered the words "If Bobby approves,"
she had given voice to a purely conventional formula; for when, in the
eight years of their married life, had Bobby not approved of anything
that she might chance to desire? She did not suppose for a moment that
he would object to her asking Elizabeth Van Vorst, or any one under
the sun, to spend the winter, and when, the next morning, she paid him
a visit in his den, where he was supposed to be transacting important
business, and proved to be enjoying a novel and a cigar, she was
still, as she asked his permission to carry out her new plan, merely
paying a graceful concession to the perfunctory and outworn theory of
his supremacy. Bobby listened placidly, puffing at his cigar, his
clear-cut, clean-shaven profile, outlined against the window-pane
seeming absolutely impassive in the gray light of the autumn day. But
when she concluded, and was waiting, all aglow with her own
enthusiasm, for his answer, he turned his blue eyes towards her with
an unusually thoughtful look.

"Well," she said, impatiently, as he still declined to commit himself,
"what do you think?"

"What do I think," he repeated, slowly, "of your asking Elizabeth Van
Vorst to spend the winter?"

"Why, yes, I don't want to do it, dear, of course, unless you
approve."

"Well, then," said Bobby, calmly, "if you ask my candid opinion, I
think it would be a mistake. I--I'd rather you didn't Eleanor, really
I would."

"Bobby," Eleanor Van Antwerp stared at her husband in incredulous
amazement. "Bobby, you don't mean to say that you don't want me to ask
her?"

"That's about it." Bobby paused and reflectively knocked the ashes
from his cigar. "You see," he went on, argumentatively "this is the
way I look at it. The girl is good-looking, and all that, and it's
very nice for you to see something of her up here, and I'm only too
glad, for it's awfully sweet of you, darling, to come here on my
account, and I've always been sorry that there wasn't some woman whom
you could be friends with. But to ask a girl to spend the winter, and
introduce her to people, is--is a responsibility; and if you want to
ask any one--why, I'd rather it were some girl whom I know all
about--that's all."

It was not often that Bobby made such a long speech. His wife could
hardly hear him to the end of it. "But, my dear Bobby" she exclaimed,
breaking in upon his last words, "you know all about Elizabeth Van
Vorst!"

"Do I," said Bobby, quietly. "I know that her father was a fool, and
that her mother was--worse. Perhaps it would be better if I didn't
know quite so much, Eleanor."

"For Heaven's sake, don't harp on what happened centuries ago," cried
Mrs. Bobby, who had not been born in the neighborhood. "I've always
thought it a shame the way people here snub that poor girl. People
can't help what their fathers and mothers were like. If mine were
fairly respectable, I'm sure it's no credit to me."

"None at all," Bobby assented, "but still you'd feel rather badly if
they were not. It's a natural feeling, Eleanor. I'm not a crank about
family, but on general principles, I think a girl whose mother was a
lady is more apt to behave herself than one whose mother was--well,
quite the reverse."

"And on general principles," said Eleanor, quickly "I agree with you,
but I think Elizabeth Van Vorst the exception that proves the rule."

"Then I would rather," said Bobby, tranquilly, "that it were proved
under some one else's auspices than yours."

"But that doesn't seem likely, under the circumstances," exclaimed his
wife, impatiently. "Really, Bobby, you disappoint me. I never supposed
you had such narrow-minded ideas. The girl has been very well brought
up by those dear old aunts, and she is perfectly well-bred. And I'm
sure there is plenty of good blood in the family as well as bad. The
Schuyler Van Vorsts are their cousins, and lots of old Dutch families.
I dare say, if we went far enough back, we'd find ourselves related
to them, too."

"I dare say," said Bobby, resignedly, "if we went far enough back,
we'd find ourselves related to a lot of queer people. But we don't,
thank Heaven! have to ask them to visit us."

"Ah, well, I see you are hopelessly opposed to my plan," said Mrs.
Bobby, changing her tactics, "and of course, dear, as I told you
before, I wouldn't think of asking any one unless you approve."

"Oh, I don't really care," said Bobby, somewhat taken aback by this
sudden surrender. "Ask any one you please. You know I never interfere
with your plans. Only don't blame me if they turn out badly--that's
all."

"Ah, but they never do," cried Mrs. Bobby, "at least this one won't,
I'm sure. I really have set my heart on it, Bobby," she went on,
pleadingly. "The truth is, though I don't often speak of it, going out
has been a weariness, and that big house in town seems horribly empty
since--since the baby died." Her lip trembled and she paused for a
moment, while Bobby turned and stared fixedly out of the window at the
brilliantly-tinted leaves that a chill east wind was whirling
inexorably to the ground. "I thought," she went on presently, in a
voice that was not quite steady, "that if I had some one with me to
make the house seem a little brighter--some young girl whom I could
take with me on the same old round that I'm so sick of--why, I could
look at life through her eyes, and it would seem more worth while. But
of course Bobby," she concluded, earnestly, "I wouldn't for the world
do anything to which you really object."

"My dear Eleanor," said Bobby, turning round at this and speaking for
him quite solemnly. "You know I don't object to anything in the world
that could make you happy."

And so Mrs. Bobby had her own way.

It was on Saturday that this conversation took place; and on Sunday
afternoon they all walked over to the Homestead--Mrs. Bobby, her
husband and Gerard. Elizabeth had been prepared for their coming, by a
whisper from Mrs. Bobby after church; and tea was all ready for them
with Miss Joanna's cakes, and a fire that was welcome after the cold
out-doors, where the bleak east wind was still robbing the trees of
their glory and ushering in prematurely the dull grayness of November.
Mrs. Bobby was not satisfied till she could draw Elizabeth to a
distant sofa, and deliver the invitation which she felt, in her
impetuous fashion, she could not withhold for another day.

But though the first of Elizabeth's wishes was thus fulfilled with a
promptness most unusual outside of fairy tales, she did not accept
with the enthusiasm that might have been expected. For a moment,
indeed, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with delight. And then of
a sudden the color faded, her eyes fell, she shrank back as if
frightened at the idea.

"I--I--it's awfully sweet of you, Mrs. Van Antwerp," she said, low and
hurriedly, "but I--I can't go--I wish I could, but I can't.
Don't--don't ask me." It was almost as if she had said, "Don't tempt
me." Poor Mrs. Bobby, whose intentions were so good, was exceedingly
puzzled and not a little piqued.

"Oh, well, if you don't care to come," she said, coldly, in the
great-lady manner which she seldom assumed, "of course I shall not
urge you. I shouldn't have mentioned the subject, if I had not thought
from what you said the other day, that you were really anxious to come
to town."

"So I was, so I am--for some reasons; but for others--Dear Mrs. Van
Antwerp," the girl pleaded, "don't think me ungrateful. I should love
to come beyond anything, but--but I can't. It doesn't seem right," she
added, more firmly.

"Doesn't seem right," repeated Mrs. Bobby, wondering, "You mean on
your aunts' account. You think it wouldn't be right to leave them?"

"Yes," Elizabeth assented, as if relieved at being furnished with an
excuse of some sort, however feeble, "I don't think it would be right
to leave them."

"But that is nonsense," cried Mrs. Bobby. "They will miss you
terribly, of course, but it will be no worse than when you were at
school, and they would be the first to wish you to go, I'm sure."

Elizabeth was quite sure of it, too. Mrs. Bobby, reading this
conviction in her eyes, and all the more anxious for the success of
her plan, now that it met with so many unexpected obstacles, went on
to expatiate on the delights of a season in town, and all the
possibilities that life can offer, to one who has youth, talent and
beauty. Elizabeth listened eagerly with dilating eyes, which she only
once withdrew from Mrs. Bobby's face, to glance across to the other
end of the room, where Mr. Gerard was leaning forward in an attitude
of respectful interest, as he talked to Miss Cornelia. For a moment
Elizabeth's eyes rested, half absently perhaps, on the strong lines of
his face, while the irrelevant thought passed through her mind: "I
wonder what he would think." Then, quick as lightning, the answer
followed. "I don't care," she said, under her breath, and drew herself
up with a little flash of defiance.

She turned towards Mrs. Bobby. "Do you really want me?" she asked,
caressingly.

"Should I have asked you, if I didn't," laughed Mrs. Bobby,
triumphant, as she saw that victory was hers.

Elizabeth told the news to her aunts as soon as the visitors had left.
Their delight was what she had expected. They were eager in approving
her decision, and in assuring her that she should have all the pretty
gowns that the occasion required, sustained by the conviction, which
occurred simultaneously to the minds of both, that their old black
silks, which they had foolishly thought of as shabby, would do
admirably another winter. It would be the height of extravagance, as
Miss Cornelia afterwards observed to replace them.

"It's just what we have always wished for you," she cried, her little
curls all a'flutter with joyful excitement, "and so unexpected--quite
like a fairy-tale."

"Yes," Elizabeth assented, "quite like a fairy-tale. There's only one
difference," she added to herself, as she left the room, "from every
well-regulated fairy-tale that I ever heard of. The fairy Godmother,
coach and four, are just a little--too late."




_Chapter XVI_


"My dear Elizabeth," said Mrs. Bobby, "I regret to say it, but you
really are growing terribly spoiled."

The winter was far advanced when Mrs. Bobby made this remark. With
Lent growing every day nearer, the whirl of gaiety grew ever faster
and more furious. It was not often that Mrs. Bobby and her guest had
an opportunity for private conversation. But to-night, as it happened,
they had merely been out to dinner, and having returned at an
unusually early hour, Elizabeth came into Mrs. Bobby's boudoir in her
long white dressing-gown, and sat brushing out her masses of wavy
hair, while she and her hostess discussed the evening's entertainment,
and other recent events of interest.

Mrs. Bobby's eyes rested upon Elizabeth with all the satisfaction with
which a connoisseur regards some beautiful object of which he has been
the discoverer. Elizabeth's beauty, Elizabeth's conquests, formed to
Mrs. Bobby just then a theme of which she never tired. Nor did she
fail to make them the text for various sermons that she delivered to
Bobby about this time, on the subject of her own wisdom, and his utter
failure as a prophet.

"Confess, Bobby, that my plans turn out well," she would say, "and
that I'm not such a fool as you thought me."

"Why, I never," Bobby would protest, "thought you anything of the
kind." But she would go on unheeding:

"It would have been a shame for that girl to be buried in the country,
and I do take some credit to myself for having rescued her from such a
fate. But after that, all the credit is due to Elizabeth. I did what I
could, of course, to launch her successfully, but when all is said and
done, a girl has to sink or swim on her own merits. Elizabeth takes to
society as a duck does to water; it's her natural element. And talk of
heredity! There are not many girls with the most aristocratic mothers
who can come into a room with the air that she has, as if she didn't
care two straws whether any one spoke to her or not, and then of
course every one does. Now explain to me, Bobby, if you can, where the
girl gets that air."

"I suppose," said Bobby, "if I believed implicitly in heredity (which
I am not at all sure that I do) I'd account for it by your own remark
that she has plenty of good blood as well as bad."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Bobby, incredulously, "you can always make a
theory fit in somehow."

But though Mrs. Bobby exulted in that air of indifference with which
Elizabeth accepted, as if it were a mere matter of course, all the
devotion offered up at her feet, she was beginning to realize that the
most admirable qualities can be carried too far. And thus it was that
she upbraided her this evening with being unreasonably spoiled, and
not sufficiently appreciating the good things which had fallen to her
lot.

"I don't know what you want me to do," Elizabeth said, quietly, when
she had listened for some moments to this rather vague accusation.
"I'm sure I go everywhere that I'm asked, and that, you must admit, is
saying a good deal; I talk to all the men who talk to me, and that
again you must admit, means a great deal of conversational effort;
and--and I make no distinctions between them whatever, and do my duty
on all occasions. I really don't know what more you can expect."

"But that," exclaimed her hostess, "is exactly what I complain of. You
go everywhere you are asked--yes, and you never express a preference
for any particular place; you talk to the men who talk to you, and you
make no distinctions--no, for apparently it's all the same to you,
whether it's this man or the other."

"Not quite," said Elizabeth, placidly, "for one man amuses me and
another doesn't. But beyond that, I don't--thank Heaven! I don't
care." She broke off suddenly, and she drew her comb with unwonted
vehemence through her hair.

"I don't know why you should thank Heaven," said Mrs. Bobby, watching
her narrowly, "for a fact that is quite abnormal in a girl of your
age, who has some of the nicest men in town in love with her. There
are times when I think you are quite heartless, and yet--with that
hair, and those eyes, and the way you throw yourself into your music,
you seem to have abundance of temperament. On the whole, Elizabeth,
you are a puzzling combination. What was it Mr. D'Hauteville said of
you--that you reminded him of a lake of ice in a circle of fire?"

"Mr. D'Hauteville," said Elizabeth, yawning, "is fond of glittering
similes. This one sounds well, but doesn't bear close consideration.
The fire, I should think, under the circumstances, would dissolve the
ice."

"Perhaps it will," said Mrs. Bobby, "when the right time comes."

"Which will be never," said Elizabeth, with decision. Her hostess
smiled as one who has heard such things said before.

"After all," she resumed, after a pause, returning to the grievance
which had first started the conversation, "I could forgive you
everything else, but this indifference about your picture. One would
think that when a great artist asks as a special favor to paint your
portrait, you might at least have the decency to go to look at it,
when it is on exhibition, and all New York is talking about it."

"That's the very reason," said Elizabeth, "why it strikes me as rather
bad taste for me to stand in rapt contemplation before it, while a lot
of people are jostling me, and making remarks about my eyes, and hair,
and mouth, as if it were I on exhibition, and not Mr. ----'s picture."

"Well, it _is_ you whom they want to see," said Mrs. Bobby. "The New
York public doesn't care much for art, but it does take an interest
in the people whom it reads about in the papers--a weakness that we
needn't quarrel with, since it has made the Portrait Show a success,
and given us so many thousands for our hospital."

"Well, at least," said Elizabeth, "I have done my duty in contributing
my portrait to the good cause; so don't ask me to be present in actual
flesh and blood, and above all not to face such a crowd as there was
the other day, when we tried to look at it and my gown was nearly torn
off my back in the process."

"You could go early," suggested Mrs. Bobby, "as I did the other day.
You have no idea how much better it looks in that light than it did at
the studio."

"I am very tired of it, in any light," said Elizabeth. "People have
talked to me so much about it. But, if you insist upon it I will go--I
will go early. There are some of the other portraits too that I should
like to look at, if I can do so in peace." And with this concession,
the conversation was allowed to drop for a moment.

It was Elizabeth who resumed it, speaking slowly and tentatively, with
many lapses, and eyes carefully turned away from her friend. "You
talk," she said, "a great deal of my successes, and I suppose, in a
way, I ought to be--satisfied. And of course I am," she added,
hastily. "People have been very nice to me. I--I couldn't ask for
anything more. And yet--there is one person--I don't know if you have
noticed it--one person with whom I am a distinct failure, who I think
almost dislikes me, and that is--your friend Mr. Gerard."

"What, Julian," said Mrs. Bobby, in a tone that was absolutely devoid
of expression. "You think he--doesn't like you?"

"I am quite sure of it," said Elizabeth.

"But why," questioned Mrs. Bobby, in apparent bewilderment. "What
reason have you for thinking so?"

"A great many, but any one of them would be enough. To begin with, he
never speaks to me if he can possibly help himself. His avoidance of
me is quite pointed--you surely must have noticed it?" She fixed her
eyes anxiously upon Mrs. Bobby.

"I"--Mrs. Bobby checked the impulsive words that rose to her lips.
"Julian is--is very peculiar," she said in a non-committal tone. "I
don't think he cares for women."

"Perhaps not; but still I have seen him talk to them--in a bored sort
of way, it is true. But to me he never talks, in any way whatsoever."

"He never has a chance. You are always surrounded."

"He would have the same chance as the others. No, it isn't that. He
disapproves of me; I can feel it, as he looks at me through those
dark, half-shut eyes of his, and it gives me an uncomfortable sense of
wickedness. He thinks me flippant, and vain, and frivolous, and I am
when he is there, or I seem so. When he is listening, I say all the
horrid, cynical, heartless things I can think of. I have to say them,
somehow. It is fate. It began the first night that I met him--it was
in the country, do you remember?" She paused and again looked
questioningly at Mrs. Bobby.

"Yes," the latter answered softly, "I remember."

"I was rather excited that night--it was the first time I had ever
been out to dinner. I talked in a flippant sort of way about hating
the country, and longing to go out, and wanting to be always amused.
It was very _young_, I suppose." Elizabeth spoke with all the
superiority of a girl half-way through her first season towards her
more unsophisticated self of a few months before. "He didn't like it.
The sort of woman whom he admires knows her catechism, and is
satisfied with that situation in life where it has pleased Providence
to place her. I shocked him; he has never got over it. He showed me,
that very evening, how he disliked me--it was so pointed that it was
almost rude. You asked me--do you remember? to play." She stopped.

"I remember," said Mrs. Bobby again softly. "I never heard you play so
well."

"I never have--since. I seemed to have, just for the moment, some
strange power over the keys--such feelings come to one, you know,
sometimes. And then, when I stopped--he had asked me for the
Fire-music--I felt, somehow, that he was fond of music--he _is_ fond
of it, passionately fond--but when I stopped, he looked at me blankly
for a moment, till he suddenly remembered what was expected of him,
and thanked me in a cold sort of way and walked off. And--I shouldn't
think so much of that; but since then he has never--never once asked
me to play, though he has often heard other people ask me."

"I have noticed," said Mrs. Bobby, quietly, "that you will never play
when he is in the room."

"I couldn't," said Elizabeth, "it would have such a dampening effect
to feel that there was one person in the room who disliked it, who, no
matter how well I played, would always preserve his critical attitude.

"You see that I am reduced to the unflattering alternative that it is
myself that he objects to or my playing. But it is the same with
everything. There is my picture, for instance. He is the only person I
know who has said nothing to me about it, has probably not even seen
it."

"That must be rather a relief," said Mrs. Bobby, placidly, "since you
are so tired of the subject."

"If I am," said Elizabeth, "that is no reason why he shouldn't go
through the conventional formula of telling me that he has seen the
picture, and adding something civil about it, as the most ordinary
acquaintances never fail to do."

"No, of course," Mrs. Bobby agreed softly, "the most ordinary
acquaintances never would. But perhaps he doesn't consider himself
exactly that."

"Whatever he considers himself," said Elizabeth, with some heat, "he
is not exempt from the common rules of civility. But I suppose he
doesn't really admire the picture, and is too painfully truthful to
pretend to the contrary." And then she stopped and laughed a little
at her own vehemence, but without much spirit. "It really is very
illogical," she admitted, "I don't care for Mr. Gerard's admiration,
it would probably bore me extremely to have it; and yet--it's not
pleasant to be so absolutely--ignored."

Mrs. Bobby was watching her with an odd little gleam in the dark eyes
that were almost hidden by her long, curling lashes. "I will tell
you," she said, "what it is that he doesn't like. It isn't you, or
your playing, or your conversation; it's your hair."

"My hair!" Elizabeth took up mechanically one of her long shining
locks and passed it through her fingers. "I may have been inordinately
vain," she remarked after a pause, "but I never supposed before that
there was much the matter with my hair."

"Nor would most people, I imagine. But he has some odd ideas, and
among them, it seems, is a prejudice--a superstition, as he calls
it--against red hair."

"But mine isn't red," said Elizabeth, quickly.

"Of course not," said Mrs. Bobby. "He is color blind, as I told him.
But there's no use in arguing the point with him. He insists that your
hair is red enough to--to be dangerous--those are his words, and he
avoids you in consequence. He has had some unfortunate experience in
the past, I should imagine, which has given him this prejudice. There,
my dear, I shouldn't have told you," Mrs. Bobby went on, leaning back
in her chair, and still watching Elizabeth narrowly through
half-closed lids, "if I didn't know, of course, that it can make no
real difference to you what Julian thinks."

"Of course not," Elizabeth made answer mechanically with dry lips, as
she still drew her comb absently through the offending hair.

"You have so many admirers," Mrs. Bobby continued serenely, "it can't
matter very much that one person should hold aloof. And then I
shouldn't care about Julian's opinion, for he never admires any woman.
Ever since that unfortunate experience, which happened, I think, when
he was very young, he has been a confirmed cynic, avoiding all young
girls, and horribly afraid of being married for his money. I really
despair now of his ever falling in love; I have talked up almost every
girl in town to him, and all in vain. No, even you, Elizabeth, spoiled
as you are, couldn't expect to make a conquest of Julian."

"I don't know what I should expect," said Elizabeth, rather coldly,
"but I certainly don't wish to. It would hardly be worth while." She
rose, with one long look in the glass, and moved wearily towards the
door. "I am so very tired, dear," she said. "I think I will say
good-night."

"Good-night," said Mrs. Bobby, cheerfully. "Sleep well--you need
to--and don't waste another thought on that tiresome creature,
Julian."

"Oh, I'm not likely to," Elizabeth responded, with rather a pale
smile. "I'm much too tired."

And yet she did think of him more than once, as she stood before her
mirror, arranging her hair into two heavy braids, which reached below
her waist, and repeating to herself that, as Mrs. Bobby had said, it
could matter little about the one dissenting voice in the general
chorus of admiration which had attended her triumphant career. In
spite of which assurance, her last thoughts as she fell asleep might
have been somewhat surprising to those who, having watched that career
entirely from the outside, regarded her as the most fortunate being in
the world.

Elizabeth's aunts were on the whole, more to be envied than the girl
herself that winter. There was no alloy in their happiness, no
under-current of dissatisfaction, even though they wore their old
black silks, and Miss Joanna's friend, the butcher, was heard to
complain somewhat bitterly of her sudden parsimony in regard to joints
of meat. What did it matter? They would have dressed cheerfully in
sackcloth and lived on bread and water, for the sake of such glowing
accounts of Elizabeth's triumphs as Mrs. Bobby constantly transmitted,
or of the girl's own brilliant letters which seemed to breathe the
radiant satisfaction of a mind without a care.

Elizabeth's aunt at Bassett Mills also watched her career, which was
chronicled at that time in the papers. Poor Aunt Rebecca, after a hard
day's work, reading her niece's name, and possibly a description of
her costume in the list of guests at some smart festivity, would look
up, awe-struck, at Amanda. "Only to think," she would say, with the
old contradictory note, half pride, half jealousy "to think that it
should be Malvina's girl!"

But Amanda, still pale and wasted from the fever with her hair quite
long and very soft and wavy, would give an odd, furtive look from her
light eyes and say nothing.




_Chapter XVII_


It was early at the Portrait Show. It was so early that what few
people were already there had the place practically to themselves.
There were only three or four in the large room at the head of the
stairs, which at a later hour of the afternoon was invariably crowded,
and where was hung that picture which had attracted so much attention,
partly from the great fame of the artist, still more, perhaps, from
the beauty of the subject.

A young girl in a long, white gown of some soft, clinging stuff, stood
against the background of a dark green velvet curtain. There was no
relief to the dead whiteness of the gown, and the roses that she held
were white; all that brilliancy of color, for which this great artist
is famous, he had expended upon the deep red-gold tints of the hair,
the vivid scarlet of the lips, the warm creamy tones of the skin, as
they were thrown into full relief by the dark background. The painter
had lingered, with all the skill at his command, on the rounded,
dimpled curves of the neck and arms, nor had he forgotten the haughty
little turn of the head, which gave a characteristic touch to the
picture. Seen at a glance, it was aglow with life and color, very
human, very mundane, the embodiment of health and bloom. A study in
flesh-tints, one critic had carelessly pronounced it, and nothing
more. It was only when you looked at the eyes that you caught a
discordant note, which, if you dwelt upon it, contradicted the joyous
effect of the rest; a look, a latent shadow which the great artist had
either surprised or imagined, and transferred perhaps unconsciously to
his canvas, where, if you saw it at all, it held you with a haunting
sense of mystery, the fascination of an unsolved problem. "What does
it mean," a man said to himself that afternoon, "and did ---- really
put it in, or do I, with my usual superstition, imagine it? Am I the
only person who sees it, or do others?"

Two young girls, who jostled up against him just then evidently did
not.

"Portrait of Miss Van Vorst," said one, reading from her catalogue,
"by ----." She passed the artist's name without recognition, as she
delightedly pressed her companion's arm. "Say, Mamie, that's Elizabeth
Van Vorst, you know, the beauty. I've seen lots about her in the
papers."

"You don't say so?" returned the other, who was apparently less
up-to-date. "I thought she must be one of the swells, but I didn't
know the name. She's pretty isn't she?--but doesn't her nose turn up
too much?--and I don't think much of her dress, it's so kind of
simple."

The man who had been standing when they came up in front of the
picture, turned frowning aside, and found himself face to face with
the original. For an instant each stared at the other in silence, and
it might have been noticed by a careful observer that the man was at
once the more disconcerted and the less surprised of the two.

"So I see you have achieved fame," he said, recovering himself almost
immediately and smiling, as he glanced at the two girls who were still
criticizing Elizabeth's features, all unconscious that the subject of
their remarks was within hearing.

"Yes, fame," she returned, lightly "of a kind that you despise." She,
too, was quite herself again--that flippant, frivolous self, at least,
which he had always the power to awaken.

"I suppose I'm a crank," he admitted. "I really don't like to hear my
friends talked about, by their first name by people who have read
about them in the papers."

"Oh, that," she said, carelessly "is a necessary penalty of fame."

"Which you share with a variety actress," he returned. "I realize more
and more that I'm hopelessly behind the age. Look at those two girls,"
he went on, glancing at them with some animosity.

"They have spent, I should imagine, their little all on the admission
fee and the catalogue; they don't care two straws for the portraits as
portraits, and they have never spoken to the originals, but they are
wildly interested in them because they represent to them the magic
word 'society,' and they will go away and talk about them as if they
knew them intimately."

Elizabeth laughed softly. "Ah," she said "let them be. They're getting
their money's worth; don't grudge it to them. So far as I'm
concerned, they may pull my face to pieces as much as they please. I
know how it is--I've stood on the outside, too, of a thing, and tried
to imagine that I was in it."

"Do you think they'd be happier," asked Gerard, "if they were?"

"Ah, that depends," she returned, oracularly, stroking down the long
fur of her muff.

"Tell me how you find it yourself," said Gerard. He looked about the
room. "The place is comfortably empty," he said. "Have you been around
yet, or would you--a--like to sit down awhile?"

She hesitated. "I have been in several of the rooms," she said. "I
came early on purpose. Eleanor is lunching somewhere, but she is to
meet me here at three."

"Then suppose you--a--rest till she comes?" he suggested, as he led
the way to a sofa which had been placed for the accommodation of weary
sight-seers in the centre of the room. "It's a long while since I've
had a talk with you. ('And whose fault is that,' thought Elizabeth.)
This isn't a bad place to talk in, and if you've been around once,
you've had enough of it for the time being."

"I am glad to rest for a few minutes," Elizabeth admitted.

She threw open the revers of her coat, and sank back in her seat as if
physically tired. Gerard looked at her. She was exquisitely dressed.
Her dark green velvet and furs set off the fairness of her skin, her
large feathered hat suited her picturesque style. The subtle
atmosphere of fashion, of distinction, lurked in every fold of her
gown, in every movement and gesture. Three months had sufficed to
endow her with it. They had also sufficed--or was this again the
result of his imagination?--to take away the first freshness of her
beauty. She looked brilliant, but a trifle worn; her color had faded,
there were lines of weariness about the mouth, and deep black rings
under the eyes.

"You don't look well," he said, abruptly. She smiled. ("I might have
known that he would say that," she said to herself.)

"I know it," she returned, quietly. "The maid woke me up, as she
generally does, with strong coffee. I refused at first to be waked. I
haven't been to bed at a reasonable hour for weeks, and I'm so
countrified that I show the ill effects of it."

"You shouldn't go out so much," said Gerard. "What is Eleanor thinking
of that she allows it? You--you will be ill if this keeps up." He
spoke almost angrily.

"Yet what difference would it make to him?" thought Elizabeth. "He is
very unaccountable. Why should he look at my picture, thinking no
doubt all the time how ugly my hair is? I don't want his advice--I
won't have it. Oh, it's all in a good cause," she said lightly, aloud.
"I complain sometimes, but I wouldn't stay at home, really, for the
world. It's all too delightful. I may be tired, but at least I'm not
bored."

"It has all come up to your expectations, then?" said Gerard. "You
like it better than--a--the river view?"

"Ah, if you had looked at that view as many years as I have, you
wouldn't need to ask the question."

"And you are always amused?" he went on. "That was the next wish,
wasn't it? You see I'm putting you through the category, as I
threatened to do once, and I expect only the truth for an answer. Are
you always, every day and all day long, thoroughly amused?"

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "Don't I--seem to be?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I've wondered--sometimes. You certainly
ought to be," he declared.

"Then," she said "you may take it for granted that I am."

"And the third wish," he said, musingly, "follows naturally on the
other. You never, in this whirl of gaiety--never, I suppose, get a
chance to think?"

"Not a moment," she returned, triumphantly. "All my time is occupied,
I'm glad to say, in being amused. That's hard work, too, sometimes,
but then--the game is worth the candle."

"Well," he said "you are, I admit, a very fortunate young woman, and
you have my congratulations. There are not many people whose wishes
are fulfilled, as quickly and absolutely as yours have been."

"No," she said, with sudden thoughtfulness "that is very true." She
sat for a moment staring straight before her, with the look in her
eyes which had puzzled and haunted him in the pictured eyes at which
he had looked awhile before. "Do you know," she said at last, speaking
very low and hesitatingly, "it's very absurd, but it--sometimes it
frightens me a little. Do you remember in Greek history--or was it
mythology?--there was a king who had every wish fulfilled, till he
grew at last to feel that it--was dangerous; he offered up sacrifices
to the gods, he tried to escape but it was all of no use. Everything
went well with him, till at last--his fate overtook him. And so I
think, sometimes--mine will."

"Your fate?" Gerard repeated, utterly taken aback and puzzled.

"Yes, the penalty," she said, quickly "of having too much. I have an
odd idea sometimes that there is--there must be some misfortune in
store for me; that I shall pay for all this yet in some terrible way
which no one expects. Oh, it's perfectly absurd, I know, but still
I--I can't help it." She had turned of a sudden very white, and she
stared up at Gerard with a frightened, mute appeal in her eyes, like
that of some dumb animal or a child.

To him she seemed all at once very young and helpless, a being to be
soothed and protected; very different from the gay, self-possessed
young woman of a few minutes before. "My dear child," he said, very
gently, yet with a note of authority, and laying his hand ever so
lightly on the delicately gloved hand that rested on her muff "you're
nervous and over-wrought. You couldn't otherwise have such a morbid
idea. This eternal going-out has got on your nerves. I wish you would
promise me to stay at home for a day or two. You will, won't you?" he
asked, persuasively.

"Yes, I--I will," she said, mechanically, and still looking very
white. "I'm over-tired, as you say."

"And now don't talk," he went on, peremptorily. "I'll get you a glass
of water, and then I want you to sit quietly here, and not say a word,
till you are better."

She shook her head. "I'm quite well, and I don't want anything," she
protested, but he brought the glass of water and made her drink it,
and then watched her anxiously, while the color slowly came back to
her face, and her eyes lost their strained, appealing look. They sat
in silence; he would not let her speak, and as time passed, a great
calm insensibly stole over her, a feeling of peace, of security, such
as she had not known in all those weeks of fevered gaiety. She was
conscious vaguely of a wish that she might sit thus always, saying
nothing, alone with him--all the more alone as it seemed for the crowd
that was beginning to surge into the room, with a murmur that broke
faintly upon her ear, like the sound of the sea a long way off.

The wish was, perhaps, the result of fatigue. She was no sooner fully
conscious of it than she rose to her feet.

"Shall we walk through the rooms now?" she said. "It's more than time
for Eleanor to be here. Oh, I'm all right now, thank you"--she met
his question smilingly. "I don't know what was the matter--it was
very silly. You see I boasted unwisely about never thinking, since I
have such foolish thoughts; but I won't again. Look, there is a
picture of Gertrude Trevor. A good likeness, isn't it? But you've seen
it before, perhaps?"

"No," said Gerard, absently. "I haven't seen any of them before." They
walked on slowly through the rooms, and she did the honors, pointing
out the pictures, as it was apparently his first visit. They did not
seem to interest him greatly.

"Have you really never been here before?" she asked at length. She
could not have explained what induced her to put the question.

He answered it absently. "Why, yes, every day"--and then suddenly
stopped and turned his eyes full upon her, while that strange light
gleamed in their sombre depths which she had surprised once or twice
before and had interpreted many different ways, which now set her
heart beating wildly, and made her wish her question unspoken. "Every
day," he repeated, quietly, "about this time, or earlier, since--since
the thing began."

"Then why--why"--The words died away on her lips. They had reached the
head of the great staircase, and the crowd came streaming up, a
confused mass, to which she paid no heed. She had again the feeling of
being alone, quite alone, in the midst of it all, while involuntarily
their eyes met, and his were all aglow with a fire which she had never
before seen in them, or imagined; a fire that dazzled and bewildered,
and filled her with a strange, unreasoning joy, as it burned away the
barriers of doubt and indifference, till for one short, breathless
moment, which she could have counted with her heart-beats she read his
inmost soul.

"I only looked at one picture," he said.

And then with the words the spell which held her seemed broken, and
the crowd closed in about her, with a sound like the roar of the sea
very near at hand, and she looked down the great staircase, and saw
Mrs. Bobby coming towards them.




_Chapter XVIII_


"My dear," said Mrs. Bobby, "I'm so sorry to be late. Luncheon was
interminable. Why, Julian, who would have expected to see you here?"
She gave him her hand demurely, with softly shining eyes. Neither her
surprise nor her contrition seemed to ring quite true.

Gerard's dark eyes were again half closed beneath their heavy lids. He
looked, if a trifle pale, more impassive than usual.

"I don't know why my presence here should cause so much surprise," he
said. "Most people come here, don't they, some time or another. It's
a--a meeting-place, isn't it?"

"It seems to have been on this occasion," Mrs. Bobby murmured under
her breath. A young man had just stopped and spoken to Elizabeth, and
the words might have referred to him. Gerard smiled.

"Won't you come and look at some of these pictures?" he asked. "I want
to talk to you."

"You awaken my curiosity."

They walked slowly along the gallery which skirted the hall, too deep
in conversation to pay much heed to the pictures which hung along
their way. Elizabeth's eyes followed them, the while she was
repeating mechanically "Yes, the portraits are extremely fine."

"But not one," the young man declared, with blunt gallantry "to
compare with yours. It's by all odds the most beautiful picture here."

"Do you really think so?" said Elizabeth, gently. "I'm very glad." She
had heard the sentiment, rather differently put, perhaps a hundred
times. Yet it seemed now to have all the charm of novelty.

The young man, a very slight acquaintance, charmed to have called up
that glow of pleasure to her face, redoubled his efforts to entertain
her. He was sorry when Mrs. Bobby returned with Gerard, and bore her
off. "She was delighted when I said that about her picture," he
thought, "there's nothing like flattering a girl, if you know how to
do it delicately."

"We really must be going, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Bobby, consulting her
engagement-book. "We have at least a dozen visits, and we promised,
you know, to go to Mr. D'Hauteville's musicale."

"That reminds me that I did too," said Gerard. "I'm glad you spoke of
it."

"We shall see you there, then," said Mrs. Bobby, as he placed them in
the carriage, and they drove off. "I am feeling utterly crushed," she
continued, turning to Elizabeth, and looking under the circumstances,
very cheerful. "Julian has been giving me a terrible lecture. He
thinks me, I see very clearly, quite unfit to have the care of you. He
says that you are not as strong as you seem, that I have been dragging
you around--entirely for my own pleasure, apparently--from one thing
to another till you are quite worn out, and that you will be ill if I
don't take care. He has quite frightened me. But there, Elizabeth, you
don't look so very tired, after all."

She certainly did not. There was color in her cheeks, a light in her
eyes that was at once brilliant and soft. All the lines drawn by
sleepless nights had, for the moment at least, disappeared.

"You don't look badly," Mrs. Bobby repeated. "You look, in fact,
infinitely better than when I saw you this morning."

"I feel better," Elizabeth admitted. "Just for a moment, at the
Portrait Show, I did feel tired and depressed, and he--Mr. Gerard got
alarmed about me, but it was nothing. I am quite well now. And the
portraits are really very interesting. I am glad you persuaded me to
look at them again, Eleanor."

"I thought you might be repaid," said Mrs. Bobby, serenely. "What did
you think of your own picture? Doesn't it look better in that light?"

Elizabeth's face was turned away, so that Mrs. Bobby could only see
the rounded outline of her cheek and one small, shell-like ear. "Yes,
I--I thought it looked better," she said, in a low voice. "Perhaps you
were right. It must have been the--the light of the studio that made
me feel--disappointed in it, somehow."

"Oh, there is everything in the light in which you look at things,"
assented Mrs. Bobby, cheerfully. And with this profound remark, the
two women sank into silence, while the carriage rolled swiftly up the
Avenue, stopping occasionally, as the footman left cards. To
Elizabeth, as she sat gazing out of the window, the prosaic brown
stone houses, and the more pretentious ones of marble which broke the
monotony here and there, and the brilliant shops, which had intruded
themselves like parvenus among their quieter and more aristocratic
neighbors--all these familiar objects stood out in a softened
perspective, which endowed them with lines almost of romance. The
wide, commonplace streets had an unwonted charm, the people who walked
on them wore an air of curious happiness, merely, no doubt, at finding
themselves alive in this beautiful world. Yes, as Mrs. Bobby had so
wisely observed, "there is everything in the light in which you look
at things."

"I wonder if Mr. D'Hauteville's musicale will be pleasant," Elizabeth
observed dreamily, as they neared Carnegie Hall. The remark was purely
perfunctory. Pleasant? Of course it would be pleasant--she hadn't a
doubt of it.

"There will be a lot of queer people there--musical, literary, and
that sort of thing," said Mrs. Bobby, vaguely. "Some men with long
hair will play, and the women, no doubt, will wear wonderful æsthetic
gowns. If Julian were not to be there, I should not dream of going. My
prophetic instinct tells me that we shall not know a soul."

"But won't that be rather amusing," suggested Elizabeth.

"Well, theoretically, yes," said Mrs. Bobby, in rather a doubtful
tone, "but, practically, I'm afraid I prefer people whom I know, and
who have the conventional amount of hair and lack of brains. Let me
confess the truth to you, Elizabeth. I'm not really Bohemian--I only
pretend to be so at odd moments, when I want to tease Bobby, or shock
the Neighborhood. There isn't at heart, I believe, a more conventional
little society wretch than I. However, as you say, that sort of thing
is amusing--for one afternoon; and Julian will be there, and protect
us from the celebrities and tell us who they all are."

Julian was fortunately on hand when they arrived, but the room was
filled for the most part with people who looked very much like any one
else, and only a few were sufficiently long-haired and eccentric to
justify Mrs. Bobby's prediction of their being celebrities of some
sort. The host, who came forward to meet them, was a well-known
musician, a man with an intellectual face and dreamy eyes, which
lighted up as he welcomed them with eager cordiality; but he could do
no more for the present than seat them and give them programmes, for
the music was about to begin.

It was a charming studio, well up near the top of Carnegie Hall, and
like most studios, it was artistically furnished. The polished floor
was strewn with rich rugs, the walls were covered in every nook and
cranny, with plaques, and pictures, and rare tapestries, and strange
Eastern weapons. A grand piano took up the whole of one corner, and in
another a toy staircase seemed to have been placed entirely for
ornament, till it was utilized as a seat by some picturesque-looking
girls in large hats. From the broad casemented window near which
Elizabeth sat, she could see an expanse of roofs and chimneys, far
down from the dizzy height, and beyond them the river, and further
still the winter sunset, fading in cold blues and greens and violets,
on a still colder sky. Her eyes rested there with dreamy satisfaction.
She had no wish to look back into the room, to where Gerard was
standing close to them, on the other side of Mrs. Bobby. She was still
living on the memory of that moment--was it an hour or was it years
ago?--that long look of which the reflected light was still glowing on
her face, and in her dreamy eyes. She had no wish to renew it; the
recollection was sufficient, for awhile at least. Yet she was glad to
know that he was there.

Mrs. Bobby meanwhile, having embarked on her trip to Bohemia, was
disappointed to find it comparatively tame.

"I don't see any one I know," she said to Gerard, as the piano solo
came to an end. "They look, most of them, depressingly commonplace.
But they must be extraordinary in some way, or they wouldn't be here.
Tell us who they are, Julian, and introduce them to us if you think we
would like them."

"Why, there are some musical lights," he answered, rather absently
"who, I hope, are going to perform for our benefit, and there are a
few ordinary music-lovers like myself, and some literary people--whom
I don't know that you would care about."

"You think us too frivolous, I see," said Mrs. Bobby. "But you don't
realize how clever I can be if I try, and as for Elizabeth, she knows
a lot more than she seems to know."

"Does she?" asked Gerard with a smile, and he glanced across at
Elizabeth, who still would not meet his eyes. "She looks very
innocent," he said, musingly, after a pause. "I should be sorry to
think of her as--concealing anything."

A little pang, a thought sharp like a stone, struck Elizabeth for an
instant. It was the first rift in the lute. She put it resolutely away
from her.

"You think me too stupid, I see," she said "to have any knowledge to
conceal."

He had no time to answer before some woman began to sing. She had a
beautiful voice, and Elizabeth listened, yet chiefly conscious, all
the while, of the fact that Gerard had managed to shift his position,
and was standing directly behind her.

"I never thought you stupid," he said, under cover of the applause, in
a low voice that no one but she could hear, "no, nor ignorant; but I
have sometimes thought you frivolous, and flippant, and--and a little
hard. You seem, I sometimes think, to take pleasure in showing these
qualities to me. Why is it, I wonder?"

"I--I don't know," she murmured, in the same low voice, and gazing
straight before her. "You--somehow you seem to compel it. You ought to
be grateful, I think. At least you know the worst of me."

She spoke these words with an absolute unconsciousness of their
falseness; and even as they died away on her lips, she glanced across
the room and saw Paul Halleck standing in the door-way.

That old mythological king whom some vague reminiscence of her
school-days had conjured up in Elizabeth's mind, he who had every wish
fulfilled, till he grew at last to dread his own prosperity--was it, I
wonder, in some such moment of foreboding that the final crash came,
or was it when his fears were lulled and his senses stilled, by some
delicious, over-powering sense of happiness that shut out for the
moment all unpleasant thoughts? This, at all events, was the way in
which fate overtook Elizabeth.

Paul Halleck stood in the door-way, having apparently just arrived.
His blue eyes were wandering about the room. They did not fall, as
yet, upon Elizabeth.

She did not faint, or cry out, or make herself in any way conspicuous.
She turned deathly white, and her heart, which had been beating faster
for Gerard's presence, seemed suddenly to stop entirely, as though a
piece of ice had been laid on it. And then, in a moment, her heart
began to beat again, though faintly. She drew a long breath. Gerard,
who was standing directly behind her, could not see her face beneath
the shadow of her large hat, yet he felt instinctively that something
was wrong.

"Do you feel faint again?" he asked, anxiously, thinking to himself
that she was really far from well. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you," said Elizabeth. "I felt faint for a moment, but it
is over." It took all the strength that she possessed to speak these
words so clearly and distinctly. In making the effort she was not
conscious of any plan of deception. She was merely bearing up,
instinctively, to the end.

She never doubted that it _was_ the end. It had fallen at last--that
sword of Damocles, which she had learned to dread as the winter wore
on, of which she had always been vaguely conscious even in her gayest
moments, and had only forgotten, quite forgotten, in that short,
delicious hour when she had allowed herself to float off in a dream of
happiness never to be realized, from which she was awakened so soon
and so rudely. And yet, though it was over, she was not sorry that she
had dreamed it. It had been very sweet, worth even, she thought, the
bitterness of the awakening.

Meanwhile the musicale progressed. A man with long, floating hair and
fingers of steel thundered out a piano solo. Elizabeth shut her eyes
and leaned back in her chair. How fortunate that there was so much
music to prevent conversation! But at the first pause she opened her
eyes and looked up at Gerard.

"I was wrong when I told you that you know the worst of me," she said,
faintly. "You'll know it, soon."

"What a terrible prospect!" said Gerard, bending over her and the
jesting words had a soft intonation, which thrilled her like a caress.
"I really don't think I can stand it--quite."

Had she intended to tell him the truth? The moment was not
propitious. The music had stopped, and there was a murmur of
conversation all over the room. People began to move about, and in the
general shifting of position, Paul Halleck, for the first time, caught
sight of Elizabeth.

She had had some vague, childish idea of what would happen when he saw
her. She had pictured him in her unreasoning terror, as stepping
forward before them all and claiming her as his wife, like a scene in
a play. Nothing of the kind took place. She saw at once how absurd her
expectations had been. Paul merely started and looked at her,
recognition and it seemed, pleasure sparkling in his eyes; but with a
sudden, uncontrollable impulse, she turned her own eyes away, as if
she did not know him.

"Do you see that man in the door-way?" said Gerard, who, standing as
he was behind her could not note the changes in her face,--"that
handsome fellow with the light curls? He has a very fine voice, and
has just been engaged as soloist at St. Chrysostom's."

"Indeed. Is he to sing this afternoon?" She brought out the question
with difficulty.

"I hope so," said Gerard. "I'd like you to hear him. But perhaps you
know him," he went on. "He is looking at you as if he expected you to
bow."

"No," said Elizabeth. "I don't know him." She told him this, her
second lie that afternoon, without deliberate intention, in sheer lack
of presence of mind. It was a piteous, involuntary staving-off of the
inevitable. The next moment that fascination which leads us to our own
undoing made her look in Paul's direction, and this time she could not
avoid his eager gaze and bent her head mechanically.

"After all, I believe I must have met him somewhere," she said
hastily. Mrs. Bobby, who for the last quarter of an hour, had been
determinedly ignoring them both, apparently giving her whole attention
to the music and the people, now turned towards them.

"Who is that handsome man who bowed to you, Elizabeth?" she asked. "I
never saw him before."

"His name is Halleck. I--I knew him in the country," said Elizabeth,
who had no natural talent for deception and entangled herself at once
in contradictory statements. Gerard's face darkened, and he glanced
across at Halleck, whose eyes were fixed on Elizabeth with a look that
seemed, to the jealous, fastidious man by her side, an intolerable
presumption; a look that was not only one of admiration, but, or
Gerard imagined so, held in it a curious touch of proprietorship.
"Confound the fellow," chafed Gerard--he who would fain have kept the
woman he loved, as he certainly would have kept her picture, shut out
from all profane eyes, even admiring ones. "He looks at her as if he
had discovered her and she belonged to him. Where can she have met
him, and why did she say she hadn't."

Mrs. Bobby, too, looked across at Paul.

"He is certainly very good-looking," she said. "And do you mean to
tell me, my dear, that such an Adonis flourished in our Neighborhood,
and I never saw him. Pray, where did you keep him hidden?"

Before Elizabeth could reply, and to her great relief, D'Hauteville
came up with the long-haired musician, whom he introduced to them, and
who proved to be, at last, one of the celebrities upon whom Mrs. Bobby
had counted. In the diversion that ensued Halleck seemed forgotten.
But a few minutes later, he sat at the piano and sang songs by
Schubert and Franz, which she had heard him sing before, at the time
when she had thought his voice the most beautiful voice in the world.
Now, as she listened it left her cold. She had changed so much, and
he--no, he had not changed. His voice was not so wonderful as she had
thought it, but still it was a fine barytone voice. His art no longer
seemed to her remarkable, but it had, if anything, improved, and he
was as handsome as ever, in his fair, effeminate style. It was not the
voice nor the art that was lacking. It was the answering thrill in
herself. It was not his beauty which had failed him, it was she who no
longer cared for it.

His success with the audience was instantaneous. Even Mrs. Bobby was
impressed. "Your friend sings well," she whispered to Elizabeth, "and
yet his hair is short. You may introduce him to me if you get a
chance."

And this chance immediately presented itself, as Paul, amid the
applause that followed his song, walked over to Elizabeth and quietly
shook hands with her. It was the moment that she had dreaded all the
time that he was singing, yet now that it had come, she met it in
apparent unconcern, and smiling, though with white lips.

"I thought at first," Paul said, "that you had quite forgotten me."

"Oh, no," she said, "my memory is not so short." Then she turned and
introduced him to Mrs. Bobby, and went on herself quietly talking to
Mr. D'Hauteville. Nothing could have been more simple. Not even Julian
Gerard, who from a distance watched their meeting, could have imagined
any secret understanding between them.

The handsome young singer made a very favorable impression upon Mrs.
Bobby, who went so far as to ask him to call, in that impulsive way of
hers, which sometimes led to consequences that she regretted. In this
case she realized, almost as soon as the words had left her lips, that
she had done a rash thing, or what Bobby would consider rash. Still,
the invitation was given and eagerly accepted, even though Elizabeth,
standing cold and indifferent, said not a word to second it. By this
time the music was over. They were about to leave, when some one
claimed Mrs. Bobby's attention, and she turned aside for a moment.
Paul seized the opportunity, for which he had been anxiously waiting,
to whisper in Elizabeth's ear.

"Darling, don't go. I must see you for a moment."

"You can't speak to me here," she said, impatiently, trying to escape
from him.

"But I must see you. Can't you see that I must?"

"You have done without it," said Elizabeth, without turning her head,
"some time."

"Because I couldn't help myself."

"There is such a thing as writing," she said, in the same low, bitter
tone. Yet even as she spoke her conscience misgave her. It was not his
neglect that she resented so bitterly, it was his return. But Paul,
not understanding this was rather flattered than otherwise by the
reproach.

"Darling, I will explain when I see you," he said, hurriedly. "There's
no time now. Meet me to-morrow morning--at the Fifty-ninth street
entrance to the Park, at eleven o'clock."

"To-morrow! Impossible! I have a hundred things to do."

"Ah, but you must," he pleaded. "I must see you. Darling you look so
beautiful--fifty times more beautiful than before."

"Hush," said Elizabeth. "How dare you? Some one will hear you."

"Give me a chance of seeing you, then," he said. "It is necessary. You
will meet me--will you not?--to-morrow morning?"

"If you insist upon it--yes."

"At the west entrance of the Park--you understand?"

"Oh, yes," said Elizabeth impatiently, and hastened to rejoin Mrs.
Bobby, who was waiting at the door.

Julian Gerard came up gloomily. The whispered conference had not
escaped his notice.

"We shall see you to-night at the Lansdownes' ball," said Mrs. Bobby.
"It is the night for it, isn't it, Elizabeth? I never can keep track
of these things."

Gerard looked reproachfully at Elizabeth. "You promised me," he said,
"that you would stay at home for a night or two."

She smiled back at him with the old touch of wilfulness. "Did I really
make such a rash promise," she said, lightly. "Ah, I'm afraid I can't
keep it--not to-night. I must be amused. A quiet evening would be
unendurable." Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered with
feverish gaiety, there was an odd, strained note in her voice. Mrs.
Bobby looked at her in some perplexity, then she glanced up
deprecatingly at Gerard.

"It is her first season, you see Julian," she said, as if in apology.
"You can't expect her to give up things."

"No," he repeated, mechanically. "I can't expect her to--give up
things." He fell back silently, in increased gloom. Elizabeth glanced
towards him involuntarily as she left the room.

"Now," she said to herself, "I have disappointed him again and he
won't come near me this evening. But it is better so--far, far
better," she repeated to herself, with a little sob, as she followed
her hostess to the carriage.




_Chapter XIX_


The next day was unexpectedly mild. Winter, after reigning supreme,
made sudden and treacherous overtures to approaching spring. The air
in the Park was almost balmy, and the drives were gay, as though it
were much later in the season, with carriages and riders and bicycles
galore; yet the warm sunlight falling incongruously on sere, brown
grass and bare branches, seemed but to emphasize their dreariness and
the fact that winter had not really surrendered, and was only biding
his time and the advent of the March winds, to make his power felt all
the more strongly. Pedestrians, realizing this, refused to be
inveigled out, even by the spring-like air, and there was no one to
notice the young man and the young woman who sat on a bench in one of
the secluded walks near Eighth avenue; the young woman, simply dressed
in a dark tailor-made gown, with a small black hat pushed well over
her face, which showed beneath it very pale and set, with hard lines
about the mouth; the young man staring at her in bewilderment, a look
of distress in his handsome blue eyes.

"And so," he said, "you don't love me any longer?" It had taken him
some time to grasp this fact, which still seemed to him
incomprehensible.

"No," she said, in a low, determined voice, "I don't love you any
longer. I don't know if I--ever did. I was so young, I had never seen
any men, I didn't know what I was doing. You flattered me; it was
interesting, romantic. But if I had loved you, really loved you"--she
stopped for an instant. "If I had really loved you," she repeated "do
you think I could have hesitated--that day at Cranston? Do you think I
could have let you go--without me? Why, I should have followed
you--don't you see that I would?--to the end of the world." The color
rushed into her face, there was a ring in her voice that he never
heard before--no, not even in those early days, when she had sat at
his feet, and worshipped him as a genius. Then, as he looked at her,
he realized for the first time that he had lost her. The discovery
was, for many reasons, unwelcome.

"Well, if you didn't love me," he said, hoarsely, "you certainly made
me believe that you did. Elizabeth, you have treated me abominably. I
didn't wish to leave you--do me the justice to admit that--it was your
own doing entirely."

"I know it." She bent her head submissively. "I don't blame you for
anything; not even for--forgetting me."

"I didn't forget you," he interrupted her, flushing hotly, and
repeating assertions which she had heard already, and interpreted by
that knowledge of his character, which she had acquired too late to be
of value. She put them aside now with a gesture of weariness.

"What's the use," she said, "of going over that again, I have said
already, I don't reproach you. We can't either of us--can we?--afford
to throw stones. And yet, if you had not stopped writing"--She paused
for a moment with knitted brows, as she seemed to weigh one
possibility against another, in a sort of inward trial of her own
conduct. An instinctive mental honesty, however, carried the day. "I
don't know that that would have made any difference," she said. "I was
very unhappy because you--had forgotten me, and that made me want to
come to town, all the more; but--if I had been happy, and sure that
you loved me, I should have come, I think, all the same. And no matter
how I had felt, or what I had done, I should have known, sooner or
later--oh, I couldn't but realize it--what a--what a terrible mistake
we had made." She put out her hands in a sudden, despairing gesture,
which hurt his vanity.

"Elizabeth, do you really mean that?"

"Yes," she said, in a low, monotonous voice, and staring straight
before her with hard, hopeless eyes. "Yes, I mean it. I have been
realizing it, little by little, all these months. And yet I put it
away--I wouldn't think of it--till one day it forced itself upon me. I
knew, all at once, that I--I dreaded your coming back, I hoped you
never would--it was when I was enjoying myself, when I was thinking
how delightful life was. And then, after that, the fear of your coming
was always there--I could never get rid of it for any length of time,
till just for a while--yesterday"--Her voice faltered, and for the
first time the softening tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, I can't help
it," she cried out, "if I'm hard. When I think how happy I
was--wildly, absurdly happy, just for a little while, and then to
think how--how miserable I am now."

She stopped, half strangled with her sobs, and Paul sat staring at her
in moody silence. He was clear-sighted enough now to grasp the truth.
Such violent grief, he told himself, could have but one explanation.
There was, there must be, some other man.

Yet the conviction made him only the more determined not to give her
up. True, there had been a time, not long before, when he would have
done so only too gladly; when he would have welcomed an opportunity to
free himself from an irksome bond, which he regretted quite as much as
she did. But now, since his return, when he heard her spoken of
everywhere as one of the beauties of the season, when he saw her in
D'Hauteville's studio in her velvet and furs, her whole appearance
redolent of grace and charm, and that nameless distinction which
Gerard had noticed, and which impressed the young musician even more
deeply; when he saw her thus a hundred times more desirable, his
fickle heart succumbed anew, with a sudden throb of joy, at the
thought of the secret tie between them. She was his, this young
princess, whom he had chosen when she was a mere Cinderella; he had
but to hold out his hand and she would come to him. For he never
doubted that she _would_ come. Her first coldness he had looked upon
as mere girlish pique at his neglect, a proof of her affection. Now,
a sadder and a wiser being, he had learned that the privilege of
forgetfulness is not confined to men alone.

Yet the situation, unflattering though it was, had its advantages,
which dawned upon him gradually, while Elizabeth still sobbed. He rose
and paced up and down in front of her, thinking the matter over. After
all, a wife was the last thing that he wanted--just then, when his
career was opening out before him in unexpectedly brilliant colors. He
realized perfectly the value of his own good looks, and the loss of
prestige that marriage would involve. Matrimony is a mistake for an
artist--he had told himself this many times in the last few months.
And yet, having once made the mistake, having won this beautiful girl
for his wife, how could he give her up. There was the chance that she
might change her mind again, and return to her first love. Then it was
sweet to feel that she was in his power, that he could at any time
bring her to terms by threatening to publish the fact that she had
concealed all this time. True, the marriage might be dissolved--he had
not much doubt himself that it could be; but either this plan did not
occur to Elizabeth, or she dreaded the inevitable gossip and
publicity. At all events, it was not his place, he thought, to suggest
it to her. He held the mastery of the situation, and he was determined
to improve it to the uttermost. And having arrived at this conclusion,
he suddenly stopped before her and spoke in a tone of unwonted
resolution.

"Listen to me, Elizabeth," he said. "I don't know why you are making
this scene. In what has the situation changed since--let us say, last
week? I don't ask you to acknowledge our marriage at once--indeed it
is impossible for me to do so, as I am not--worse luck--in a position
just now to support a wife."

Elizabeth, in her surprise, stopped crying and stared up at him
blankly. "You don't want the marriage acknowledged?" she repeated,
utterly taken aback.

"Not just now," said Paul, calmly. "It would be as inconvenient for
me, as it seems to be for you. No, all I ask is for you to see me
occasionally, to think of me more kindly, and in time--perhaps in
time, dearest, you will care for me again as you used to."

He went on to dilate on this hope. Elizabeth's tears as she listened,
ceased. A feeling of relief stole over her, the reaction which follows
so often upon violent distress. "In time," Paul said. Ah, yes, her
heart answered, there is no knowing what wonders time may accomplish.
It might even--who could tell?--find a way for her out of this
terrible perplexity.

Yet the thought was illogical. Of what use was it to put off the evil
day? There was a side of her nature which was brave and
straightforward, which detested false pretences and evasions, and all
the net-work of deception in which her secret had already involved
her; which called out upon her boldly to tell the truth, since every
day that she kept it hidden only made the final disclosure more
difficult. But there was another side which counselled compromise,
which shrank from facing the inevitable, which lived only in the
present and refused to take thought for the future. And finally there
was a side which did not reason, which simply remembered the look in a
man's eyes, when he had spoken to her the day before of her picture.

How would it be if he knew the truth? Would he make allowances for
her, would he be magnanimous enough to forgive? Ah, no, he had judged
her harshly for no apparent reason. Such a discovery would put an end
entirely to all his faith in her.

For she felt instinctively how it would strike him--this impulsive
action of a thoughtless girl, who had rushed into marriage as if it
were a mere farce, and taken upon herself, lightly, the most solemn
vows, only to repent of them quite as readily. He would pronounce her
hopelessly light and fickle, he would never believe that she was
capable of any deeper feeling. His presentiment, distrust--whatever it
was that had kept him from her--would be justified, and--and there
would be the end of it. And the best thing that could happen, that
stern inner voice called out.

But she would not listen to it--not yet, at least. She must see him
once or twice first, probe his feelings a little more surely, prepare
him a little, perhaps, to judge her more gently.... Some time--very
soon, perhaps,--she would tell him herself, but--not now, not now....

Her head ached, she was physically exhausted, and Paul was waiting,
impatiently, for her decision. She had an engagement, too, for
luncheon--she remembered that mechanically.... In this matter-of-fact
world of ours, the every-day and the tragic incidents of life jostle
one another so closely.

"I--I must go," she murmured, confusedly. "I've been here too long. We
can talk about all this another time."

"But you consent," he said eagerly. "You wish to keep it secret,
awhile longer? That is the agreement for the present?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Yes," she said at last, "that is the
agreement, till--till I have time to think it over. And now I must
go." She drew out the little jeweled watch that Mrs. Van Antwerp had
given her, among other valuable things, at Christmas. "I am going out
to luncheon, and I am supposed at present to be in my room, recovering
from last night's ball."

"What a gay person you are!" Paul said, regarding her complacently.
"Ah, Elizabeth, if you wanted to be nice, you could help me a great
deal in my profession."

"Help you?" she repeated, staring at him blankly.

"Yes, in a social way," he explained. "It always helps an artist to be
taken up by swell people. There's your friend Mrs. Van Antwerp--can't
you--there's a good girl--persuade her to do something for me?"

"I heard her ask you to call," she returned, coldly.

"Yes, but she could do more than that," he said. "She could, for
instance, have me sing and ask people to hear me. I need a start, I
need patrons among society people; and that is exactly, my dear girl,
what you can get me."

They were walking slowly by this time towards the entrance of the
Park, and suddenly she turned and faced him with one of those flashes
of defiance, which he rather admired. "Let me understand," she said,
quickly, and a pale, cold gleam lighted up her white face, like the
glint of steel upon marble. "You want me to--to get you invitations,
to persuade people to ask you to sing? This is the--the price of your
silence?"

He shrugged his shoulders, not much disturbed by the scorn in her
voice. "If you choose to put it so plainly--yes," he said. "After all,
it is not much to ask, and you ought, one would think, to be glad if
you can help me."

She walked on beside him in gloomy silence. "It's not much to ask,"
she said, in a low, bitter voice, "but it involves--have you thought
of that?--my seeing you constantly."

"And is that so terrible?" he asked, reddening.

"It's not pleasant," she said, shortly "but I suppose I must--submit.
I'm in your power; you can ask what you please." They had reached the
entrance of the Park, and she turned to him, as if to dismiss him. "I
promise, then," she said. "I'll do what I can to help you--socially,
and in return you must promise to treat me as you would any other
acquaintance--not force me to meet you again, or let people suppose
that there is anything between us. Do you agree to that?"

"I suppose I must," he said, disconsolately, "though it's a harder
condition, by far, than mine."

Again that cold, scornful gleam flashed across her face.

"Oh, you'll resign yourself to it," she said. "It's much more to the
point to get--the invitations. I'll see that my side of the bargain is
fulfilled." She drew down her veil, glancing anxiously across the wide
Square, where street-cars, bicycles and wagons all converge from
different directions and in inextricable confusion. "Don't come any
further with me," she said. "I don't wish people to see us together."

She left him abruptly as she spoke, and he stood for a moment and
watched her cross the Square and take a car at the corner. He was not
quite satisfied with the interview; she had been too independent, too
scornful. It hurt his pride. But the situation was full of
possibilities. He felt that his rash marriage had been a stroke of
genius.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was making her way home, with a feeling of
tremulous relief, much as if she had escaped unexpectedly from
shipwreck, with at least a plank to cling to, and bear her perhaps to
ultimate safety. Yet how slight that plank was she might have
realized, had she known that Julian Gerard, as he entered the Park on
horseback, had seen her walk down one of the side paths, with the man
who, only a day before, had aroused his jealous suspicions.

"And she said she didn't know him," he thought, with a fierce throb of
pain, and rode on, frowning, into the Park.




_Chapter XX_


"My dear Julian," wrote Mrs. Bobby Van Antwerp to Mr. Gerard a week
later, "you are, I think, neglecting us shamefully. What has become of
you? If you are inclined to perform a charitable action, do come in to
tea to-morrow afternoon. You don't generally, I know, patronize such
mild functions, but we are to have a little music"--

"A little music?" mused Gerard, knitting his brows and thrusting out
his under lip, as the note dropped from his hand. "That means, of
course, that young Halleck. It's something new for Eleanor to go in
for music. But it's _her_ doing, of course. I suppose she really cares
for the fellow. And yet what a pity--what a pity that she should throw
herself away like that!" He sat gazing absently before him, his pen in
his hand, while the work upon which he had been engaged when Mrs.
Bobby's note arrived--an article for a scientific magazine--remained
without the finishing touches he had intended to bestow.

He had not seen Elizabeth since that morning in the Park.

He had carefully refrained from going where he might see her. He had
denied himself, once for all, that unprofitable and mysterious
pleasure of watching her across the ball-room, while he leaned inertly
against the wall, or talked, in his weary way, to some woman to whom
he felt himself indebted. No, thank Heaven, he had been warned in
time; there was no danger of his being made a fool of a second time.

His mind wandered back across the gulf of years, to that other woman
whom he had loved so desperately once, whose shadow still stood
between him and the happiness which seemed, now and again, within his
grasp. He thought of the mad infatuation, the bitter disillusion, the
restless travelling to and fro, the final settling down into cynical
indifference.... and then long afterwards, when the indifference had
grown into a habit, and he dreaded nothing more than to have it
disturbed, he had met this girl who had exercised upon him from the
first a curious effect, half repellant, half attractive, and wholly
baffling and alarming, whose hair he had objected to because it was
"too red" and who played the piano with a force and fire and passion,
which stirred his heart as he had resolved it should never be stirred
again.

Gerard had always intended to marry, but he proposed, in spite of the
efforts of Eleanor Van Antwerp and other anxious friends, to take his
time about it. He had his ideal of the sort of wife he wanted--a being
as different as possible from his first love, and almost as tiresome a
compound of all the domestic virtues as that mythical personage whom
Hannah More's hero had once gone in search of. But, unlike that
estimable individual, he had fallen in love with a woman far removed
from his ideal, of doubtful antecedents which he liked no better than
Bobby Van Antwerp, of qualities the reverse of domestic, and the type
of hair and coloring which he had long illogically, but none the less
strongly, associated with a certain lack of moral sense.

Yet though Gerard could not help his feelings, he could certainly
control his actions, and he was determined to keep away from Elizabeth
Van Vorst--more especially now since there seemed to be some
unaccountable understanding between her and that young Halleck.

Yet that very fact made him the more anxious to see her, and find out
for himself how far his suspicions were justified. "Good Heavens,"
thought Gerard, getting up and pacing restlessly to and fro "how can
she care for a fellow like that--so second-rate, so superficial, such
a--such a cad? What is Eleanor thinking of to have him at the house?
Some one really ought to give her a hint--not I; but--some one." ...

The end of it all was that he strolled into Mrs. Van Antwerp's
drawing-room that afternoon, his usual air of well-bred impassiveness
unmoved by the sight of Paul Halleck seated at the piano, and the
cynosure of several pairs of admiring feminine eyes.

Elizabeth's eyes were not among them. She was in a back room pouring
tea. But Gerard had no sooner assured himself of her being thus
harmlessly employed, than his jealous heart suggested that there was
something sinister in such apparent indifference.

He wandered into the other room as soon as he decently could. She was
seated at the tea-table, for the moment, entirely alone. Seen thus off
guard, for she did not at first perceive Gerard, there was something
indefinably weary and listless in her attitude. She was paler even
than she had been that day at the Portrait Show, and the lines beneath
her eyes were not black, but purple. It would have gone ill with her
reputation as a beauty had it been put to the vote that afternoon. But
it was Gerard's peculiarity, his misfortune perhaps, that she appealed
to him most at times when to the world at large she was looking her
worst. He stood watching her for a moment. Presently she looked up.
She caught sight of him. Instantly the warm, lovely color rushed into
her cheeks, only to retreat, and leave her paler than before--but not
till he had seen it.

His manner was very gentle as he approached her and asked for a cup of
tea. She poured it out mechanically, with a hand that trembled.

"We have not seen you lately," she said, with eyes carefully riveted
on the tea-things. "Eleanor was wondering--what had become of you."

"Indeed! It was very kind of her to give me a thought." Gerard stirred
his tea absently. "I was busy," he said "with an article I had
promised for a magazine."

"Ah! You write a great deal, don't you?" Elizabeth looked up with
some interest. "I should like to see some of your articles, if I may."

He smiled. "You don't know what you're asking. You'd find them very
dull."

"What, because I'm so dull myself?" she asked, with a flash of spirit.

"I told you once before," he said, in the tone that he had used to her
at the studio "that I didn't think you--that."

"Ah, but you think me other things that are--worse."

"As what, for instance?" he asked, smiling.

"Oh frivolous, and vain, and heartless. A lot of horrid things."

"I only said you _seemed_ so."

"Ah, then you think I'm better than I seem?" she asked, flippantly,
yet with a swift inward pang.

He seemed to consider. "I think you are very--incomprehensible," he
said at last.

She bent down over the tea-things, so that he could not see her face.
"Oh, that's only," she said, in a low voice "because you haven't the
key to the enigma. If you had it"--She paused. "You might not like the
things you understood," she concluded.

Gerard put down his untasted cup. "I'm willing to take the risk," he
said, deliberately.

He waited, as if for an answer, but none came. She appeared to busy
herself with the tea-things. In the next room Paul Halleck began to
sing the Evening Star song. It seemed to Gerard that Elizabeth turned
a shade paler than she had been before.

"He has a fine voice," he said, when the song was finished. "Don't you
think so?"

She started. "Yes, I--I think so," she said, mechanically.

"I was surprised a little at Eleanor's going in for music," Gerard
went on. "It isn't her line, generally."

"No, it isn't her line," Elizabeth repeated, in the same mechanical
tones. Suddenly she met his eyes defiantly. "I asked her to have him
here," she said.

"Ah, you asked her?" Gerard drew his breath quickly. "I _thought_ he
was a--a friend of yours."

"You thought so?" she returned quickly, and then in a low voice, as if
she dreaded the answer: "Why?"

"Why?" He repeated her question as if it surprised him. For a moment
he seemed to hesitate; then, as if forming a sudden resolution: "I
thought so," he said, steadily, and looking her straight in the face
"for one thing, because I saw you walking in the Park with him one
morning."

"Ah, you--you saw me?" She seemed to gasp for breath. Then, with a
quick, impetuous movement, she pushed the tea-things away from her.
"And so," she said, turning to him suddenly, her cheeks flushed, her
eyes sparkling "you--you put the worst construction upon that, you
think more ill of me than ever?"--

He had turned very pale, but still his voice was steady. "I don't
know why I should think ill of you, for such a simple thing as that.
But if there is any secret about it"--he fixed his eyes upon her
coldly, haughtily--"if the meeting was not intended to be known, why
I--I'm sorry I should have seen it. Of course I should not mention
it--to any one else."

She flushed a little, then grew pale, before the scorn in his eyes.
"There is--there is no secret," she said, in a low voice. "You can
mention it--to whom you please."

"I confess I was a little surprised," he went on, without heeding her,
and this time a note of keen anxiety pierced through the studied
quietness of his voice, his gaze softened, as if imploring her to give
him the explanation which he had no right to demand. "I was a little
taken aback," he said, "because I understood you to say--the day
before--that you hardly knew him."

"Yes, I--I remember." She leaned back in her chair, staring before her
with hard, bright eyes. "When I told you that," she said, slowly "I--I
lied."

It gave him a keen shock to hear her pronounce the word. He did not
speak, and she looked up at him presently with a little, deprecating
smile. "Now," she said, softly "I've shocked you, haven't I?"

He was silent for a moment. "No," he said, at last "not that; but--I'm
sorry. I don't like to think of you as--misstating anything, even if
the matter is of no importance."

She had taken up a teaspoon, and was playing with it absently. "I
don't know," she said, slowly "why you should care."

"Don't you?" He turned his eyes away. "I wish to Heaven I didn't," he
said, low and fiercely. The words were not intended for her, but she
heard them and again the warm, beautiful color rushed into her cheeks.
An answer trembled on her lips, but she struggled not to say it;
struggled against the desire to bring that glow to his face, that
light to his eyes, which she knew so well lay dormant, beneath the
heavy lids. She knew, ah, she knew. While he stayed away she had her
misgivings, but now that she saw him again, she read his heart, even
as she had done at the Portrait Show. She had only to be herself, her
best self, and she held him captive, he could not escape. Yet,
paradoxically, her better instincts urged upon her to show him her
worst side, to say the things which hurt and shocked him.

While she hesitated, people came crowding in from the next room. In
the confusion that ensued, Gerard was forced away from the table. He
fell back against the wall, and watched Elizabeth while, with
instinctive self-command, she fulfilled the different demands made
upon her. He saw Halleck go up to her gaily, flushed with his success,
and bending over her, murmur a few jesting words, which she heard
without a smile. Gerard could have killed him for the air of
proprietorship which was even more pronounced than at the musicale.
But she--how did she like it? He scanned her face eagerly. There was
no softness there, no answering gleam of pleasure; rather a dull,
dogged look of submission, which seemed to cover, or Gerard deceived
himself, an instinctive shrinking, a powerless resentment.

"She doesn't care for him," he thought, with a quick, sharp sense of
relief. "And yet--she has to be civil to him, she has to do things to
help him. Why, for Heaven's sake, why?" He wandered into the other
room, tormenting himself with this question, and found his hostess
there.

"What do you think of my new protegé?" she asked, detaining him as he
took his leave.

"What, Halleck? Oh, he sings very well," he returned, absently.

"I never before posed as a patron of rising musicians," she went on,
"but Elizabeth knew him, it seems, in the country, and asked if I
would mind helping him a little. She's so fond of music, you know."
She spoke quite innocently. Gerard gave her a quick, searching glance.
Apparently she suspected nothing. Yet she was a woman of quick
perceptions. Perhaps, after all, it was he who was mistaken; his
jealous, suspicious nature had led him into unnecessary torture. No
wonder she had met his doubt with defiance, had not deigned to justify
herself, or to dispel a distrust which he had no right to display. In
the sudden, glad, unreasoning reaction, he was ready to heap all
manner of insulting epithets upon himself.

"I think your efforts will be repaid," he said, inclined in his relief
to be generous. "Halleck has a fine voice. I shouldn't wonder if he
were quite a success."

"It was very nice of you to come in," she said. "You have been such a
recluse lately. What have you been doing?"

"Oh, the whirl of excitement in which I've been living was too much
for me," he declared "and so I've given up society for awhile, and am
going in for hard study by way of rest."

"Good gracious! That sounds very impressive," she said. "I'm almost
afraid to suggest, under the circumstances, that you should take a
seat in our box at the opera to-night. And yet I wish you would,
Julian, just by way of doing me a favor, for some people I've asked
are not coming, and Bobby is away, and Elizabeth and I will be quite
alone."

He smiled. "I don't think there's much chance of your being alone very
long," he said. Yet he promised at last to take one of the vacant
seats, though he had refused several other invitations for that
evening. Mrs. Bobby's eyes sparkled as if she had achieved a victory.

"Julian is coming to-night," she announced to Elizabeth, when the
musicale was over and the last guest had departed.

"Is he?" Elizabeth spoke without apparent interest, as she sank, with
a weary look, into a chair in front of the fire.

"You are tired. Would you rather not go to-night?"

"Oh, no"--with a languid gesture. "Music doesn't tire me!"

"And yet," said Mrs. Bobby, who had taken the seat opposite her and
was watching her thoughtfully, "you didn't seem to care enough about
it to come in to listen to your friend this afternoon."

Elizabeth blushed. "I could hear him in the other room," she said.

"Where, besides, you seemed to be very well entertained," said Mrs.
Bobby, serenely. "Still, I don't think it was nice of you. It is hard
on the poor man, after flirting with him in the country, to treat him
so indifferently in town."

"I didn't flirt with him," said Elizabeth, but her protest was faint,
and seemed purely perfunctory. In fact, she was not sorry that Mrs.
Bobby had adopted this theory, realizing that a half-truth may
sometimes be the most effective barrier to a knowledge of the whole.

"Don't tell me anything so wildly improbable, my dear," said Mrs.
Bobby. "My knowledge of human nature will not allow me to believe that
a pretty girl and a handsome young singer, thrown together for weeks
in the country, as I believe you were, did _not_ indulge in a
tremendous flirtation. But seriously, Elizabeth, I am glad that it
went no further, and that you have recovered so easily. For I can
imagine that you lost your heart to him a little. Confess, Elizabeth,
didn't you?"

"Perhaps I did," said Elizabeth, staring immovably into the fire "but
one gets over such things, you know."

"Indeed one does," said Mrs. Bobby. "I was desperately in love at
seventeen, and cried my eyes out when they made me give the man up;
and yet had I married him, I should have been the most wretched being
in the world, instead of a much happier woman than I deserve to be,
thanks to a husband far too good for me. (But that, dear, is between
ourselves. I always try to make Bobby think it's the other way.) But
imagine how dreadful it would have been, if I had had my own foolish
way at seventeen. And so I am glad, Elizabeth, that you have got over
your penchant for this young artist, who is good-looking, and sings
well, and all that; but who is--even if I knew anything about him,
which I don't--quite the last man I should like you to marry."

Elizabeth's face was turned away. "I don't know," she said in a low
voice, "why you think of that."

"Oh, I was only speculating on what might have been," said Mrs. Bobby,
lightly. "I know," she went on after a moment, stealing a furtive
glance at the girl's averted face, "I know the sort of man I should
like you to marry, Elizabeth. He must be older than you, considerably
older; of a serious disposition, with a strong will, stronger than
yours, for you might be perhaps a little hard to manage; fond of music
and fond of books; rich, and with a good position of course; and--and
I should like him to be every bit as nice as Bobby, if such a thing is
possible."

Elizabeth turned her white face towards her friend. "And you think,"
she said, in a low, stifled voice, "that I should come up to the
standard of a paragon like that?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Bobby, wisely, "paragons don't marry _other_
paragons, or the world would be somewhat more dull than it is at
present. A man who is very serious should marry a woman who is a
trifle frivolous, and in that way they strike the happy medium."

"I don't know," said Elizabeth. "They would be more likely, I should
think, to strike a--a discordancy. It would be fatiguing to try to
please a man like that. One could never, do what one would, come up to
his standard."

"You wouldn't have to," said Mrs. Bobby, softly, "he would think you
perfect, if--he loved you."

"Do you think so?" said Elizabeth, with rather a dreary smile. "I
think, for my part, that he would be harder to satisfy, he would exact
all the more, because--he loved you." She sat pondering the idea for a
moment, then with a careless little gesture, she seemed to dismiss the
subject as a thing of small consequence. "It's much better not to try
to satisfy people like that," she declared. "What a lot of time we are
wasting! It must be time to dress." She got up and moved towards the
door.

Mrs. Bobby followed her with her eyes. "I'll send Celeste to you," she
said. "Wear your most becoming gown. Look your best, and do your hair
the way I like it. I assure you, such trifles have their effect--even
upon a paragon."




_Chapter XXI_


"Look my best!" Elizabeth repeated, standing before her muslin-skirted
dressing-table, and staring at the haggard apparition that met her
eyes. "Wear my most becoming gown, do my hair the most becoming way!
It all sounds so easy. But what can bring back my color, what can take
away these terrible dark rings, this horrible strained, anxious look?
Any one can see, to look at me, that I've something on my mind....

"... I shall never tell him the truth--never, never. I may beat about
the bush, but I shall always leave myself a loop-hole to crawl out of.
And yet if I could only consult him--consult _some one_--find out what
I really ought to do. But no, no, I don't dare risk it; it would be
terrible to be advised--just the way I don't want. I must decide on
some plan myself. But--Heaven knows what!" She stood for a while
motionless, gazing helplessly into a mist of perplexities.

The little Sèvres clock on her mantel-piece roused her as it struck
the hour, and she began hastily to dress. She drew the rippling waves
of her hair into the fashion that Mrs. Bobby liked, she put on her
favorite gown, a charming creation of white lace and chiffon,
relieved by touches of pale green; she tried conscientiously to look
her best, but still her cheeks were pale, there was the strained look
in her eyes.

She was about ready when Mrs. Bobby's maid came to help her, bringing
a box of flowers that had just that moment arrived. Celeste, a thrifty
person, regarded them with some disgust. She could tell them, these
gentlemen, that it was of little use to waste their money on
Mademoiselle, who did not care about, sometimes hardly glanced at, the
flowers which some other young lady would give her eyes to receive.
Ah, well, that was the unequal way in which things in this world were
arranged. Celeste disposed of the matter thus, with a philosophic
French shrug of the shoulders.

But there was no counting on such a capricious person as Mademoiselle.
To-night, as she glanced at the card in the box, she blushed
beautifully, took out the flowers with care, and read with eager eyes
the few lines that the giver had scrawled, apparently in great haste
and in pencil:

"This afternoon I was unspeakably rude--even brutal. Forgive me--what
right had I to take you to task for your actions? My only excuse is
that I care--I can't help caring--so desperately. I send you white
roses--they suit you best. You wore one that I gave you--do you
remember?--but probably you don't--the first night I saw you. If you
are very merciful, if you accept my repentance, wear one to-night--in
token of forgiveness."

"In token of forgiveness?" Elizabeth pressed one of the exquisite,
creamy-white roses against her glowing cheeks. "You wore one the first
night I saw you--probably you don't remember?" Ah, yes, she
remembered--but that was different. She could not wear one now. "Yet
only in token of forgiveness?" With a quick, passionate gesture, she
raised it to her lips, then fastened it carefully amidst the lace of
her gown.

Celeste, whose presence she had forgotten, bent down discreetly, with
a suppressed smile, to arrange the folds of her train. Ah, clearly,
after all, there was one gentleman who did not waste his money on
Mademoiselle.

"Madame wished Mademoiselle to look well to-night," she observed,
after a moment. "I think Madame will be satisfied."

Mademoiselle glanced at herself again, and started as she looked.
Could this brilliant young beauty, her small head proudly erect, her
eyes brilliant, her cheeks aflame, be the same woman whose haggard
reflection had stared back at her from the same mirror only
half-an-hour before?

She did not feel like the same woman. The doubts, the fears, which had
beset her then seemed mere chimeras, the fancies of a morbid brain.
She felt gay, confident, strong enough to conquer even fate. Celeste
was right--she looked her best. Mrs. Bobby's words rang in her ears.
"Such trifles have their effect--even on a paragon." And then
again--"He would think you perfect as you were if--he loved you." "No,
he need not think me perfect," she murmured to her mirror, "but he
must--he shall think me beautiful. And that is more to the point,"
she concluded, as she gathered up fan and gloves and left the room.

The opera that night was Carmen, which peculiarly suited her phase of
mind. There is no other which so thoroughly embodies the spirit of
recklessness, the triumph of the senses, the frank, impulsive,
untrammeled enjoyment of life and of living. To be sure, there is the
tragic ending--but before that, three acts of brilliant melody,
glowing with color, with warm, sensuous pleasure.

Gerard was waiting in the box when they arrived. On the stage
Carmen--that ideal Carmen of whom Mérimée dreamed and Bizet set to
music--had just appeared upon the scene of Don Jose's misfortune, and
was warbling, with bewitching abandon, the notes of the Habanera.

Gerard's face, which had an anxious look, brightened wonderfully,
radiantly, as the two women entered the box. He murmured eagerly a few
grateful words in Elizabeth's ear, and took the seat directly behind
her, which he did not abandon, even though his predictions were
justified, and Mrs. Van Antwerp's box was filled, after the first act,
with men who looked anything but pleased at finding that particular
place monopolized. Mrs. Bobby, however, seemed delighted to entertain
them, was gracious, charming and piquante, and elicited from a stern
dowager in the next box severe criticisms on the wiles of young
married women, and their reprehensible manner of diverting to
themselves the attention due to the young girls under their charge.

Elizabeth hardly noticed the men who entered the box. She sat with
eyes fixed upon the stage, upon that intensely real music drama which
she had seen many times already, but which never lost its fascination;
yet acutely conscious all the while through every fibre of her being
of Gerard's presence, of his watching her, of his bending over her,
now and again, to murmur a word in her ear. And as for him, she had
appealed to him most, perhaps, at least to a certain side of his
nature, that afternoon in her pale languor; and yet he could not but
feel his senses thrilled, his pulses throb, when she was so warmly,
vividly, humanly beautiful as she was to-night. For the moment he was
carried beyond himself, his doubts dispelled, or at least forgotten.

And yet, as the evening wore on, some subtle influence in the music or
the play seemed to recall them. At the end of the second act she
turned to him, the strains of the Toreador song still ringing in her
ear, and felt, insensibly a sudden lack of sympathy, a cloud that
seemed to have drifted between them. His brows were knit, his face
moody.

"You don't like it!" she said, staring up at him with wondering,
disappointed eyes.

"What, the opera?" He started as if his thoughts had been elsewhere.
"No, I don't like it," he said, frankly. "It jars upon me somehow,
brings up memories"--he paused. "Oh, it's some drop of Puritan blood,
I suppose," he went on, impatiently, "that asserts itself in me. I
can't view the thing from an artistic standpoint. I can't forget for
a moment what a heartless creature the woman is. When I see her
ruining men's lives, luring them on, turning from one to another--it's
too realistic--there are too many women like that"--He was speaking
low and bitterly, with a strange vehemence, but suddenly he broke off,
with a short laugh. "Oh, it's absurd," he said, "to take a thing like
that seriously."

Elizabeth did not smile. She leaned back in her chair as if she were
suddenly weary. "Poor Carmen!" she said, in a low voice. "You're very
hard on her." She held up her fan before her eyes, as if the light
hurt them. A shadow seemed to fall upon her beauty, effacing its color
and brilliance, bringing out again into strong relief the dark rings
under the eyes, the lines about the mouth. She sat in silence for
awhile, but suddenly she turned to him.

"I'm going to shock you, I'm afraid," she said, "but--do you
know--somehow I can't help seeing the other side. What is a woman to
do, if she changes against her will? Is she to abide always,
inexorably, by the results of a mistake?" A note of passionate feeling
thrilled her voice, she fixed her eyes anxiously, intently, upon
Gerard. "There are so many questions that might arise," she went on,
eagerly, as he did not answer at once. "One might, for instance, make
a promise--a very solemn promise, and find out afterwards that it
was--a mistake, that it would ruin one's whole life to keep it;
and--and one might break it, and the other person might think himself
very much injured; and yet--would you think the woman in that case so
very much to blame?"

Gerard thought he understood. With the conviction came a sense of
passionate relief, which yet he hesitated, with the fastidious
scruples of a proud and honorable man, to grasp in its entirety.

"I--I don't think I'm competent to express an opinion," he said, in a
low voice. "You should ask--some one else."

"There's no one else whom I can ask," she said quickly, and with her
eyes always fixed imploringly upon him. "Tell me--what you think. What
should a woman do in a case like that?"

"I--it's a difficult situation," he said, still holding under control
his eager desire to advise her in the only way in which it seemed to
him possible to advise her. But how could he trust his own judgment?
"I"--he hesitated--"Personally," he said, "I can't imagine holding a
woman to a promise that she has--repented of; but other men
might--probably would feel differently."

"Yes," she said, sadly, "he--this man does."

"And you--the woman is quite sure she has made a mistake," he asked,
eagerly.

"Yes, yes, quite sure," she said, quickly, "a terrible mistake."

"Then," said Gerard, and he drew a long sigh as of intense relief, "I
don't think there could be two opinions on the subject. No one could
advise you--this woman to ruin her life for a mistake, especially if
the--the man were unworthy?" He looked at her questioningly.

"He seemed to her unworthy," she said, in a low voice.

"Then, for Heaven's sake," he asked, almost fiercely, "how can you
hesitate?"

She did not speak, but turned her eyes towards the stage and again
placed her fan so that it shielded them. All over the house there was
the subdued rustle of people returning to their seats. The orchestra
sounded the first notes of the third act, the curtain rose upon the
gypsy camp. During Michaela's solo and the scene between the two men,
Elizabeth still sat silent, her fan before her face. The act was well
advanced before she turned to Gerard.

"Then," she said, "you would advise me to--to break my word?"

"Under the circumstances--yes," he said, steadily. "But don't," he
went on quickly, and passionate vibration thrilled his voice, more
unrepressed than ever before, "don't be guided by my opinion. In this
particular case it is--impossible for me to judge impartially."

"Is it," she asked softly, and then added quickly, as if to avert an
answer, "still, I'm glad to know your opinion. I feel sure you
wouldn't say what you don't think. Thank you--thank you very much."
Her tone was low and subdued, like that of a grateful child. She
leaned back in her chair with a look of relief, that seemed both
physical and mental. She did not speak again till near the end of the
act, when Carmen reads her fortune in the cards. "I wonder," Elizabeth
said then, softly, "what she sees in them."

"I had my fortune told once," she observed, turning to Gerard, as the
curtain fell. "It was when I was at school, and I went with one of the
girls to a famous palmist. He told me all sorts of strange, true
things about the past, and about the future."--She paused.

"Well, about the future?" he asked, smiling. "One doesn't care about
the past. But he predicted, no doubt, all sorts of delightful things
about the future?"

"No." She stared thoughtfully before her with knit brows. "He
said"--she spoke low and hesitatingly--"he said there was luck in my
hand--plenty of it; I should have splendid opportunities. But--he said
there was a line of misfortune, which crossed the other line and might
make it utterly useless; that there was danger of some kind--he
couldn't tell what, threatening me about my twenty-first year, and
that, you know, is very near; he said there were strange
lines--tragic, unusual,"--She stopped. "It sounds very ridiculous,"
but though she tried to smile, her voice trembled, "and yet--I
remember it frightened me at the time, and does still--a little--when
I think of it."

"But you don't surely," cried Gerard, "my dear child, you don't
suppose he knew a thing about it?"

"I don't know. I believe I'm superstitious--are not you?"

"I'm afraid I am," he said, "but not about things like that. I've seen
too many predictions of the kind prove false, to give them a thought."

"It _is_ foolish to worry about them," she admitted, but still she sat
apparently deep in thought and played absently with her fan. At last
she looked up with her most brilliant smile. "I don't know why it is,"
she said, "but we seem to be fated on unpleasant subjects. And yet the
opera is so gay. Do let us try, for the rest of the evening, to think
of pleasant things." She turned and held out her hand, smiling, to a
man who entered the box. For the rest of the opera she was brilliant,
animated, beautiful, as she had been at first.

"And now you are satisfied," she said, looking at Gerard with laughing
eyes, as the curtain fell for the last time. "Carmen comes to a bad
end. According to your principles! she deserved it."

"Ah, my principles!" he said, smiling. "I'm afraid I don't live up to
them very much."

"Don't you?" She gave him a quick, searching glance, as he stood with
her cloak in his hand. "I wish I could believe that," she murmured. "I
should be a little less--afraid of you."

He placed the cloak about her shoulders. "It is I who am afraid of
you," he whispered, bending over her, "and have been ever since I knew
you."

Her eyes fell, and she fumbled nervously with the fastening of the
cloak. "Ah, you were afraid of me?" she said, under her breath. "And
now"--

"Oh, I've grown very brave," he murmured, as he followed her out of
the box, "you can't frighten me away any longer." The jesting words
lingered in her ear as they left the Opera House.

"Ah, if he knew!" she said to herself, as she sank into her corner of
the carriage. "He doesn't know. And yet I told him the exact truth.
It's not my fault, if he--misunderstood."

And Gerard meanwhile was telling himself that he understood it all.

"Poor child!" he murmured to himself, as he lit a cigar and sauntered
slowly home. "So that was it. Of course, she thought she loved
him--the first man she met, and when he turned up felt herself
bound--I see it all! And she has suffered--had terrible pangs of
conscience over this thing. And I who misjudged her all this
time--imagined I don't know what--could I have advised her
differently? Surely not. The fellow's not worthy of her. Neither am I.
She won't look at me, probably. And yet--one can but try"--




_Chapter XXII_


It was mentioned generally, at various sewing-classes and other mild
functions during Lent, that Julian Gerard was very attentive, all of a
sudden, to Elizabeth Van Vorst. Some people, less accurate or more
imaginative than the rest, went so far as to announce the engagement
as an actual fact.

"And, if so, it's all Eleanor Van Antwerp's doing," Mrs. Hartington
observed in private to her intimate friends. "She was determined to
make the match from the beginning. I saw the way she threw the girl at
his head at a dinner in the country, but I never for a moment thought
she would succeed--with Julian Gerard of all men, who is so
desperately afraid of being taken in."

Julian Gerard, by that time, had well-nigh forgotten that such a fear
had ever disturbed him, or if he did remember it, it was to regard it,
so far as Elizabeth was concerned, as profanation. Since that evening
at the opera, his remorseful fancy had placed her on a pinnacle, which
she found at times, it must be confessed, a little difficult to
maintain. It was his misfortune and hers, that he could never view her
in the right perspective, never realize that she was neither a saint
nor the reverse, but merely a woman, and painfully human at that.

But since he chose to consider her a saint, she did her best to live
up to the character. She kept Lent strictly that year as she had never
done before, went to church morning and evening, denied herself
bonbons and other luxuries, and worked with unskilled fingers but
great diligence at certain oddly-constructed garments which were doled
out to her and other young women every week as a Lenten penance, and
incidentally for the good of the poor. If in most cases the actual
penance fell to the lot of their maids, why, the poor were none the
wiser, and certainly much the better clothed. But Elizabeth insisted
on putting in all the painful stitches in the hard, coarse stuff
herself, and looked very pretty bending over it, as Mr. Gerard thought
when he came in one day and found her thus employed.

It pleased him, of course. He did not attach much importance, himself,
to these things--this constant church-going, these small penances;
yet, manlike, it seemed to him right and fitting that she should
regard them differently. And then it was pleasant, after service, to
meet her in the vestibule. How many incipient love affairs have been
helped along, brought to a climax perhaps, by the convenient afternoon
service, and the sauntering walks home in the lingering twilight!

To Elizabeth there was an indefinable charm in those ever-lengthening
Lenten days, rung in and out to the music of church bells, and marked,
as the season advanced and Easter approached, by the growing green of
the grass, and the budding shoots of the trees, and the intangible
feeling of spring in the air. That sense of dread, of impending
misfortune, which had been for a short time almost unbearable, was
lulled to sleep as by an opiate. She did not think of the past or the
future, she simply drifted from day to day, and each of these was
pleasanter than the last.

For one thing, she had grown hardened, indifferent almost to the
constant meeting with Paul Halleck. She had kept her word and obtained
for him all the invitations in her power, until he no longer needed
her help. He was a great success. Mrs. Van Antwerp's informal little
musicale had been only the first of a series of more elaborate ones,
at which Halleck was often the chief attraction. Young girls admired
him extremely. Elizabeth could hear him talking to them, just as he
had once talked to her, about Swinburne and Rossetti and the last word
in Art, and she saw that, like herself, they thought him very
brilliant. It was an admiration which had tangible results, since it
led to an interest in music, and a desire to take singing-lessons from
the talented young barytone. Before long, he took a studio in
Carnegie, near D'Hauteville's, and furnished it luxuriously, on the
strength of his new prosperity. He was very much the fashion and
absorbed in his success, and seldom had the time, or perhaps the
inclination, to encounter Elizabeth's unflattering indifference. So
for the most part he left her alone, to her intense relief.

One incident, a chance word, in a retrospect of that time, afterwards
stood out in Elizabeth's mind, though at the moment it seemed to make
but a slight impression.

It was one Sunday afternoon when a number of people, Paul Halleck
among them, had dropped in to afternoon tea, and the conversation
happened to turn upon palmistry. Elizabeth did not proffer her own
experience. She listened silently to what the others said on the
subject.

"I can't say I have implicit faith in it," observed Mrs. Bobby. "I was
told by a fortune-teller that I should marry a dark man, who would
beat me and treat me horribly; and as you see, I've married a fair
man--who treats me pretty well on the whole."

Bobby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece his tea-cup in his
hand, smiled serenely.

"Don't boast too soon, Eleanor," he said, lazily, "there's no knowing
what brutal tendencies I may develop yet."

Mrs. Hartington, who was seated near him on a low chair, looked up
into his face with a sympathetic smile. "Are you one of those
long-suffering husbands who turn at last, Mr. Van Antwerp?" she asked,
sweetly. "It would be good discipline, I think, for Eleanor not to
have her own way _always_."

Bobby looked down at her coolly for a moment with his calm blue eyes.
"No doubt, it would be good discipline for all of us, Mrs.
Hartington," he said, in his pleasant, clear-cut tones, "but as my
wife's way and mine are generally the same, I'm afraid I'm not likely
to inflict it."

Mrs. Hartington looked down with an injured air, adding another to her
list of grievances against her dear friend and neighbor, Eleanor Van
Antwerp.

"I should never go to a common fortune-teller, my dear," she observed
in a louder tone, for the benefit of the assembled company. "Yours was
probably just an ignorant person. But I did go to ----, who, you know,
charges a small fortune, and he told me the most extraordinary things.
I have perfect confidence in him; every one I know thinks him quite
infallible."

"Do they?" said Paul Halleck, suddenly turning from the piano. He
shrugged his shoulders. "I devoutly hope you are mistaken," he said.
"---- read my hand in Paris, and told me some very unpleasant things;
among others that I was probably destined to a violent death. This
year of my life, by the way--the twenty-seventh--was to be my fatal
year."

He spoke half laughingly, but the words produced an effect. There was
a general exclamation of horror, and Elizabeth, who was pouring tea,
dropped the cup that she held in her hand. Julian Gerard, who was
standing behind her, bent down to recover the fragments.

"It's odd," he said, as he placed them absently on the table, "his
year of danger and yours seem to correspond." The words rose
involuntarily to his lips, and an instant later he wished them
unspoken.

She flushed a little, then grew pale. "Oh, I'm sorry you remembered
that nonsense," she said. "I don't really believe in these things."
But her hand trembled as she poured out the tea, glancing furtively at
Halleck as she did so.

He was enjoying the sensation that his announcement had created.
"Yes," he was saying, "if I live to be a year older, I am safe; but
till then--Heaven knows what danger threatens me!" He shrugged his
shoulders with a light laugh. The prediction did not seem to trouble
him greatly. Elizabeth wondered if he had not invented it, for the
sake of the effect. And then, involuntarily, the thought crossed her
mind--what if it were really true, and the prediction were fulfilled?
Such things had been known to happen--there might be something in
it.... Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind of all
that his death might mean to her--the merciful release, the solution
of all difficulties.... Just for a moment the idea lingered, while the
others talked, and she shuddered.

"You are quite pale," said Gerard, fixing his eyes upon her. He was
still sensitive to any sign of feeling which Halleck seemed to arouse
in her. "I believe you are really superstitious. These things seem to
frighten you."

"Am I superstitious?" She looked up at him dreamily. "Perhaps I am. It
would be nice, I think, if there were something in it, if one could
tell what is going to happen. One could act accordingly. I should
like, for instance"--her voice sank--"I should like to look into the
future one year, and see what fate has in store for me."

"If I had any control over fate"--Gerard crushed back the impetuous
words that followed. Not yet--the moment was not propitious. Besides,
he was not sure of her. There was still at times something in her
manner that was baffling, uncertain.--And just then Paul Halleck
sauntered up and bent over her in that intimate manner which still
annoyed Gerard's fastidious taste, even though he had long since
convinced himself that he had no cause to fear him as a rival.

"Did you hear ----'s terrible prediction, Miss Van Vorst?" Paul asked,
smiling, "and aren't you sorry for my untimely fate?"




_Chapter XXIII_


"Why will you never play for me?"

Gerard stood leaning on the piano, his eyes half smiling, yet with a
look of mastery, fixed upon Elizabeth. She was sitting in a low chair
by the fire, the book on her lap which she had been reading when he
came in. It was a stormy March afternoon, and the dusk was closing in
prematurely. The room was already in shadow, except where the
firelight formed a little circle of radiance, illumining Elizabeth's
face and hair. Seated thus in the full glow of light, with the shadows
in the foreground, all the little details of her appearance--the broad
sweep of rippling hair on her forehead, the soft laces at her throat,
the pale, dull green of her gown, even to the buckle on her slipper,
and the one white rose in her belt--each trifling part of the
harmonious whole, impressed itself on his memory, haunting him
afterwards with a keen sense of pain.

She looked up at him now from under her long lashes, with the old
light in her eyes, half defiant, half tantalizing--that spirit of
revolt which still glanced forth at times to baffle and disturb him.

"I don't want to play this afternoon. I don't--feel in the mood."

"You are never in the mood when I ask you." Silence. "Confess at
once," said Gerard, with some heat--"for it would really be quite as
civil--that you don't wish to play for me."

Another swift upward glance. "Perhaps I don't"--demurely.--"You're too
severe a critic."

"You know," said Gerard, "that that is not the reason."

Silence again. "Will you tell me the reason?" he asked.

She answered him this time with a flash of defiance. "I don't know,"
she said, "what right you have to demand it. But if you insist upon
it, I'll tell you. You--you don't like my playing, and--it's very
absurd, of course, but I never can play for people who don't."

"I--don't like your playing?" He shielded his eyes for a moment, as if
from the glare of the fire. When he spoke again his tone was
peremptory. "You foolish child," he said, "come and play for me, and
I'll tell you, afterwards, what I think of it."

She looked up at him--startled, rebellious, met his eyes for a moment,
then rose, pouting, like the child that he called her, constrained
against her will, put down her book, and moved slowly toward the
piano. "You are so terribly determined," she complained.

"And you are so terribly perverse! But when I want a thing very much,
I can be determined, as you say. Play me the Fire-music," he went on,
"and--and 'Tristan and Isolde,' as you did--do you remember?--the
first night I met you."

She paused, with her hands on the keys. "I--I thought,"--she began,
and then broke off suddenly, and began to play as he bade her--at
first faltering, uncertainly, with a strange hesitation; then more
firmly, as the keys responded with the old readiness to her touch, and
she lost herself in the music. Outside the storm increased, the rain
beat against the windows, the room grew dark, and once Elizabeth
paused--she could hardly see the keys. But Gerard murmured, "Ah, the
love-music!" and she played on. All the terrible distress, the
maddening perplexity, of the last few months seemed to express
themselves, in spite of herself, in those surging, strenuous chords;
all the hope, too, and the wild unreasoning happiness. She was
startled, almost as if she were telling the whole story in language so
eloquent that he must surely understand it without further words. But
Gerard, as was natural, read into it only his own feelings. He stood
leaning on the piano, his hand shielding his eyes, which were fixed
intently upon her.--It was so dark now that he could hardly see her
face, only the shimmer of her hair standing out against the dusk, the
movement of her white hands on the keys.

She faltered at last, struck a false chord, and broke off in the very
midst of the love-music. "I--I can't see," she murmured, and let her
hands fall in her lap.

"Do you remember," Gerard said, "that first night you played? I had
talked to you at dinner, you know, you--you repelled me a little. I
thought--I am telling you the bare truth, you see--you were a little
cynical, a little hard--it seemed a pity when you were so"--he paused
for a moment and his voice softened as he lingered over the word--"so
beautiful. I couldn't understand you. I thought--I wouldn't try. It
wasn't worth while--most things were not. And then--you played"--He
paused again for a moment. "You know what most girls' playing is like.
Yours has a soul, a fire--I don't know where you get it. It moved me,
set me thinking, as no other woman's playing has done for years."

He paused again. Elizabeth looked up quickly. "I thought," she
murmured, "that you didn't like my playing, that you were bored"--

"Ah, you thought," he said, "that when a man feels very much, he can
make pretty speeches? I can't, at least. Oh, I've no doubt"--he made a
resigned gesture--"I've no doubt that I behaved like a brute. Women
have told me that I generally do. I said to myself--that girl is
dangerous, she could make a man fall in love with her--even against
his will. I was in love once--but that's another story. I never wanted
to repeat the experiment. And so, as you know, I avoided you; like a
fool, I used to go and look at your picture, and then--keep away from
you, evening after evening. I struggled--with all the strength I
have--I struggled not to love you. And then, as you know"--he looked
her straight in the eyes--"as you have known well these last few
weeks,--I failed."

There was silence for a moment. She was very white, her hands were
tightly clasped in her lap. "I"--she gave a little shuddering
sigh--"it would have been better if you hadn't."

"Elizabeth!" She felt rather than saw how his face changed.
"Elizabeth," he said, hoarsely, "do you mean that? Then"--as she sat
silent--"you don't love me?"

Oh, for the strength to answer "No," and end this scene--this useless,
perplexing scene, which she should have been prepared for, which yet
seemed to have come upon her unawares! One firm, courageous "No," and
a man like Gerard would not ask her twice. Instead, a compromise,
useless, feeble, hovered on her lips. "I--shouldn't make you happy,"
she faltered out, despising her own weakness.

"Is that all?" He laughed out loud in sheer relief. "My darling,"--the
triumphant tenderness in his voice was hard to bear--"don't you think
that I can judge of that?"

She was silent, and he drew nearer to her and took her hands in his.
"You needn't be afraid," he said. "I shall worship the ground you
tread upon, if--if you will only consent. You will, Elizabeth, won't
you?" She had not known before that his voice held tones so
caressingly gentle.

For a moment she sat motionless, passive beneath his touch, and then
suddenly: "I can't," she broke out, hoarsely, drew her hands away from
him, and going over to the mantel-piece, she leaned her arms upon it
and hid her face.

When he spoke again, after a long silence, his voice was entirely
changed. "There is something here I don't understand," he said,
coldly. "One moment you seemed to yield, and the next"----He made a
step towards her. "Tell me the truth," he entreated, "don't spare my
feelings. It's a false kindness. You love someone else--is that
it?--then tell me so, and I won't reproach you--or--trouble you
again."

She turned her face towards him. It was white, quivering with emotion;
but she answered firmly: "No, you are entirely wrong. There is--no one
else."

"Not Halleck?" he asked, watching her intently, his face dark with the
old distrust.

She made a quick, involuntary gesture of repulsion. "Not he--not he,
of all people," she said, bitterly.

He still eyed her doubtfully, unsatisfied. "You are sure?" he
insisted. "You are telling me the whole truth? Don't deceive me--now,
Elizabeth; I could forgive anything but that."

How many chances were given to Elizabeth, only to be thrown away! She
answered him steadily; "I'm not deceiving you. I tell you frankly that
when I first met Paul Halleck I thought I cared for him--he was the
first man I had ever known; but now he is nothing to me, and I have
told him so--I think I almost dislike him." There was no mistaking the
accent of sincerity in her voice. It was fortunate for Elizabeth,
since she was no adept in lying, that the truth and the falsehood were
in this case so nearly identical.

Gerard was satisfied.

"Then what," he urged, eagerly--"if there is no one else--what stands
between us?"

She hesitated. There were voices in the hall, some visitors requesting
admission, the butler parleying a little--the discreet, intelligent
butler, who had so considerately refrained, for the last quarter of an
hour, from coming in to light the gas.

Gerard was too absorbed to notice anything outside of the cause he was
pleading. "Tell me," he repeated, his eyes fixed intently upon her
face, "what stands between us?"

She put out her hand with a deprecating gesture. That threatening
interruption seemed to give her courage. She was quite herself again.
"Can't a woman hesitate for no definite reason?" she asked. "You,
yourself--didn't you hesitate--for reasons that I must confess seem to
me rather vague and--not very complimentary."

The argument struck home. He changed color. "Don't cast that up
against me, Elizabeth," he pleaded. "It's not worthy of you. I told
you the plain truth, badly as it sounds, because it seemed due to
you--I wanted you to know the worst. And you must remember that I had
no reason to suppose that you cared, or would ever care, anything
about me. It was only I who suffered when I kept away from you. But
you--now that you know how--how madly I love you--don't trifle with
me--be generous--give me a definite answer?"

"But I--I can't," she returned, in her old wilful way, "just on the
spur of the moment, like this. I don't want to marry any one--not just
now, at least. I--I like my freedom"----

The words died away on her lips. She broke off suddenly, turning very
pale, as the importunate visitor, whom the butler had vainly
endeavored to show into another room, drew aside the portière and
entered brusquely. It was Paul Halleck. He had a strangely excited
look, which increased as he surveyed the two people on the hearth-rug,
whom he had evidently interrupted at a critical moment.

To one of them, at least, his entrance was most unwelcome. Not all of
Gerard's carefully cultivated self-control could avail to hide his
annoyance; he uttered under his breath an angry exclamation, and going
over to the piano, stood moodily turning over sheets of music.
Elizabeth, to whom Paul's appearance was for some reasons still more
disconcerting, showed greater self-possession. She held out her hand
coldly, but composedly, with a few mechanical words, to which he
barely responded. There was an embarrassing pause, broken by the
butler, who made his belated, majestic entry, lighted the chandeliers
and drew the curtains. The effect of the illumination was startling,
as it threw into strong relief the look of agitation on each of their
faces.

"It--it's storming still, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, and then
remembered that she had asked the same question already. Gerard
started up and reflecting gloomily that it was of no use to try to
"stay that fellow out," he took his leave. Paul and Elizabeth were
left alone.

His presence seemed a matter of absolute indifference to Elizabeth,
who sank again into the low chair by the fire, and picking up the book
she had laid down, turned over its pages with an air of icy unconcern.
He came and stood beside her, leaning against the mantel-piece, a look
of brutality on his handsome face.

"So," he said. "I've driven Gerard away. A case of 'two is company,'
evidently."

Her expression did not change. "Oh, he had been here some time," she
said, coldly. "No doubt he meant to leave in any case."

"Oh, no doubt." He sneered angrily. "Do you know what I heard to-day?"
he went on. "I heard that you were engaged to him."

She flushed a little. "Did you?" she said, and then, quietly: "But
that means nothing, you know."

"But you are together all the time. I can't come to the house without
meeting him. You encourage him, accept his flowers, lead him
on.--Pray, how long is this sort of thing going to last?"

They eyed each other for a moment, he flushed with anger, she cold and
hard. "You have no right," she said, icily, "to ask an account of my
actions."

"No right!" he repeated, as if thunder-struck. "I should like to know
who has a better."

"No right that I acknowledge, at least," she amended her first
sentence.

He paced up and down the room, struggling for self-control. "Whether
you acknowledge it or not, is immaterial," he said, stopping suddenly
in front of her. "I claim it, and that is enough. You must give up
this infernal flirtation with Gerard, or"----

"Or what?" she insisted haughtily, as he paused.

"I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him the truth," he concluded,
defiantly.

Dead silence. The book she held fell from Elizabeth's nerveless hand.
The steady ticking of the clock in the stillness seemed to beat an
accompaniment to these words: "Don't deceive me--now, Elizabeth; I
could forgive anything but that."

"Paul?" Her voice was no longer icy, but soft, with caressing tones.
"Paul, you wouldn't be so unkind?"

"What difference does it make to you?" he said, eyeing her keenly,
"whether I tell Gerard or not? You can't marry him, you know--it's
impossible."

"I don't want to marry him," she said, gathering all her powers of
resistance, "but--he's a friend of mine. I don't want him to be told
things about me by--an outsider."

"Ah, you call me that!" he said, his anger roused again. "Well,
outsider or not, I hold the cards. I shall go to Gerard at once and
tell him that we were married--at Cranston, last July. If he doubts
my assertion, the record is there, and it won't be very hard for him
to verify it."

Silence again. Elizabeth sat musing, her brows knit, her under lip
slightly thrust out, in a fashion that seemed to express all the
obstinate resolve of her nature. "I will do as you wish, if you will
keep silent."

"Will you write a note to Gerard," Paul demanded, "sending him away?"

"No," she said, sullenly. "I won't do that."

"Then there is nothing else you can do," he declared.

Elizabeth mused again. "I would give--money," she said. The last word
was spoken very low.

He started and flushed. "Do you want to bribe me?" he asked, angrily.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I am quite aware that you will not do
anything for nothing," she said.

Paul fell again to pacing up and down the room. His face showed traces
of a mental struggle. Elizabeth watched him from the corners of her
eyes; she saw that her offer tempted him more than she had dared to
hope.

He stopped at last in front of her. "How much can you spare?" he
asked, in a voice in which a certain bravado strove to gain the
mastery over inward uneasiness and shame. "The truth is, I am most
confoundedly hard up just now, what with furnishing the studio and
everything, and if you could help me a little, it would be very
convenient. I can pay you back later with interest a hundred times."

"I have told you," she said, coldly, "what payment I want."

He shrugged his shoulders, with an attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, as to
that, I never really intended to tell Gerard." Elizabeth's lip curled.

"How much money do you want?" she asked, curtly. "A hundred? Two
hundred?" Her ideas on such matters were vague. Paul's face fell.

"I should need five hundred at least, if--if it is to be of any use,"
he said, gloomily.

It was more than she expected, but she showed no signs of flinching.
"Five hundred, then," she said, rising as if to conclude the
interview. "Will it do, if I let you have it to-morrow?"

"Perfectly. Elizabeth, you are an angel. I can't thank you enough." He
advanced towards her with outstretched arms, but with a gesture of
repulsion she waved him aside.

"Don't thank me," she said, coldly. "This is a bargain for our mutual
advantage. I will fulfil my share of it if you remember yours. And
now, as we have nothing more to discuss, I think I will ask you to
excuse me." She made him a stately inclination, picked up her book and
sailed from the room in undiminished dignity and apparent unconcern.

But when she was alone and had locked herself into her room to think
over her misery, then, indeed, the situation stared her in the face in
its true colors. Her own words, "I like my freedom," rang mockingly
in her ears. She was not free, but a slave; slave of a man who had her
in his power, and would use it, as time went on, more and more
unscrupulously. This time it was five hundred that he demanded; next
time it would be a thousand. What could she do? Somehow or another, he
must be satisfied. Anything was better, any sacrifice, any
humiliation, than to allow him to go to Gerard with that bare
statement of facts, "We were married at Cranston, last July!" The
truth, devoid of any of the softening evasions by which she cloaked it
to her own mind; the redeeming circumstances which excused, if they
did not justify, her silence.

Her bitterest enemy must admit that the position was a hard one. A
contract entered into hastily by a thoughtless girl, on the impulse of
the moment; a quarter of an hour in an empty church one summer day; a
few words spoken before a sleepy old clergyman and indifferent
witnesses--could such things as these have power to ruin one's whole
life? No, no--her heart cried out wildly to the contrary. The whole
episode seemed, in the retrospect, so dream-like. It was easy to
imagine that it had never happened. And yet, had she the courage to
ignore it?... And, even if she had, there was always Paul to remind
her of it, who would not give her up without a terrible struggle, that
must, without fail, come to Gerard's ears.

There was only one hope that she could see, and that was wild and
irrational; the hope Paul had himself suggested. If that prediction
could be fulfilled! Elizabeth shuddered. It was terrible to think of
such a thing; terrible to obtain one's own happiness at the cost of
another person's life. She did not really wish Paul dead--that would
be wicked. And yet--and yet--the thought pressed irresistibly upon
her--if it had to be!--if it had to be! What a blessed relief--what an
end to all this misery! "Oh, I do wish it, I do wish it!" she broke
out, speaking aloud, unconsciously. "I would give anything in this
world to hear of his death."

She stopped, startled at the sound of her own voice. The wish shocked
her, even in the moment of expressing it. Her wishes were so often
fulfilled--she had an almost superstitious faith in their efficacy. If
this one were fulfilled, what then?--For a moment she, thinking it
over, balanced possibilities; and then with a stifled cry, fell on her
knees and hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, I'm growing so wicked," she sobbed out. "It's because I'm so
miserable. Only let me have what I want, and I'll be different; I'll
be the kind of woman that he admires; only--I must find a way, I must
have what I want--_first_."




_Chapter XXIV_


The next day dawned clear and bright; a beautiful morning in early
spring after a night of storm. Upon Elizabeth's spirits as she dressed
the weather produced the illogical effect that it does upon most of
us. Reviewed by daylight, the situation seemed to her many degrees
less desperate. The night before, there had seemed to her only one way
out, and that a tragical one; but now there were--there must be--a
hundred ways, if only she could gain the time to think of them.

The first thing was to obtain the money; but this in itself was no
easy matter. She had promised it to Paul as if it were a mere trifle;
yet, as a matter of fact, she was as badly off herself at the time as
was to be expected of a young woman who had gone out a great deal, and
established and lived up to an expensive reputation for being always
well and appropriately gowned.

She reviewed her resources. Mrs. Bobby would have lent her the money
at once and asked no questions; but from this course Elizabeth's pride
shrank uncontrollably. She preferred to take a sum she had just laid
aside to satisfy to some extent the claims of a long-suffering and
complaisant dressmaker; but even with this sacrifice determined on,
she was still far short of the amount required. She took out, in
desperation, her various jewels and trinkets, and looked them over,
wondering how much they were worth. There were many pretty things her
aunts had given her, none of them probably of any great intrinsic
value, and there were the beautiful gifts that Mrs. Bobby had showered
upon her; and, finally, there was the string of pearls which she
always wore about her neck, one of the few heirlooms which old Madam
Van Vorst had once kept under lock and key, and which her daughters
had of course made over to Elizabeth. The girl stood now hesitating
with the pearls in her hand. She had worn them to every ball that
winter, she was wont to say, with her half-joking, half-real touch of
superstition, that they brought her luck; as if, with their
possession, something of the spirit of that proud beauty of a by-gone
day had entered into her, enabling her to conquer the world in which
the older woman had been naturally at home. Would the power leave her
with the pearls? The fantastic thought lingered for a moment, and then
impatiently she thrust it aside, and put the precious heirloom in with
the rest of her possessions, which she had resolved to sacrifice. It
was not a moment when she could afford to dally with sentiment.

Yet what a strange, disreputable proceeding it seemed! She was haunted
with a vague sense of losing caste, as she took her trinkets to one of
the smaller jewelry-shops, and faltered out her improbable tale of
their being unbecoming and of no use to her. The jeweler, well used to
the straits of fashionable young women, listened without a smile, and
offered her on the whole a fair price, though it was much less than
she expected. There was nothing that she was not obliged to part
with--from the jeweled watch which Mrs. Bobby had given her at
Christmas, to the pearls, which proved to be the most valuable of all.
When she left the shop she had deprived herself of all her ornaments,
but she held the necessary bribe in her hand, and as the simplest way
of conveying it to Halleck, she got on a cable car and went up at once
to his studio at Carnegie. There was nothing startling in the
proceeding, for he had now a number of pupils, who came to him at his
studio; and though the girls whom Elizabeth knew always brought their
maids, or a chaperone of some sort, she was not in the mood to waste
much thought on conventionalities. Her one idea was to fulfil her
share of the bargain before he should, perchance, have repented of
his, and she did not think of the chance of meeting any one. Her own
affairs had reached a crisis which blinded her to the fact that to
other people, the world was progressing peacefully, in the usual order
of events.

This dream-like state of indifference to all but the one anxiety
continued till she reached Carnegie and was borne up in the elevator
to Paul's studio, which was directly opposite to Mr. D'Hauteville's.
And here, for the first time, she paused, seized by a sudden panic.
From behind the closed curtain at the end of the small vestibule,
there came the sound of a woman's voice, strained, nasal, raised high
in what seemed a tirade of denunciation. To Elizabeth's mind, as she
heard it, there arose an involuntary recollection of Bassett Mills,
and of the gaudy little parlor behind her aunt's shop, and some bitter
words directed against herself, in what seemed a past period of her
history. She stood hesitating, terrified; then the curtain was pushed
aside, and a woman came out. It was her cousin Amanda. Her face was
white and set, her eyes blazing. She stared at Elizabeth for a moment
as if dazed, then brushed past her without a word.

Paul stood on the threshold, a picturesque object in his velveteen
coat and turned-down collar, against the artistic background of the
luxuriously-furnished studio. He looked flushed, annoyed; the scene
which had just taken place had evidently been a trying one. But when
he saw Elizabeth standing doubtful in the hall, his face cleared and
he came forward to greet her with effusion.

"Darling, how good of you to come here!" He evidently hailed the visit
as an overture towards reconciliation. She hastened to disabuse him.

"It was the easiest way to bring this," she said, handing him the
package which she had clasped nervously all the way up. "Will you be
kind enough, please, to count it and see if it is all right?" It was
impossible to speak with more icy brevity, or to impart to any
proceeding a more severely business-like air.

He flushed uncomfortably, but did not allow his vexation to interfere
with the evident necessity of counting the money. "It is all right,"
he said, biting his lips, as he put down the last roll of bills. "Do
you wish me to give you a receipt?" he asked, with fine sarcasm.

"No," said Elizabeth, gravely. "I rely on your word."

Paul bowed. "Thank you," he said. "And now--is there anything else I
can do for you?"

"Nothing," said Elizabeth, briefly, "except what you know already. And
now, I must go." She moved towards the door, but he placed himself in
her way.

"Come, come, Elizabeth," he said. "I'm not going to let you go like
that--the first time you make me a visit. Give me a kiss now, just to
show that you don't bear malice."

Elizabeth's only reply was a look of ineffable haughtiness. "Will you
let me pass, please?" she said, in a low tone of concentrated wrath,
and with an uneasy laugh, he obeyed her.

"What a virago you are!" he said, "almost as bad as your cousin
Amanda. It must be the hair," he added, with a sneer, but Elizabeth
did not pause to reply. Anxious only to escape, she closed the studio
door hastily behind her, and a moment later the elevator bore her
swiftly down, and she regained the street, with the feeling of having
staved off misfortune, for the moment at least.

She found, when she got home, a note from Gerard, informing her that
he had been unexpectedly called out of town for a few days on
business, but hoped to see her on his return. There were the flowers,
too, which he sent her daily. He had no intention, evidently, of
taking her answer of the day before as final. She realized this, with
a thrill that held in it more of pleasure than alarm. Still, she was
glad that he was out of town. His absence was a reprieve, giving her
more of the time she wanted, though it is hard to say what she
expected to gain by it. But very little often sufficed to restore
Elizabeth's spirits. She was going out to dinner that evening, and she
dressed for it with a mind that was comparatively at ease.

But poor Elizabeth's moments of tranquillity just then were short. She
was nearly dressed when Celeste entered with the information that a
young person had called to see Mademoiselle, who insisted upon seeing
her at once. "I told her that Mademoiselle is dressing," said the
maid, with expressive gestures; "that she has an engagement, it is
most important, but--but she is a most determined young person, she
insists that I bring up a message at once."

"It is Amanda, of course," thought Elizabeth, with a terrible sinking
of the heart. She had forgotten, until that moment, the meeting in the
studio. She glanced at the clock. "I have fifteen minutes, Celeste,"
she said. "Show her up. She may want to see me about something
important." The maid departed, and Elizabeth bent down nervously to
sort out gloves and handkerchief, wondering as she did now at each
unexpected incident, what danger it might portend.

"I thought," said Amanda, "I might come up--seeing we're first
cousins." She stood in the door-way, her eyes roaming about the room,
taking in every detail--the soft prevailing harmonies of pale blue and
rose, the firelight flickering on the tiled hearth, the shining silver
ornaments on the dressing-table, the profusion of bric-à-brac, of
cotillion favors, the roses in the china bowl, the general air of
luxury--all a fit setting to the proud young beauty, standing before
the mirror in her shimmering white satin and laces.

"My, but you look fine!" said Amanda, under her breath. A slightly
awed expression crossed her face, modifying the assurance of her
entrance. "You're going out?" she asked, looking almost ready to
retreat.

"To dinner--yes; but not just yet. Won't you sit down, Amanda?"
Elizabeth said, trying to speak easily. "I--I'm glad to see you. How
is Aunt Rebecca, and--every one at Bassett Mills?"

Amanda sat down, her eyes still wandering eagerly around the room.
Elizabeth, looking at her, saw the unfavorable change that a few
months had made. True, she was smartly dressed, with the cheap, tawdry
smartness that can be bought ready-made at the shops, and her hat was
tilted carefully at the fashionable angle; her hair, growing low about
her forehead, had still the pretty, natural wave to it, which was a
legacy from the fever, and the general effect at a first glance was
striking. But the face, under the jaunty, be-feathered hat, was white
and haggard, the eyes had a wild restless look, there were hard,
vindictive lines about the mouth. Her hands moved incessantly,
plucking at the fringe on her gown.

"Glad? Well, I guess you're not very glad to see me," she said, with a
strange, mocking smile, ignoring the latter part of Elizabeth's
speech. "There never was much love lost between us, and now--but still
I thought I'd pay you a visit. I'm staying with Uncle Ben's folks, and
they told me I ought to look up my swell cousin--since you were so
sure to want to see me"--she gave a short, jarring laugh. "That
stuck-up maid wouldn't believe me--thought I was crazy, when I said we
were first cousins. I don't see why--I'm sure I don't look so--so
different as all that." Her voice sank into rather a wistful key, and
she stole a glance at the long pier-glass that stood opposite her. "I
got my suit at a bargain sale," she said. "The girls said it was--real
stylish."

"It's very pretty," said Elizabeth, gently. She glanced at Amanda with
a sudden pity that overpowered her first annoyance and alarm at the
inopportune visit. What had brought her to town? Some vague,
irrational hope of winning back Paul's admiration, perhaps, with this
gown that was "real stylish," and the new hat, and the general, tawdry
attempt at smartness. It was that, probably, which had taken her to
the studio, and no doubt Paul had been disgusted with this attempt to
revive an old flirtation, and in his irritation, had convinced her
somewhat rudely of his indifference. Poor Amanda! Really she had not
seemed quite right in the head since the fever.

"Were you surprised to see me this morning?" said Amanda, watching her
and seeming to read her thoughts. "I went to call on another old
friend, and--I wasn't welcome"--she gave another jarring laugh, which
ended this time in a sob. "He--he didn't seem glad to see me,
considering how well he used to know me--once." Her voice broke
piteously, she paused for a moment, and then: "I hate him, I hate
him!" she broke out, fiercely. "I'd give anything in this world if I'd
never known him."

"So would I," said Elizabeth, low and bitterly, and then stopped,
frightened at what she had said. But Amanda showed no surprise.

"Ah, you think that now," she said, slowly, "but you didn't use to.
You've got so many rich beaux now that you don't care about him any
longer. But I wonder what they'd think--these rich beaux of yours--if
they knew how wild you used to be about him, how you went wandering
about the country with him, if they knew"--Amanda leaned forward and
spoke in an impressive whisper--"if they knew that you have to do what
he wants now, that you're afraid of him."

There was a silence. Elizabeth, faint and giddy, sank into the nearest
chair, and put up involuntarily her hand to her heart. So here was
another danger threatening, another person who knew something--everything,
perhaps? Her brain reeled. Amanda leaned back in her chair, watching
her triumphantly, a hard, bright glitter in her eyes.

"Amanda!" Elizabeth's white lips tried in vain to frame a coherent
question. "Amanda,"--she made another attempt--"what do you mean?"

Amanda smiled contemptuously. "Oh, you know well enough what I mean,"
she said. "Why did you go there this morning when you don't care for
him any more, and are sorry you ever knew him, unless you're afraid of
him, and have to do what he wants?"

"Oh, is that all?" Elizabeth drew a long sigh of relief. "I went there
this morning because--because I wanted to meet a friend"--she broke
off in confusion before the look on Amanda's face. Then, with a sudden
reaction of feeling, she raised her head haughtily. "It doesn't
matter," she said, "_what_ I went there for. It's a--a studio; all his
pupils go there. I might have wanted to see him about singing-lessons,
about anything.--If that is all you base your suspicions on,
Amanda"----She stopped.

"Ah, but if it isn't?" said Amanda, in her impressive whisper, which
seemed fraught with a mysterious consciousness of power.

Another silence. The defiant look on Elizabeth's face faded; she
leaned back in her chair and half closed her eyes. Ah, she was weary,
deathly weary, of these constant nervous shocks. How much did Amanda
know--how much? If she could only be sure!

"I think they'd be rather surprised," Amanda went on, in unnaturally
quiet tones, "these swell friends of yours, if they knew all about
you. They think you very sweet, they give you lots of things"--Amanda's
hard, restless eyes roamed again about the room and rested on
Elizabeth's beautiful gown. "It don't seem fair," she broke out,
suddenly, with a fierce little sob; "it don't seem fair, that you
should have so much--and then to be so pretty too, as well as all the
rest!"

She was silent for a moment, struggling with the tears that threatened
to break forth, and Elizabeth began to breathe more freely. All this
bluster, after all, these vague threats, seemed to resolve themselves
into the old, unreasoning, powerless jealousy--nothing more. And with
the relief came again the sense of pity, of a certain justice in
Amanda's point of view.

"It isn't fair," she said, softly. "I don't deserve it, but"----

"Well, fair or not, I guess it don't make much difference," Amanda
interrupted her, drearily, rising to her feet. "You've always had the
best of me, and probably, you always will. But, if ever you
don't"----She broke off suddenly and moved towards the door. "I guess
I'd better be going," she said. "You'll be late for your dinner. Only,
before you go"--she paused with her hand on the knob of the door, that
hard, mocking glitter in her eyes--"before you go, just put on some of
your jewelry, won't you? Seems to me you look sort of bare without
it."

"My--my jewelry?" Elizabeth's heart, which had been beating more
quietly, suddenly stood still. "I--I don't wear jewelry, Amanda," she
said, in a dull, toneless voice.

"What, not your pearls?" Amanda's hard, mocking eyes seemed to read
her through and through. "Your pearls you were so proud of in the
country, that you said you'd always wear. Seems to me you need
them--with that fine dress!"

She stood hovering by the door, a weird figure in the exaggerated
smartness of her attire, with her white face framed in the deep red
hair, and that strange, uncanny smile gleaming across it, lighting it
up into an elf-like suggestion of mysterious power. Elizabeth stared
at her helplessly, fascinated; then, with a great effort, she roused
herself and hurried towards her.

"Amanda!" she cried, desperately. "Amanda, for Heaven's sake, stop
these insinuations! Tell me plainly what you mean?" She gripped her
fiercely by the arm, her face was white and set. For a moment Amanda's
eyes met hers. Then, as if in spite of herself, they fell, she freed
herself sullenly from Elizabeth's grasp.

"Well, I guess I didn't mean much," she said, awkwardly, "or if I did,
it don't matter. I wouldn't tell tales against--my first cousin"--She
turned the knob of the door, but again she paused, that weird smile
still flickering in her eyes. "Good-night," she said, "I hope you'll
enjoy your dinner. Too bad you haven't got your pearls." She gave one
last jarring laugh, opened the door and went out.

Elizabeth, white and trembling, sank into the nearest chair.

"How she frightened me!" she gasped out. "These constant shocks will
kill me. Does she know anything definite? Probably not. But what can I
do, how can I find out?--Ah, Celeste!"--as the maid appeared with an
anxious expression in the door-way. "The carriage is waiting? Very
well." She hurried to the dressing-table, caught up her gloves and
gave one hasty glance at her white face. "How ugly I am growing," she
thought, turning away with a shudder; "quite like Amanda! I see the
resemblance. It is this awful life. I wish--oh, how I wish I were
home!" The thought swept over her, thrilling her with an intense,
passionate longing for her aunts' presence, for the country quiet, for
rest and peace.

"Yes, I will go home," she thought, as Celeste adjusted the cloak
about her shoulders and she hastened down to the carriage. "I will go
home," she repeated to herself at intervals during the evening, while
she talked and laughed with a restless light in her eyes and a
feverish flush on her cheeks. "The country will be so peaceful. I
shall be quite safe there, away from all this agitation, this trying
to keep up appearances. It is the best way out. How fortunate that he
is away! I won't see him again before I go."

It was, she felt, an heroic resolution. Yes, she would go at once. And
she resolutely crushed back the thought: "He will follow."




_Chapter XXV_


"The Van Antwerps have come up for the summer," said Miss Joanna, who
had made the same announcement, if you remember, not quite a year
before. "The butcher says they came last night. They never got here so
early before."

Elizabeth, who was arranging flowers, looked up suddenly. "Yes, I
know," she said, quietly, "Eleanor wrote me." She left her roses half
arranged, and wandered restlessly over to the long French window.
Before her stretched the well-kept lawn, with its flower-beds and
rose-bushes and beyond, field and wooded upland, all clothed in their
newest, most vivid dress of green; further still the river, with the
white sails on its surface--that river from which, more than half a
century before, another Elizabeth Van Vorst had resolutely turned away
her eyes, refusing to be reminded of the life that she had given up.
But that woman of an older generation was made of sterner stuff,
perhaps, than her grand-daughter. And then there was not much travel
in those days, no daily mails, no guests coming up to neighboring
house-parties over Sunday.... "It will be nice for you, Elizabeth, to
have Mrs. Bobby," said Aunt Joanna, in her comfortable monotone, her
knitting-needles clicking peacefully. "You have found it a little
dull, you know, dear, since you came back."

A little dull! Elizabeth could have laughed out loud at the words. A
little dull--with such exciting subjects to discuss as the new Easter
anthem, and the latest illness of the Rectory children; with such
diversions as a drive to Bassett Mills, a tea-party at the Courtenays!
...

"If I am dull," she said, turning round presently with the ghost of a
smile "It certainly isn't the fault of the Neighborhood. I didn't tell
you that Mrs. Courtenay has asked me to tea--a third time. She says
'Frank will see me home--no need to send the carriage.'" She laughed a
little, not without a shade of bitterness. "Fancy Mrs. Courtenay
suggesting that--last summer!"

"Well, dear, she means well, I suppose," said Miss Joanna, puzzled but
kindly. Miss Cornelia raised her head with a little, involuntary touch
of pride.

"The Courtenays are--are really quite pushing, I think," she said, a
most unwonted tone of asperity in her voice. "I told Mrs. Courtenay,
Elizabeth, that you had been so _very gay_"--with emphasis--"you
really needed a complete rest."

Elizabeth laughed. "And of course," she said "that only made her--dear
good woman!--all the more anxious to provide me with a little more
amusement. I never realized before how fond the girls have always been
of me. But then that's the case, apparently with the whole
Neighborhood. They always concealed their affection for me very
successfully--until this spring!"

She paused, her aunts made no reply. She went over to the piano and
began absently turning over sheets of music.

"Do you remember, auntie," she said, abruptly--Miss Joanna had left
the room in response to a summons from the maid, and Elizabeth and
Miss Cornelia were alone--"do you remember that I told you once that I
felt myself a sort of nondescript--neither flesh, fowl, nor good red
herring? But now I seem to be considered a very fine fowl indeed--the
ugly duckling, probably, that turned into a swan."

"You never were an _ugly_ duckling, my dear," Miss Cornelia could not
help protesting, in spite of her principles. "It certainly wasn't
that."

"Perhaps not," said Elizabeth, "at all events, I'm no better-looking
than I was--let us say, last year. I heard a woman at The Mills say
the other day that I had "gone off terrible," in my looks. But that
doesn't prevent Frank Courtenay from coming here day after day, boring
me to death, since he has discovered as his mother tells me, that I am
"just the style that he admires"--it doesn't prevent the Johnston
girls from going into raptures over my beautiful hair, and asking if I
mind their copying my lovely gowns. They _have_ copied my new spring
hat, if you notice. Oh, it would be amusing, if it wasn't--so very
petty!" She put out her hand with a weary, contemptuous gesture. "And
then the funny part of it all is that I am not really so nice, if they
only knew it, as I was last year, when they all treated me as if I
had committed some sort of crime, merely in existing."

"My dear," remonstrated Miss Cornelia, "how can you talk like that?
I'm sure you're not a bit spoiled--every one says so."

"Ah, they think so," said Elizabeth, quickly, "they think me nice,
because I've acquired a society manner, and say the correct thing, but
if they knew--everything"--she stopped suddenly and stood for a moment
staring steadily before her, with knit brows. "Do you know, Aunt
Cornelia," she said abruptly "what I think I am?--a sort of moral
nondescript, neither good nor bad. I see the right way--oh, I see it
so very plainly, and I want to take it; and then I choose the
wrong--always and inevitably I choose the wrong, and shall all my
life, until the end. It's not my fault, really--I can't do right, no
matter how hard I try."

"My dear!" Miss Cornelia looked at her, puzzled and shocked. "There's
no one," she said, putting into trite words her own simple conviction
"there's no one, Elizabeth, who can't do right, if they try hard
enough."

"Do you think so, auntie?" said Elizabeth, very gently. "Then probably
I don't try--hard enough." She went over to Miss Cornelia and kissed
her on the cheek. "If I were like you," she said, "I should." Then
without further words, she sat down at the piano and began to play, as
she did every day for hours at a time. Such restless, passionate,
brilliant playing! A vague uneasiness mingled in Miss Cornelia's mind
with her pride in the girl's talent, as she listened to it. Something
was troubling Elizabeth, evidently; something which had brought her
home so unexpectedly, which had changed her in looks and manner beyond
what could be accounted for by excitement and late hours. Yet innate
delicacy and timidity prevented Miss Cornelia from forcing in any way
the confidence which seemed to tremble, now and again, upon the girl's
lips. She had a vague idea that the difficulty, whatever it was, would
soon be decided one way or another, that the Van Antwerps' arrival,
which Elizabeth seemed at once to dread and look forward to, would
bring matters to a crisis, and the whole thing would be explained.

Elizabeth was still playing when Mrs. Bobby interrupted her. That she
had not allowed a day to elapse before hastening to the Homestead was
a fact noted with jealous care by the Misses Courtenay, who met her at
the gate.

"He is desperate." Mrs. Bobby's visit had not lasted many minutes
before she murmured this, holding Elizabeth's hand, and scanning
eagerly her averted face. At Mrs. Bobby's words it quivered, the color
flushed into her cheek; but otherwise she made no sign.

"When you first went away," Mrs. Bobby continued, as no answer came,
"he was all for coming up here at once. He thought it a caprice, a
morbid, unaccountable whim; he was sure that if he could see you,
remonstrate with you--And then there was your letter, forbidding him
to come. He was beside himself! It was all I could do to keep him
from taking the first train up here. I said--Wait--it doesn't do,
always, to force a woman's will; give her a little time. At least she
has paid you the compliment, which she has paid to no one else
of--running away from your attentions."

She paused, her eyes still eagerly fixed upon Elizabeth's face. The
color in the girl's cheek was now brilliant, her lips were parted; but
still she did not speak.

"Day after day," said Mrs. Bobby, "we have talked it over--he walking
up and down, restless, wild; I trying to soothe him, urging him to be
patient--Sometimes he thinks that you are revenging yourself in this
way for his former neglect, that it is a little scheme to pay him
back--the idea drives him frantic, makes him furious with himself, yet
he is always encouraged when he thinks of it. And then again--he
thinks that you don't care for him, that you never will, that there is
some one else.... Ah, my dear, if you really do care, you are cruel,
unpardonably cruel, to torment him like this."

Again she paused. Elizabeth, with a quick, impatient movement, dragged
her hand away from her grasp, and began to pace up and down, gasping
as if for breath. "Cruel," she cried out, "cruel! And you think it
gives me pleasure--to torment him!"

"If it doesn't," said Mrs. Bobby, following her with her eyes and
speaking with some coldness, "I confess I am at a loss to account for
your behavior."

Elizabeth stopped suddenly and bending down, almost buried her face
in the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled.

"There never was a man," said Mrs. Bobby, "who loved a woman more than
he loves you, Elizabeth. And there isn't a man, who, I believe,
deserves a woman better."

"Deserves her!" murmured Elizabeth, "deserves _me_! Oh, good Heavens!"
The exclamation was barely audible, and apparently addressed only to
the roses.

"I said to him yesterday," said Mrs. Bobby, "'You'll come up Saturday,
of course?' But--he's proud now and hurt, Elizabeth--he said: 'I won't
come, I won't force myself upon her without--her knowledge and
consent. If she knows, if she's willing, why, then, I'll come--not
otherwise.'"

There was a pause. Elizabeth turned presently a face which seemed to
reflect the glowing color of the roses over which she had bent. "What
do you--want me to do, Eleanor?" she asked, softly.

"Tell me what I shall say," said Mrs. Bobby "in the letter which I
must write when I get home." She went over to Elizabeth and put her
hand on her arm. "Shall he come, or shall he not? It rests with you."

Elizabeth's eyes were again averted. "It isn't for me, Eleanor," she
murmured, "to drive your guests away, if--if they really want to
come."

And so Mrs. Bobby, when she got home, wrote her letter. It consisted
of only one word.

The Saturday following was extremely warm. The Rector and his wife
came to take tea at the Homestead, and they all sat afterwards in the
dimly-lighted drawing-room. Elizabeth wandered to the long French
window, and stood looking out upon the moon-lit lawn. "It's so warm
that I think I shall go for a walk," she said, half aloud, but no one
heard her. The Rector was telling Miss Cornelia about the death of an
old clergyman in Cranston, who had lived alone with two old servants.
Elizabeth stood and listened for a moment to the deep, impressive
tones which mingled strangely with the comfortable monotone which the
Rector's wife was addressing to Miss Joanna.

"And so," she was saying "you see I have had blue put on it again,
being more summery"--

"I feel particularly sorry," the Rector's voice broke in, "for the old
servants. They were quite prostrated, I fear, poor things! They too
have not long to live."

"Black satin at four dollars a yard," said his wife, "is sure to last
forever."

"He was an excellent man," said the Rector. "His death is a great
loss." But here Elizabeth, weary of listening, softly turned the knob
of the window and stepped out on the lawn.

What a beautiful night it was outside! The long twilight was fading
into dusk, but the moon silvered the shadows that the trees cast
across the road. Elizabeth walked to the gate and stood leaning
against it. In the distance she heard distinctly the sound of a
horse's hoofs. It grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments a man
on horseback was beside her, and drew his rein abruptly before this
figure in white, which stood like an apparition in his path.

"Elizabeth," he said. "Elizabeth, is it you?"

"Did you think it was my ghost?" she asked, with a soft laugh. Her
white gown shimmered in the moonlight, her hair framed in her face
with a vivid halo, her eyes shone like stars. Gerard sprang from his
horse.

"Elizabeth," he said "were you waiting for me?"

"Yes," she answered, "I was waiting for you."

And the next moment he had her in his arms, and she had forgotten all
other thoughts, all other claims, beneath the fervor of his kisses.




_Chapter XXVI_


The summer passed for an eventful one at Bassett Mills, being marked
by at least two subjects of conversation; the one the engagement of
Elizabeth Van Vorst of the Homestead "that girl of Malvina Jones," to
a gentleman from town, who was reported to be "rolling in wealth;" the
second, the illness of Amanda Jones, of that fashionable disease
called nervous prostration, which no other girl at Bassett Mills but
Amanda, who had always given herself airs, would have had the time or
the money to indulge in. She had been taken ill while visiting her
relations in New York, and her mother had gone up to nurse her, and
announced on her return that Amanda was "that nervous" the
doctor--"the best that could be had," as she observed with pride, had
recommended complete rest, and sending her to a sanitarium for a few
months.

"But there really ain't much the matter with her," Amanda's mother
explained rather tartly to Elizabeth, who inquired for particulars as
to her cousin's illness. "She has fits of crying, and then of sitting
still and staring straight before her, like as if she was in a trance,
and then she'll get up, and walk up and down the room for hours, and
sometimes she'll notice you, and sometimes she won't--but dear me,
it's all nonsense, I say. If she had some hard work to do, it would be
better for her--but the doctor didn't seem to think so, and so I let
her go to the sanitarium. No one shall say that I grudge the expense,
as, thank Heaven! I don't have to, though there ain't another person
at The Mills that wouldn't."

"I'm sure I hope it will do her good," Elizabeth said, kindly. She
felt so glad to have Amanda, whatever the reason, away from Bassett
Mills that she was conscious of a sudden pang of remorse, which
increased when she received a letter from her cousin, congratulating
her upon her engagement. It was a perfectly rational letter, with only
slight references to her illness, and none at all to that unpleasant
last interview in town; and Elizabeth answered the congratulations in
the same amicable spirit in which they were offered, reflecting that,
after all, much of Amanda's peculiarity must be excused on the ground
of her persistent ill-health. And yet, as she sealed and directed her
own letter, she breathed again a fervent thanksgiving that Amanda was
safely out of the way.

There was another person for whose absence just then she felt devoutly
thankful. When her engagement was announced, early in July--against
her own wishes and in deference to Gerard's--she had received a
terrible letter from Halleck, denouncing her perfidy, and threatening
to come up at once. She had answered it as best she could, imploring
his silence, and enclosing a sum of money which she borrowed from her
aunts, on the plea of urgent bills--far from mythical, unfortunately,
but which remained unpaid. Whether or no Paul granted her request, he
pocketed the money, and she next heard of him as having gone abroad
for the summer. The piece of news, casually mentioned one day in the
course of conversation, thrilled her with a sense of overpowering
relief, a suggestion, against which she struggled in vain, of possible
accidents, of all the things that might reasonably happen to those who
travel by sea or land. Elizabeth breathed a devout wish--it might
almost be called a prayer--that this particular traveler might never
return.

Meanwhile, the summer passed; a cool, delightful summer, rich with a
succession of fragrant, sunshiny days and long, balmy evenings; and
signalized by what for the Neighborhood was an unusual amount of
gaiety. Several entertainments were given in honor of Elizabeth's
engagement, among others a large dinner at the Van Antwerps'. And for
this Elizabeth wore--it was Gerard's fancy--the same white gown in
which he had first seen her, which he vowed that he cared for more
than all her other gowns put together. And though she had pouted a
little and declared that the others were far more smart, she yielded
to his wishes in this, as she did in most things. Yet during the
evening she noticed now and again his eyes fixed upon her with an odd,
doubtful expression, as one who searches his memory for the details of
a likeness, and finds inexplicably something lacking.

"I know what it is," he announced, abruptly, when they had wandered
after dinner for a little while into the conservatory. "I was
wondering what it was I missed, and now I know. You haven't got on
your pearls. You wore them that night--in fact, I never saw you in
full dress without them."

She flushed beneath his wondering gaze, reflecting how constantly he
had observed her, wishing--almost--that he had not observed her quite
so much.

"Did you forget them?" he asked smiling, as she made no response, but
merely put up her hand to her white neck, as if just reminded of the
fact that it was unadorned.

She plucked a rose from a plant near by, and began, nonchalantly, to
pull it to pieces.

"Oh, I--I didn't feel in the mood to put them on," she said
carelessly. "I--somehow I think I shall _not_ be in the mood to wear
them again for a long while."

He was watching her lazily, an amused smile gleaming in the depths of
his dark eyes. "What an odd, capricious child you are!" he said.
"You're all made up of moods. I never know what to expect next."

She was picking the rose to pieces very deliberately, petal by petal,
her eyes cast down. "Yes, I'm all made up of moods," she echoed,
softly. "You must never be surprised at anything I do or say."

"I'm not," he returned, smiling. "And yet," he went on, after a
moment, "I confess I'm a little surprised--and disappointed at this
last one. I was thinking, to tell the truth, as I had an idea you
valued those pearls particularly, of asking you to let me have them,
so that I could get you another string to match them exactly."

The last petal of the rose fell from Elizabeth's hand, she stared up
at Gerard with an odd, frightened expression. "Don't," she broke out,
harshly. "I--I hate pearls." Then with a sudden change, as she saw the
absolute bewilderment in his face, she laid her hand gently on his
arm. "Dear," she said, very sweetly, "you must have patience with my
moods. I've got an idea, just now, that pearls are unlucky. It's very
silly, I know, but--don't argue with me. Bear with me, Julian, let me
have my own way--a little."

They were alone in the conservatory. He put his arm around her and
pressed his lips to hers. "A little," he murmured. "Have your own
way--a little! Didn't I tell you, my darling, that you should have
your own way in everything?"

She seemed to shrink away with an involuntary shiver at the words.
"Ah, but I don't want it," she protested. "It's the last thing I want.
If"--she freed herself from his hold and stood looking him, very
sweetly and steadily, in the face--"if we are married, Julian"--

"_If!_" he echoed, reproachfully.

"It's always safer to say 'if'" she said.

"Ah, but that's a suggestion I won't tolerate," he declared, firmly.
"I'll have my own way in that, if in nothing else. But, _when_ we are
married, Elizabeth"--he paused.

"When we are married, then,"--she ceded the point resignedly,
blushing rosy red--"when we are married, Julian, it must be your way,
not mine. Yours is far better, wiser--yes"--she stopped his protest
with an imperious gesture--"I feel it, even though I try sometimes to
dispute it. I shall never do that--later. I shall try, with all the
strength I have, to be more worthy of your love. But now--just now,
Julian"--she looked at him anxiously, and a note of appeal crept into
her voice--"if I seem odd, wilful, don't blame me, don't--doubt me"--

"Doubt you?" He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. "I
shall never doubt you--again, my darling, no matter what you do or
say."

There was the ring of absolute confidence in his voice. Yet it might
have been that which made her shiver and shrink away, almost as if he
had struck her a blow.

"I--I think we had better go back to the others," she announced,
abruptly, in a moment, and her intonation was quick and sharp, almost
as if she were frightened and trying to escape from some threatened
danger. "It"--she smiled uncertainly--"it's not quite good form, I
think, for us to wander off like this."

"Hang good form!" said Gerard, but still he followed her back
resignedly to the other room, and she gave, as they reached the lights
and the people, a soft sigh of relief, which fortunately he did not
hear. Yet he noticed that for the rest of the evening she was paler
than she had been at first.

This pallor increased when Mrs. Bobby, too, voiced the question which
had been perplexing her all the evening, as to why she did not wear
the pearls. Elizabeth did not mention her moods--it is evident that
women cannot be put off, in such important questions as that of
jewelry, with the vague answers that might satisfy a man. She said
that the string had broken, and she had sent them to town to be
re-strung. Her aunts knew that they had been there for that purpose
since early spring, and they could not understand why she did not send
for them, since other things had been left at the same jeweler's--notably
that little jeweled watch, which they had heard of, but never seen. It
was odd that Elizabeth should have lost, to so large an extent, her
taste for pretty things.

Gerard, too, noticed this, but he would not ask her any more
questions. Later he gave her a string of emeralds set with diamonds,
which she wore to entertainments in the Neighborhood that autumn, and
no one asked any more questions about the pearls, since it was natural
that she should prefer to wear his gift.

His trust in her was absolute, as he had said. It seemed as if he
would make amends now by the plenitude of his confidence, for that
former instinctive, reasonless distrust. And then she was so different
from the frivolous girl he had first imagined her. Every day he
reproached himself with his old estimate of her character, as he
discovered in her new and unexpected depths of brain and soul. She
read all the books that he recommended--some of them very deep, and
she would once have thought very tiresome--and she surprised him by
the intelligence of her criticisms, she took a sympathetic interest in
those articles by which he was making a name for himself in the
scientific world, and she entered with an apparently perfect
comprehension into all his hopes, thoughts and aspirations. There was
only one thing in which she baffled him, one point where her old
wilfulness would come between them. This was her obstinate and
unaccountable refusal to name their wedding day.

The Neighborhood was exercised on the subject. It had been decided by
unanimous consent that the wedding should be in the autumn--"quite the
best time for a wedding" as the Rector's wife observed, and lay awake
one whole night planning the most charming (and inexpensive)
decorations of autumn leaves and golden-rod. But all the reward she
received for her pains was the information that Elizabeth did not care
for autumn weddings, and as the Misses Van Vorst at Gerard's request,
had taken a small apartment in town for the winter, the Rector's wife
had many pangs at the thought that the Bassett Mills church and her
husband would lose all the prestige that would attend this great
event--to say nothing of the fee.

But when Gerard, as a matter of course, spoke of their being married
in town, Elizabeth looked up deprecatingly into his face.

"Wait till I'm twenty-one," she pleaded. "This is my unlucky year, you
know. Do please, Julian, wait till it's over."

But Gerard's face was set in rigid lines, like that of a man who is
determined to stand no more trifling. Elizabeth's unlucky year would
not be past till April.




_Chapter XXVII_


It was a bleak December day and Central Park seemed the last place
where one would wish to loiter. The sky hung lowering overhead, gray,
cold, heavy with the weight of invisible snowflakes. The wind made a
dull moaning sound, as it stirred the bare branches of the trees. The
lake, where at another season you see children sailing in the
swan-boats, was nearly covered with a thin coating of ice. But
Elizabeth Van Vorst as she stood with eyes intently fixed upon the
small space of water still visible, did not seem to notice either the
cold or the dreariness of the scene. She was leaning against a tree,
and looking at nothing but the lake, till at the sound of foot-steps
on the path, she turned to face Paul Halleck.

"So you got my note," she said, speaking listlessly, without a sign of
surprise or satisfaction. She did not give him her hand, which clasped
the other tightly, in the warm shelter of her muff.

"Yes, I got it; but I could wish you had chosen a warmer
meeting-place, my dear." The last months had changed him, and not for
the better. His figure had grown stouter, his beauty coarser. She
shrank away in invincible repugnance from the careless familiarity of
his manner.

"It was the best place I could think of," she said, curtly. "At home,
we are always interrupted; at your studio--it is impossible. I had to
see you--somehow, somewhere." She sat down on a bench near by, and
shivering drew her furs about her.

"You do me too much honor," Paul returned, lightly. He took the seat
beside her, his eyes resting, in involuntary fascination, on the
rounded outlines of her cheek, the soft waves of auburn hair beneath
her small black hat. "It's a long time since you have wished to see me
of your own accord, my dear," he said, in a tone in which resentment
struggled with his old, instinctive admiration of her beauty.

She turned to him, suddenly, her eyes hard, her face very white and
set. "You know the reason." "I had to see you, to--to talk things
over. You assume a right to control me, you ask me for money, you try
to frighten me with threats. There must be an end of it. I"--she
paused for a moment, and drew her breath quickly, while she flushed a
dull crimson. "I have promised--Mr. Gerard," she said "to--to marry
him next month."

He interrupted her with a scornful laugh. "To marry him--next month,"
he repeated. "And how about that ceremony which we know of--you and
I--in the church at Cranston?"

The crimson flush faded and left her white, but still she did not
flinch. "I have thought of that," she said, steadily, "and I have
decided that it should not--make any difference. I don't believe the
marriage would be legal--but that's neither here nor there. I don't
want a divorce, I don't want the thing known, I don't consider that we
were ever married. I don't think such a marriage as ours, which we
both entered into without the slightest thought, which we have
repented of"--

"Speak for yourself," he interposed.

"Which I have repented of, then," she went on, "ought to be binding.
The clergyman who married us is dead; the witnesses, so old that they
are childish, probably remember nothing about it. There is no one now
living who remembers, except you and I. And for me I have determined
to think of it as a dream, and I want you to promise me to do the
same."

"But--there is the notice in the parish register." He was staring at
her blankly, admiring in spite of himself, the calm resolution of her
manner, the business-like precision with which she was unfolding her
arguments, as if she had rehearsed them many times to herself.

"I have thought of that, too," she said, in answer to his last
objection, "and I don't think it in the least likely that any one will
ever see it. Why should they, without any clue? At all events, this
is--the only way out." She faltered as her mind wandered for a moment
unwillingly to another way which she had now despaired of--too easy a
solution to her difficulties ever to come true. What a fool she had
been to think that he would die! People like that never die. As she
saw him now, in the full pride of his health and good looks, it
seemed impossible to believe that any misfortune could assail
him--least of all death! ...

"There is--no other way," she repeated, with a little, involuntary
sob. "The risks are not great--but, at any rate, I must take them.
Now, there is only one other thing"--She paused for a moment and then
drew out of her purse a plain gold ring, and showed it to him. It was
the ring which she had once worn on her finger for a few minutes,
which she had kept carefully hidden ever since. She glanced about her;
there was no one in sight except the policeman, who in the distance
near the carriage-drive, was pacing up and down at his cold post and
beating his hands to keep them warm. Elizabeth rose and went to the
edge of the lake. With well-directed aim, she threw the tiny circlet
of gold so that it struck the fast-vanishing surface of water and
quickly disappeared. She drew a long sigh of relief. "There," she
said, "that is over."

Paul watched her curiously. He saw that she attached to this little
action a mysterious significance. He sneered harshly. "Very pretty and
theatrical," he said. "But do you really think that by a thing like
that--throwing away a ring--you can dissolve a marriage?"

She turned to him, her white face still resolute and intensely solemn.
"I don't know," she said, quietly, "but I wanted to throw it away
before you, so that you would understand that everything is over
between us, and that day at Cranston is as if it never had been.
_Never had been_, you understand," she repeated, with eager emphasis.
"I want you to promise to think of it like that."

He shrugged his shoulders. "How we either of us think of it, I
suppose, doesn't make much difference so far as the legality of the
thing goes," he said. "But,--have your own way. If you choose to
commit a crime, it's not my affair."

"A crime!" She started and stared at him. "Do you call that a crime?"

He smiled. "It's a rough word to use for the actions of a charming
young girl," he said "but I'm afraid that the law might look at it in
that light."

Elizabeth returned to the bench and sat down. She seemed to be
pondering this new view of the matter. "I can't help it," she said at
last, in a low voice. "If that's a crime, why--I understand how people
are led into them. And I can't ruin his happiness, crime or no crime."

"And my happiness?" he asked her bitterly. "You never think of that?
You professed to love me once. You took me for better, for worse, and
how have you kept your word? If my life is ruined, the responsibility
is yours. If you had gone with me as I wanted you to, I should have
been a different man." There was a curious accent of sincerity in his
voice. He really believed for the moment what he said.

The reproach was not without effect. She looked at him more gently,
with troubled eyes that seemed to express not only contrition, but a
certain involuntary sympathy. "It's true," she said. "I have treated
you badly, and broken the most solemn promise any one could make. I
don't defend myself; but--I'm willing to make what amends I can. I
can't give you myself, but at least I can give you what little money
you would have had with me. When I am married to"--she paused and
flushed, but concluded her sentence firmly--"to Mr. Gerard, I will
give you--all the money I have."

Paul paced up and down, apparently in deep thought. It was evident
that her offer tempted him, yet some impulse urged him to refuse it.
He stopped suddenly in front of her. "Principal or interest, do you
mean?" he asked, in a tone in which the thirst for gain distinctly
predominated.

The doubtful sympathy in Elizabeth's eyes faded, and was replaced by a
look of unmistakable disgust. "I suppose I could hardly give you the
principal," she said, coldly. "But I will pay over the income every
year." She named the sum. "Isn't it enough?"

"That depends," he said, looking at her coolly. "It is enough, of
course, for Elizabeth Van Vorst, but for Mrs. Julian Gerard"--

He stopped as an electric shock of anger seemed to thrill Elizabeth
from head to foot. "You don't suppose," she cried, "that I would give
you _his_ money?"

"Then," said Paul, curtly, "he doesn't know?"

"Certainly not," she said, haughtily.

He began again reflectively to pace up and down. "I don't see," he
said, "how you are to pay me over this money without his knowing it."

"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Elizabeth, contemptuously.
"Mr. Gerard will never ask what I do with my money."

"Well he has enough of his own, certainly," said Paul,
philosophically. "And yet, poor fellow, I am sorry for him if he ever
finds out how you have deceived him."

"He never _shall_ find out," said Elizabeth. She rose and pulled down
her veil. "It is so cold," she said shivering, and indeed she looked
chilled to the core. "I cannot stay here any longer. This thing is
settled, isn't it? You will promise?" There was a tone of piteous
entreaty in her voice.

"How am I to know," he asked, still hesitating "that you will keep
your word? Once married to Gerard, you might--forget."

"If I do," she returned quietly, "you will always have the power to
break yours and ruin my happiness."

"So be it, then. I won't interfere with you. After all, we probably
shouldn't have got on well. Come--let us part friends, at least."

He held out his hand, but hers was again securely hidden in her muff,
and the smile that gleamed on her face was pale and cold as the winter
day itself. "Good-bye," she said, and turned away. He fell back, with
a muttered oath.

"Upon my word, my lady," he said, "you might be a little more
gracious." At that moment Elizabeth came back. There was a softer look
on her face.

"I loved you once," she said. "Good-bye." And she held out her hand.
He took it in silence. Thus they parted for the last time.

It had been a successful interview. She had gained all that she dared
hope for. Seated in the warm car going home, and shivering as from an
ague, she told herself that she had silenced forever all opposition to
her wishes. Yet it did not seem a victory. Words which Paul had said
lingered in her mind, stinging her with their contempt, the fact that
even he could set himself above her. "A crime!" She had never
considered it in that light. Surely it was impossible on the face of
it that she, Elizabeth Van Vorst, could commit a crime.... And then
again--what was it he had said? "Poor fellow, I am sorry for him, if
ever he finds out how you have deceived him."

"But he never shall," she said to herself, resolutely as before.
"Crime or no crime, his love is worth it. He never shall find out."




_Chapter XXVIII_


Elizabeth had little time in those days for thought. There was still
less time, even, when she was alone with Gerard. The days passed in a
whirl of gaiety, in which she had been swallowed up since her return
to town. It was a state of things which bored Gerard extremely, but
secure in the promise he had at last obtained from her that the
wedding should be at the end of January he possessed his soul in such
patience as he could muster. And when he requested as a special favor,
that she would refuse all invitations for the thirty-first of December
and see the Old Year out in peace, she consented at once, and the hope
of a quiet evening buoyed him up through other weary ones, when he
would lean in his old fashion against the wall, and watch her across a
ball-room, the center of an admiring court. Yet, even as he did so,
the proud consciousness of proprietorship swelled his heart. She was
his--his! He had no longer any doubt of her, or jealousy of the men
who talked to her.

Why then was the expected evening, when it came, fraught with an
intangible sense of gloom, of oppression, which made the time pass
heavily? The old Dutch clock, which the Misses Van Vorst had brought
with them from the country seemed to-night to mark the hours with
extraordinary slowness, as if the Old Year were in no hurry to be
gone, even though the noises in the street, the blowing of horns and
of whistles were enough, one might have thought, to hasten his
departure.

Elizabeth was pacing restlessly up and down the room. Her hands were
clasped carelessly before her, her long house-dress of white cashmere,
belted in by a gold girdle, fell about her in graceful folds. There
was a flush in her cheeks, a somewhat feverish light in her eyes; she
started nervously now and then as some enterprising small boy blew an
especially shrill blast on his horn.

"I don't know why it is," she said at last with a petulant little
laugh, coming back to her seat by the fire opposite Gerard, and taking
up a piece of work, in which she absently set a few stitches, "New
Year's Eve always gets on my nerves, I think of all my sins--and
that's very unpleasant!" She broke off, pouting childishly, as if in
disgust at the intrusion of unwelcome ideas.

He was watching her lazily, with the amused, indulgent smile which
certain of her moods had always the power to call forth; the smile of
a strong man, who felt himself quite able to cope with them. "With
such terrible sins as yours, Elizabeth," he said, "it must be indeed a
dreadful thing to think of them."

She turned quickly towards him. "You don't think that they can be very
bad?"

"I should be willing to take the risk of offering you absolution."

She bent down over her work so that her face was hidden. "Ah, you--you
don't know"----she rather breathed than spoke. He only smiled
incredulously, as one who knew her better than she did herself.

"Play for me, darling," he said, after awhile, and she went
mechanically to the piano. But her playing was always a matter of
mood, and to-night her fingers faltered, the keys did not respond as
usual. She passed restlessly from one thing to another--snatches of
Brahms, Chopin, Tschaikowski, with the same jarring note running
through them all.

She broke off at last, with a wild clash of chords. "I can't play
to-night," she said, and came back to the fire. "How calm you are!"
she said, standing beside Gerard and looking down at him with eyes
almost of reproach. "This horrible evening doesn't get on your nerves
at all."

"How can it?"--Gerard possessed himself of her hand and raised it to
his lips.--"How can I waste any regrets on the Old Year," he said,
"when the New Year is to bring me--so much happiness?"

She started and caught her breath, as if the words held a sting. "Ah,
yes," she repeated, very low "it is to bring you--so much happiness!"
For a moment she left her hand in his and then withdrew it with a
stifled sigh. She went back very still and pale, to her seat on the
other side of the fire, and taking up her work, she fixed her eyes
upon it intently.

"And so you think it is to bring you happiness?" she said, in a low
voice, continuing the subject as it seemed in spite of herself. "You
are quite sure of that, Julian, you have--no doubts?" She raised her
eyes with a wistful questioning that puzzled him.

"Doubts, Elizabeth!" He stared back at her reproachfully, his brows
drawn together frowning. "Why do you harp so much on that, my darling?
Why should I have doubts?"

"Why, some men might, you know."--Her eyes were bent again upon her
work.--"You yourself--you had them, you know, when you first knew me."

He flushed. "Don't remind me of that," he said, hastily.

"Well, it may have been a true presentiment."--She gave him an odd,
furtive look. "I've wondered--sometimes--if I were as nice naturally
as other girls I know. I hadn't, to begin with, the sort of mother
that--most girls have"----She hesitated, a painful crimson flooded her
face, her eyes filled with tears. Gerard stared at her in amazement.
He had never heard her allude to her mother before, and had supposed
her entirely ignorant of all painful facts in the family history.

"Darling," he broke out, indignantly, "who has told you--things like
that?"

"Who? Oh! I don't know."--She put the question aside listlessly.--"One
always hears unpleasant facts, somehow. I always knew that she wasn't
the--the sort of person that the Neighborhood would call on"--a
painful smile hovered about her lips. "It used to make me very
unhappy--but lately--it hasn't seemed to matter. And yet--I think of
it sometimes"----She broke off suddenly and looked at Gerard with a
strange light in her eyes. "Doesn't it make a difference to you?
Doesn't it occur to you sometimes that I may be--my mother's daughter;
that it would be wiser to--distrust me?" Her voice died away at the
last words into a hoarse whisper.

"Elizabeth!"--Gerard sprang to his feet. He went over to her and took
both her hands in his strong grasp. "Elizabeth, never let me hear
these morbid fancies again. Never suppose that anything your mother
did or left undone, can make a difference in my faith in you!"

He stood looking down at her with eyes full of an imperious
tenderness. She trembled and shrank away before them, as if
frightened. "You trust me, then?" she repeated, and she drew a long
sobbing breath. "You're quite _sure_ you trust me?"

"Absolutely."--Gerard's smile lit up his face.--"How often, you
exacting woman," he asked, "do you want me to promise that I will
never doubt you again."

There was silence for a moment. The noises in the street sounding
suddenly with redoubled violence in the stillness, seemed to punctuate
Gerard's words with an outburst of derision. To Elizabeth's fancy the
whole atmosphere of the room was tense, vibrant, filled with jarring
echoes of the noise without. Even the old Dutch clock, whose ticking
was one of her earliest memories, seemed to beat with a new,
discordant note of mockery, as if it too were uttering its ironical
comment on the wisdom of a man's faith.

Elizabeth shuddered and thrust Gerard's hands away. "I wish--I wish I
deserved your trust, Julian," she broke out, wildly. Then she laid her
face on the arm of the chair and sobbed. He fell back and stared at
her aghast. The tender smile was arrested, frozen on his lips. For
him, too, as for her, the room was suddenly filled with discordant
vibrations, a sense of unreasoning dread.

In a moment Elizabeth looked up; with a great effort she conquered her
tears. She went to Gerard and put her hand on his arm. The face she
raised to his was white, trembling in a pathetic appeal. The tears
still glistened on her long lashes, there was a tremulous sweetness in
her great dark eyes, in the quivering lines about her pale lips.
"Julian," she said, "if I'm not--not worthy of your trust--not worthy
of your love, even"--she faltered--"if I had deceived you--_were_
deceiving you still"----she paused and looked him in the face with an
agonized questioning.

"Yes?"--Gerard's hoarse voice urged her on.--"If you were deceiving
me? It isn't--it can't be true, but if you were?"----

"If I were," she went on, steadily, "if I had kept one thing from
you--against my will--oh, God knows! sorely against my will"--her
voice broke--"if it had been a weight on my mind day and night--if I
had longed to tell you and had tried to do it and always--my courage
failed me, and--and--if at last--at last, I told you--would
you--think me so very much to blame, couldn't you--forgive?"--Her
voice again faltered piteously, the last word was barely audible.

He broke away from her and took two or three turns up and down the
room, breathing heavily, like a man who had been running. "Tell me
what this secret is?" he broke out, fiercely, pausing suddenly in
front of her. "How can I tell if----I could forgive, till I know what
it is?"

Again the silence. Elizabeth's white lips tried, apparently in vain,
to form an answer. The courage which a moment before had possessed
her, seemed to shrivel up and die away, before that fierce light in
his eyes.

"Tell me," he repeated, inexorably, "what it is."

She put out her hand suddenly with a pleading gesture. "Ah, let us
first see the Old Year out together," she murmured, "as we planned. I
should like to feel that you loved me till--the very end of it. You
may not--afterwards. It won't be long. See--it's nearly time." She
glanced up at the clock. It was ticking faster now, as it seemed, and
steadily, the hour hand well towards midnight.

Elizabeth went to the window and flung it open. The current of cold
air which flooded the room seemed to give her relief; she leaned out
as far as she could, inhaling it in long, fevered gasps. Gerard
followed and stood behind her, in an agony of impatience, distraught
by a hundred incongruous, terrible suggestions. The prolonged suspense
seemed, in his over-wrought state, a very refinement of cruelty, yet
some instinct kept him silent, left to her the mastery of the
situation.

In the street there was unwonted stir and bustle. A crowd assembled to
greet the New Year. Small boys, whose horns made the night hideous,
pranced about like uncouth imps of darkness; the street-lamps, as they
flickered, cast a weird, uncertain light on the snow-covered ground.
But the moon, riding overhead, shone peacefully, and myriads of stars
studded the wintry sky. Down towards the Battery one could hear, above
all coarser sounds, the chimes of Old Trinity ringing faint but true.

Elizabeth's eyes were riveted upon St. George's clock, which stood
out, not many blocks away, above the roofs of intervening houses. Her
lips moved, but no sound came; one hand grasped convulsively the
curtain behind her. To Gerard as he watched her those fifteen minutes
before the New Year were the longest of his life.

Suddenly all noises slackened; upon the listening crowd outside there
fell a pause, a hush of expectation. St. George's clock boomed out the
hour in twelve majestic strokes. The old Dutch clock within the room
echoed it in quieter tones. And then, as the last stroke died away,
the crowd stirred, there arose a hideous Babel of sound--cat-calling,
shouting, blowing of horns and whistles; pandemonium set loose. It
raged for several minutes, and stopped abruptly, exhausted by its own
violence. There was again silence, and then a burst of laughter. Some
one in the crowd cried loudly and heartily: "Happy New Year!"

Elizabeth shivered, as if with a sudden consciousness of the cold. She
shut the window and faced Gerard. Against the vivid background of the
crimson curtain, in her clinging white dress, her pale beauty, crowned
by her red-gold hair, stood out with a strange, unearthly quality,
like that of some pictured saint. There was a look on her face which
was tragic in its despairing resolution, yet which had in it a certain
exaltation, as if she had risen for the moment at least, above
herself, to heights hitherto unknown.

"You shall know the worst of me, at last. You won't"--she gave an odd
little laugh--"you won't grant me absolution, Julian, I'm afraid. But
oh, I'm sick--God knows, I'm sick of lies!" She paused and caught her
breath as if for one supreme effort. "This is the truth," she said. "I
was married to Paul Halleck--before I knew you, more than a year ago."

He staggered back, as if she had struck him a blow. "You
were--married--to Paul Halleck?"

"Yes," she repeated, in a dull monotone, "married to him--more than a
year ago."

He was still staring at her as if stupefied. "Married!" he repeated,
"married all this time!--when you professed to love me! When"--a
pause--"you promised to marry me! Oh, it's impossible," he cried, with
a sudden flash of incredulity, and he put out his hand and touched her
involuntarily. "Say you're only playing with me," he begged her,
"trying my faith--say it's not true." His voice shook, unconsciously
his hand closed upon her wrist with a grasp that might have hurt her,
had she been capable just then of feeling physical pain.

"It--it is true," she said, and stood motionless, white and rigid as a
statue, her head bent.

He still stared incredulous for a moment, and then the reality of what
she said seemed to sink into his soul. With a quick, involuntary
gesture, which wounded more than words, he let her hand fall, and
began to pace up and down the room.

"Good God!" she heard him mutter. "Married all these months!--and I,
who loved you, trusted you!"----He broke off with a gesture of angry
despair. Her lip quivered, her eyes followed him for a moment and then
filled with tears. She went over to the mantel-piece, and resting her
arms upon it, she hid her face.

It was a long time before he stopped beside her, but then his voice
showed recovered self-control. "Will you tell me," he said, "exactly
how and when this marriage took place?"

She turned with a little shuddering sigh and raised her white,
exhausted face to his. "It was at Cranston," she said, quietly, "one
day in July. I did it hastily. My aunts were opposed to it, and--I
hated to make them unhappy. But I--I thought I loved him. It was a
mistake. I went up to Cranston to meet him, and--we were married. It
was in church--there were witnesses, we signed a register--it was all
legal, or at least I suppose so. And then--when we came out"----she
paused.

"Yes--when you came out?"--Gerard repeated the words hoarsely, his
brows drawn together, his eyes fixed upon her in an agonized
questioning.--"What then, Elizabeth?"

She hesitated, staring straight before her, as if she were trying to
recall the whole thing exactly as it happened. "When we came out of
the church, I felt--I don't know why--I felt frightened. I seemed to
realize--indeed, I think I _had_ realized all the time--what a mistake
it was. He begged me to come away with him, and I--I refused. He had
promised me that I should go home, and that he wouldn't claim me for
six months, and--I held him to it. He gave in at last, and so--we
parted"----

"Ah!"--Gerard drew a long breath.--"You--parted?"

"Yes. I left him and came home. I got there about four--my aunts
suspected nothing. He went abroad. And--after a while he stopped
writing, I thought he had forgotten me. It all began to seem like a
dream. And then--Eleanor Van Antwerp asked me to come to town,
and--the rest you know."

"No, not all." Gerard insisted. "When the fellow came home, why didn't
he claim you? How have you kept him quiet, all this time?"

"Ah, that was easy."--She spoke listlessly.--"He didn't care anything
about me; I used to give him money. I sold my pearls--all my jewelry,
in fact. Yes"--as Gerard uttered a horrified exclamation--"it was a
terrible bondage, but what could I do? He had me in his power. I used
to wonder if the marriage were legal, but there was no one whom I
dared ask. And then I thought sometimes that he might die--I had all
sorts of wild ideas; but nothing happened, and meanwhile he
threatened--to tell you everything. I bought him off twice, and
then--this last time"--she paused--"this last time I promised him all
my income if he would give me up forever, and never trouble me again.
Ah, you think it unpardonable, I see"--she put out her hand with a
deprecating gesture--"but you don't know what it is to be
tempted--desperate. I was determined I wouldn't ruin my life. And
then--then"--her voice faltered--"this evening when you seemed so
happy, so trustful--that was what hurt me, Julian--it was easier when
you were jealous, suspicious, as you were at first--it came to me
suddenly that I couldn't begin the New Year--I couldn't begin our life
together with this--this terrible secret weighing on my soul. And so
I--I told you"----

Elizabeth's voice faltered, she raised her eyes in a half conscious
appeal. It seemed to her for the moment as if the agony of that
confession must make amends to some extent even for such deceit as
hers. But Gerard's face did not soften. Her whole conduct seemed to
him monstrous, incredible. He could not accept as atonement this tardy
repentance, the fact that she had told him the truth--at the eleventh
hour.

The thought occurred to him, which she had herself suggested, earlier
in the evening. He remembered chance gossip of the Neighborhood about
her antecedents, listened to vaguely even before he knew her, and
haunting him afterwards in the first days of their acquaintance, till
love had made him cast it aside, as a thing of no importance. Now it
recurred to his mind as the only explanation--he did not accept it as
an excuse--of this weakness which seemed otherwise inexplicable. No
doubt there must be, he told himself, in the child of such
parents,--it would be strange if there were not--some hereditary
taint, some lack of moral fibre, which curiously imperceptible in
other ways, must needs assert itself in any great moral crisis. The
thought, which might have softened him, seemed at the time only to
steel him the more against her.

He fell again to pacing up and down, thinking it over; seeing past
incidents afresh in the merciless light of his present knowledge;
recalling this or that insignificant circumstance which at the time
had aroused, unreasonably as it seemed, his distrust;--her occasional
uneasiness and distress, that air she had of being on her guard, the
look in the picture--ah, he understood it now! It was the shadow of
falsehood, which for months had clouded her every thought and action.
What a fool he had been, he reflected fiercely--how he had allowed
himself to be deceived--made an easy prey by the extent of his
infatuation--how she had juggled with the truth, telling him the worst
of herself in such a way that he had believed, all the more
determinedly, the reverse.

He stopped at last his restless pacing to and fro and paused beside
her. The fierce tide of anger, the first bitterness of his
disillusion, had subsided. He was cold, with the coldness of despair.
His face was worn and haggard, as if from the suffering of years, but
it was set in rigid lines, from which all feeling seemed to have
vanished. His eyes were dry and hard.

"I think," he said, and there was a dull, toneless sound in his voice;
he spoke slowly, like one who either weighed his words with great
care, or was afraid to trust himself too far, "I think there had
better be an end to this. I should only say, if I said all I thought,
things I might afterwards--regret; and I wouldn't"--his voice broke
ever so little--"God knows I don't want to be unjust! But I
cannot"--he let his hand fall with a look of dull despair--"I _cannot_
understand how you have kept this from me all these months!"

He paused, as if expecting an answer, an excuse, perhaps of some sort;
but she said nothing, and he went on, after a moment, his voice
growing more uncertain: "It isn't so much the marriage--that could be,
perhaps"--He hesitated, his heavy brows drawn together frowning--"The
man must be an absolute wretch," he said, suddenly, "there must
be--for your sake I hope so--some way out"----

"Oh, for me"--she made a little gesture of utter carelessness--"for me
it can make no difference--now."

"For myself," he went on, not heeding her words, perhaps not fully
grasping their meaning, "I couldn't--whether the marriage held or
not--I couldn't forgive--being so deceived."

He stopped and again seemed to expect some protest, but she only
repeated, in a dull voice of complete acquiescence: "No, I didn't
think you could forgive--being so deceived"----

"Even if I could forgive," he said, "I could never trust"----

"No," she repeated, "you could never trust." Her face was colorless,
but impassive, as if it had been turned to stone, her voice was almost
as firm as his. "You are quite right," she said. "I deserve all the
harsh things you could say. It is kind of you to say--so few. Perhaps,
later, you'll judge me more gently; but--I couldn't expect it now. And
so"--she faltered and caught her breath, as if her strength failed
her--"and so good-bye," she said at last. "I think it can only hurt us
both to--discuss this any longer."

Her calmness stunned him. He had been prepared for tears--excuses--but
she offered no defence and made no effort to arouse his pity. There
was a dignity in her complete submission. He looked at her, his face
working with varied emotions; and then he said "Good-bye" mechanically
and took her hand for an instant. It was icy cold and lay impassively
in his. He dropped it and moved towards the door, as if under some
spell, deprived of all capacity for thought or feeling. Involuntarily,
her eyes followed him. Was this the parting, after so many months? But
at the door he paused, he looked back. The firelight played on her
hair, on her white dress, the drooping lines of her slender form, the
deathly pallor of her face, the despair in her eyes.... He softened,
perhaps, or it might be that the mere physical spell of her beauty
held him, even when all that made the glory of his love, had been
rudely shattered. He came back, caught her in his arms, and pressed
burning kisses on her lips. She trembled as if they had been blows,
but she made no effort to free herself. And then, as if ashamed of his
weakness, he let her go and went out hastily. A moment later she heard
the front door close, with a dull sound that echoed through the quiet
rooms.

She stood where he had left her, staring blankly about her at the
familiar objects which seemed to have acquired, during the last hour,
an air of change, of unreality. What had happened, what had she done?
Awhile ago she had been borne up by a courage that seemed almost
heroic, a sense of moral victory. Now that had failed her. She was
simply a woman despised and heart-broken, who by her own suicidal act
had destroyed her happiness.

"How--how can I bear it?" she broke out, at last, fiercely, and
sinking down on the hearth-rug, she lay prostrate, her face hidden,
while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. The old Dutch clock
ticked softly, pitifully, in the silence; the fire flickered and died
away. But outside in the street spasmodic whistles kept on blowing,
and belated wayfarers still bade each other, with laughter and
jollity, "Happy New Year."




_Chapter XXIX_


It was eight days later. Elizabeth's trouble and the New Year were
both a week old. She had lived through the time somehow or another,
had even faced those smaller trials which follow in the wake of any
great catastrophe. She had told the whole truth to her aunts--it was
only less hard than telling Gerard--she had written to her friends to
announce the breaking of her engagement, and had countermanded the
orders for her trousseau. These affairs disposed of, she was ready to
face the world with such strength as she had left.

For Gerard the situation was simpler. He had taken at once his man's
way out of it, and pacing the deck of an ocean steamer, he tried to
distract his mind and forget his trouble in plans for extensive travel
and scientific research. They had been his resource once before, when
a woman had disappointed him.

He had not seen Elizabeth again. He dreaded, perhaps, to trust
himself, or perhaps his anger was still too great. But he had written
before he left to her aunts, urging them to consult a lawyer and take
steps at once to free her from the results of her rash marriage. To
himself, he justified this weakness--if it were weakness--by the
thought of Halleck's baseness. "I could not bear to think of her as
his wife," he said to himself, "a fellow who could give her up for
money!"

Upon Elizabeth's aunts the affair had come like a thunderbolt. They
were quite unprepared for it, though many suspicious circumstances--the
mystery as to Elizabeth's jewels, her own occasional words--might have
suggested the idea that something was amiss. But absorbed in their
delight in the engagement, their affection for Gerard, they had not
the heart to formulate any doubt they might have felt. Now, in the
first shock of their awakening, they remembered unwillingly the same
facts of family history which had occurred to Gerard. What could they
have expected from Malvina's child but deceit, folly and disgrace? But
they were gentle souls, and had no reproaches for Elizabeth, only a
silent, sorrowful pity, which hurt the girl's proud spirit more than
the sharpest words.

She was lingering that morning, pale and languid, over her untasted
breakfast, and Miss Cornelia, from behind the coffee-urn, stole
anxious glances towards her, all sense of injury lost in her distress
over the girl's wretched looks, and fear that she was going to be ill.
They two were alone, Miss Joanna having already started to do her
marketing, when the maid entered with the belated newspaper. Miss
Cornelia held out her delicate, tremulous hand for it, nervously
apprehensive of that paragraph which no doubt in the society columns,
announced that the engagement between Miss Van Vorst and Mr. Gerard
had been broken "by mutual consent."

It was not this notice which met her eyes, but some exciting
head-lines on the first page which had already attracted the attention
of the cook and the housemaid.

"Elizabeth," said Miss Cornelia, in a stifled voice. "Elizabeth--what
is this?"

Elizabeth raised her vacant eyes, and saw Miss Cornelia deathly white
and staring in horror at the paper. "Is it?" she said. "It must be.
What a dispensation! So young, too."

"Auntie," said Elizabeth, impatiently, "why don't you say what it is?"

"I am afraid he was very ill prepared," said Miss Cornelia, apparently
talking to herself and oblivious of her niece's presence. But suddenly
she seemed to realize it and placed her hand over the paper. "My dear,
don't look at this yet," she faltered. "You--it will be a shock,
Elizabeth. Prepare yourself."

Elizabeth did not wait to hear more, but went to her and seized the
paper from her hand. The headline told, in large type, how Paul
Halleck, the prominent young singer, had died the evening before of a
mysterious draught of poison, which had been sent to him by mail.

There followed in smaller type the details of the affair, but
Elizabeth did not read them. She sank into the nearest chair and sat
staring before her with dilated eyes, that seemed to express less
surprise or terror than a sort of awe, as at some unexpected
manifestation of Providence.

"It was I who killed him," she said. She spoke in a dull, dream-like
way, not in the least conscious, as it seemed, of anything
extraordinary in the words. Poor Miss Cornelia could form no other
conclusion than that she had suddenly lost her mind.

"Elizabeth, my darling," she remonstrated, "what do you mean?" But
Elizabeth was still staring before her vacantly, absorbed in her own
thoughts.

"And so it has happened!" she said, in a low voice, "at last!--when I
had given up hope!"--She was quite oblivious of her aunt's horror or
of the staring eyes of the maid, who stood listening, the coffee-pot
in her hand, her mouth wide open. But at that moment Miss Cornelia
suddenly remembered her presence and signed to her to leave the
room--an order obeyed reluctantly.

"Now, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia faltered out, as the door closed, "do,
my darling, explain what you mean. It's quite absurd, you know, to say
that you had anything to do with this."

"I wished it," said Elizabeth, gazing at her with dull, expressionless
eyes. "I wished, I even prayed, that he might die. And my wishes
always come true--only it is in such a way that it does no good."

"But you can't," urged Miss Cornelia, in desperation, "you can't kill
people by _wishing_, Elizabeth. Of course, there are things that one
can't--feel as sorry for as one would like"--Her voice faltered, as
she thought of certain individuals connected with her own life, whose
death it had been hard to regard in the light of an affliction. "We
can't help our thoughts," she murmured, "we can only pray not to give
way to them."

"Ah, but I didn't," said Elizabeth. "I encouraged them. And now I
shall have remorse, I suppose, all my life." She sat pondering a
moment, while the expression on her face grew softer. "I am sorry he
is dead," she said, at last. "It does me no good now--and he seemed so
full of life the last time I saw him. But it was his fate, no doubt--a
fortune-teller told him he would die before the year was out. It was
his unlucky year, as well as mine. And the prediction has come
true--in both cases."

"But how did it happen?" urged Miss Cornelia. "Do read, Elizabeth, how
it was. Did he drink poison by mistake?"

Elizabeth took up the paper and read the story, which grew to be a
famous one in the annals of New York crime. Halleck had received on
New Year's Eve a package which contained a small hunting-flask of
sherry. There was no name or card with the present--if present it
_were_; nothing to identify the giver, except the hand-writing on the
package, which he did not recognize.

He suspected nothing, however, imagining the card to have been
forgotten, and accepted the flask as a belated Christmas present; but
kept it unopened, in the hope of discovering from whom it came. He had
brought it out and showed it the night before to some friends, and the
flask and the box in which it arrived were passed from one to the
other, but each disclaimed all knowledge of them.

"To me," said D'Hauteville, who happened to be present, "it looks like
a woman's handwriting, disguised to seem like a man's. Perhaps"--he
smiled--"it contains a love potion."

"Or a death potion," suggested another man, laughing.

"I'm not afraid," said the young singer, lightly, "of either
catastrophe." With a smile he poured some of the wine into a glass and
raised it to his lips. "To the health," he said, "of the mysterious
giver." He emptied the glass and put it down, observing that it must
be, after all, a woman's gift, since no man would have chosen such
poor wine. "Try it," he said, but by some fortunate chance no one did.
And in a few minutes Halleck was taken desperately ill, and died
before the hastily-summoned physician could save him.

This is, briefly put, the account which Elizabeth read, at first with
a strange sense of unreality, as if such tragedies, of which she had
often read before in the papers, could not possibly occur within the
circle of her own acquaintance. Then followed a growing horror, a
feeling of passionate remorse for her own indifference.

"Read it, auntie," she said, thrusting the paper into Miss Cornelia's
hand. "I--I must be alone to think it over." She went quickly and shut
herself in her room. But when there she did not lie down and cry, as
might have been best for her; she had not shed any tears since New
Year's Eve. She paced up and down, going over the whole thing in her
mind, imagining the details with a feverish vividness, struggling,
above all, with this irrational, yet terrible sense of guilt.

It _was_ irrational--this she realized even in her state of feverish
excitement. The vindictive wish which had crossed her brain would
never have gone beyond it and resolved itself into action. She would
not even--she knew this now--have been a passive factor in Paul's
death; she would have been the first to go to his aid, had she seen
him suffering. No selfish remembrance of her own gain would have
stopped her. And yet--and yet--with all her reasoning, her mind always
returned to the same point. She had wished for his death, and her
wishes had been fulfilled, too late for her own advantage, only as it
seemed, to add to her punishment.

The idea occurred to her all at once that she must go and look at his
dead body. It presented itself, in some irrational way, in the light
of an atonement. The fever in her blood, the beginning of an illness,
made the strained, hysterical thought seem natural and almost
inevitable. She was not conscious of doing anything unusual. Hastily,
she dressed herself, choosing instinctively a black gown and tying a
black veil over her face, and went out into the street, where the cold
air, which she had not faced for a week, blew refreshingly on her
burning cheeks. She walked all the way, rapidly, choosing unfrequented
avenues, and looking neither to the right nor the left, her mind
intent on the one object, yet with a strange relief in motion and the
intense cold. She reached Carnegie Hall in a surprisingly short time,
but here she encountered unexpected difficulties.

"Take you up to Mr. Halleck's studio?" said the elevator-man, looking
with surprise and suspicion at this veiled young woman, who made such
an extraordinary request. "I can't take you up. The police has charge,
and there ain't a soul allowed to go in but Mr. D'Hauteville."

Elizabeth was not in a mood to be gainsaid. She placed a coin in the
man's hand. "I must see him," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "If you
won't take me up, I'll walk. I am his wife," she went on, as he still
stared at her, wondering. "I have a right to see him."

"Well, it's the police that settles that," he rejoined, gruffly, but
still he took her up, reflecting that, after all, it was no business
of his. He brought the elevator to a stand-still, with a shake of the
head and an anxious look towards the fatal studio, but Elizabeth moved
towards it as if she had no doubt whatever of entering. And at the
same moment, Mr. D'Hauteville opened the door of his rooms on the same
landing, and came face to face with her.

"Miss Van Vorst!" he exclaimed, staring at her; then, in a lower
voice: "For Heaven's sake, don't come here. Halleck is dead. Haven't
you heard?"

"Yes, I--I have heard." She looked pleadingly at him. "Mr.
D'Hauteville," she said, "take me in to see him. I--I must see him. It
was such a shock. I am his wife, you know," she added. The
disclosure, which she had once so dreaded, fell from her lips
indifferently, as if it were a thing of small importance, compared
with the gaining of her purpose.

"His wife!" D'Hauteville fell back and stared at her incredulously.
Then his mind quickly grasped the explanation of facts which had
puzzled him. He looked at her and saw that she was suffering from
terrible distress and excitement. "Do you really wish to see him?" he
said. "It would be painful."

"Yes, I--I must see him." Elizabeth raised confidingly her troubled
eyes, and D'Hauteville apparently could not resist their appeal.
Slowly and reluctantly he unlocked the studio door and allowed
Elizabeth to enter. The hall was empty, but from behind the portière
at the end came the sound of voices. D'Hauteville cast an anxious
glance towards them, but he opened quickly another door, and led the
way into the bedroom, which was still and dark, and close with a
strange, oppressive atmosphere. D'Hauteville, treading softly, drew up
the shade. Then he fell back and turned his eyes away.

Elizabeth felt no fear, though her only recollection of death was
connected with a horrible moment in her childhood, when they had led
her in trembling to look at her father in his coffin. But now she felt
indifferent to any trivial terrors. She stood by the bedside looking
down at the dead man, and put out her hand and touched the curls which
clustered about his forehead. He was not much changed; the greatest
difference which death had made was in a certain look of dignity,
which his face had never worn in life. It was impossible, standing
there, to think of his faults, or of any harm that he had wrought in
her life. She only remembered that he had been her first
lover--nothing more.

A few moments passed, and then D'Hauteville pulled down the shades and
drew her gently from the room. The tears were falling fast behind her
veil, and the hand that rested against his was icy cold.

"I had better see you home," he said anxiously, but she shook her
head.

"No, no, thank you. You have been very kind, but I--I would rather
not. Mr. D'Hauteville," she said, raising piteous eyes to his
"who--who could have done it?"

"God only knows!" said D'Hauteville, with a sigh. "No one else, I
believe, ever will."

He had rung the bell, and they stood waiting for the elevator, when
she turned to him. "It was not I," she said, "don't ever think that it
was I." And at that moment the elevator stopped and she was borne
away, before there was time for further words. But D'Hauteville stood
paralyzed.

"For Heaven's sake," he asked himself, "why did she say that? Who
accused her?"

Elizabeth, as she went her way, was quite unconscious of the
impression her words had produced. Her head felt confused, and after
she left Carnegie there followed a blank interval, during which she
wandered aimlessly, but found herself at last, as if led by some
involuntary instinct, in the Park beside the lake, into which a few
weeks before she had thrown her wedding ring. Now, as before, it was
nearly covered with a thin coating of ice, yet there was a strip of
water visible, and upon this her eyes fastened with a thrill of
terrified fascination. She pictured it involuntarily, closing over
her, dragging her down, blotting out all thoughts, all feelings.... A
moment of agony, perhaps, and then? Rest, oblivion, an end of all
struggle, no more to-morrows to be faced, no more regrets.... The
thought of death, the one way out, the only remedy, swift and sure,
appealed to her with a force almost irresistible.

If only the water were not so cold!--In an instant there swept over
her, quite as inevitably, the natural, healthy reaction; the revulsion
against the icy pond, and all the weird, uncanny, frightful,
unpleasant associations that it conjured up. Ah, she had not the
courage!--not then, at least. She closed her eyes, shutting out the
strange fascination of the water gleaming in the pale chill sunlight,
and promising its sure and terrible relief--she closed her eyes and
turned resolutely away. A horror seized upon her of herself and of
loneliness, of the bleak desolation on every side. She hastened,
breathing heavily, towards the entrance of the Park, her hurried
foot-steps on the crisp, hard path sounding unnaturally loud in the
wintry silence.




_Chapter XXX_


Several weeks later the Halleck poisoning case was still, so far as
the general public was concerned, an impenetrable mystery. For a day
or two various clues were investigated, with a great appearance of
zeal; and then a lull fell upon the efforts of the police. Their final
investigations, if they made any, were conducted behind closed doors.
But no result appeared from their labors; the coroner's inquest was
postponed from week to week for lack of sufficient evidence. The
public grew impatient, and clamored that some one should be
arrested;--it did not seem greatly to matter whom. And then there
began to be strange rumors of influence exerted to conceal the truth,
of suspicion which pointed in such high quarters, that the police were
afraid to continue their search.

These rumors were still comparatively new when Eleanor Van Antwerp
took up one day a scandalous society journal--(one of those papers
which no one reads, but whose remarks, in some mysterious way, every
one hears about)--and came across a paragraph, which seemed to her at
once insulting and inexplicable.

"They say"--it began with this conventional formula--"that certain
highly dramatic developments are to be expected soon in the famous
poisoning case. The evidence that the District Attorney has collected
is now said to be complete and to inculpate rather seriously a
well-known beauty. The lady is related, though on the father's side
only, to one of our old Dutch houses, and was introduced to society,
where she was before entirely unknown, by the representative of
another old Knickerbocker family. Under such circumstances her success
was certain. Not content with taking the town by storm, she made
special capture of a certain prominent society man and eligible parti,
to whom her engagement was announced. This gentleman has, however,
according to latest reports, left the forlorn beauty and fled to parts
unknown."

What did it mean? The hot, indignant color rushed to Mrs. Bobby's
cheek, and then, retreating, left her deadly pale. She took the paper
to her husband, and pointing out the offending paragraph, she stood
beside him as he read it, her dark eyes fixed intently upon his face,
and seeing there, to her dismay, more indignation than surprise.

"Well," she said, as he looked up at the end. "Tell me--what does it
mean?"

"It--the editor of that infernal thing ought to be horsewhipped," he
said, fiercely.

She put the remark aside as irrelevant. "Why, that should have been
done long ago. But what does it mean?" she persisted, holding to the
main point.

He put the paper down with a sigh. "It means what it says, Eleanor,
I'm afraid," he said.

She stared at him, a shade paler, while the dread in her eyes grew
more pronounced. "Means what it says?" she repeated. "Then it isn't
merely a wild concoction of the kind they're always inventing?"

"It's more than that, I'm afraid." Bobby rose and began to pace up and
down. "They do say nasty things," he said, apparently addressing the
walls, or anything rather than his wife.

Her eyes followed him with an intense anxiety, as her white lips
barely framed the question: "At the clubs?"

He nodded. "Yes, there, and--at other places besides. At the District
Attorney's, for instance"--

"You don't mean?"--she began incredulously.

"That they suspect her? Yes."

Mrs. Bobby sat down as if her strength suddenly had failed her. "But
that's absurd--impossible!" she said, after a moment.

"Perhaps; but--it's the impossible that some times happens." Mrs.
Bobby was silent in incredulous horror; and he went on, after a pause:
"You see, she's in a confoundedly unpleasant position. There are all
kinds of queer stories going the round. They say now that she was
secretly married to Halleck; that he had some kind of power over her,
at least; and then having every motive to get rid of him, being
engaged to Gerard"--

"Bobby," said his wife, in a horrified tone "how can you repeat such
disgusting gossip?"

"I'm only telling you what they say," said Bobby, apologetically.

"I don't wish to know it." Bobby held his peace. "Why should she have
any motive?" said his wife, after a moment's reflection "when her
engagement was broken?"

"They say--but I thought you didn't wish to know."

"I don't, but I suppose, I must know. What do they--these disgusting
people--say?"

"They think that Gerard found out something which made him break the
engagement. As for the poison, that was sent before, you know"--

"Bobby," said his wife, with a little cry, "you don't mean to suggest
that she--that Elizabeth Van Vorst"--She paused as if at a loss for
words, and Bobby concluded the sentence.

"Sent the poison?" he said, quietly. "No, I don't suggest it--not for
a second; I don't _believe_ it, even," he cried, with sudden emphasis,
"but there are other people who--who do both."

"Then they must be fools." Bobby made no reply. "Where," she said, in
a moment, "do they suppose she got it--the poison?"

"That they don't know--as yet; but they know--or they think they
do--where she got the flask. There's a shop in Brooklyn where they
sell others like it"--he stopped.

"Well," she said, "what of it? I daresay there are a good many shops
where they sell them."

"The man who keeps this particular shop, said, I believe, that he sold
one on the twenty-third of December to a young woman thickly veiled,
rather tall and with wavy red hair."

"Her hair isn't red," said Mrs. Bobby, quickly.

"Some people call it so, you know," said Bobby. She was silent.

"Hundreds of women have that sort of hair," she said, presently. "Half
the actresses in town"--

"He said it seemed to him natural."

"How should he know?" said Mrs. Bobby, contemptuously. "And why on
earth should she choose a place like Brooklyn? I don't think she ever
went there in her life."

"She seems," said Bobby, gently, "to have done a great many things
that you--didn't think of, Eleanor." And again his wife fell silent.

"Have they any other evidence?" she asked, after thinking a moment,
"or what they call evidence? I might as well know the worst."

"They have her letters, which were found among Halleck's papers--she
told him to burn them, but he didn't. They were signed 'E. V. V.' One
of them was about her engagement to Gerard--it seemed he had
threatened her, and she offered him money to keep him quiet; the other
was just a line, asking him to meet her in the Park. It's evident that
she was afraid of him and had to keep him supplied with funds. She
sold all her jewelry, they say, to do it."

"Ah--her jewelry!" Mrs. Bobby drew a long breath. "That is what she
did with it, then," she remarked, involuntarily.

Bobby turned to her sharply. "You noticed, then," he said, "that she
didn't have it?"

"Of course. There were her pearls, which she never wore last summer;
the watch I gave her, too--I used to feel hurt that she never carried
it, but I never suspected--Oh, what a fool I was--what a fool! And I
who thought myself so clever in bringing about a match between her and
Julian!" She stopped and suddenly burst into tears. "I made a nice
failure of it all, didn't I?" she said. Then in a moment, her mood
changed, and she turned upon Bobby indignantly. "Why didn't you tell
me all this before?"

"I didn't want to tell you," said Bobby, slowly, "a moment sooner than
was necessary. Personally, I don't see the use of having all this
exploited--as a matter of fact, I'd pay a good deal to have it kept
quiet; partly for your sake, and partly because--well, I like
Elizabeth. She may not have behaved well, but I don't think she
deserves to be made conspicuous in this way. I don't mind confessing
that I've done what I could to arrest the zeal of the police, but I'm
sorry to say, without success."

"You don't mean," she said incredulously, "that they refused money?"

"Well, the new District Attorney is very zealous," Bobby explained,
"and, between ourselves, I think he wants the éclat of a sensational
case. To put a young society woman in prison, against the efforts of
all her friends, shows Roman stoicism,--or so he thinks."

"But you don't believe," said his wife, piteously, "you don't think it
could come to that, Bobby?"

"To prison?" he said. "I don't know, Eleanor--upon my word I don't
know." And he began again thoughtfully to pace up and down.

"What did Gerard say," he asked presently, "when he wrote to you
before he sailed?"

"It was just a hurried note, hard to make out. He said the engagement
was broken by her."

"Of course he'd _say_ that. What did she tell you?"

"That it was his wish, but he was not to blame, and she would tell me
more some other time. She looked so unutterably wretched that I
couldn't ask any questions just then."

"Ah," said Bobby, softly. "I don't believe, poor child! that it was
her doing, Eleanor."

"If it was Julian's," she said, "he must have had some good reason."
And with that they both fell into thoughtful silence.

"I don't see," was her next objection, uttered musingly, "I don't see
how they ever thought of Elizabeth in the first place. It seems such a
wildly improbable idea."

"It certainly does," Bobby agreed. "Then Elizabeth, poor child, as it
happens, rather put the idea into their heads herself. It seems that
she went to the studio the day after the poisoning and insisted upon
seeing him. She said she was his wife. D'Hauteville saw her, I
believe, but he said nothing about it. It was the elevator man who
told the story--he took her up and he heard D'Hauteville call her by
her name. He says that D'Hauteville took her into the studio, and when
she came out she was crying. And the man vows he heard her say 'I
didn't do it, don't think I did it,' or something of the kind."

"Why, I never," broke in Mrs. Bobby, "heard anything so extraordinary.
The man must have been drinking. It's impossible that Elizabeth could
have done such a thing. Why, it was that day--that day"--she paused
and thought--"that day after the murder," she continued, triumphantly,
"I remember distinctly going to see her in the afternoon, and she was
ill in bed with grippe, and her temperature very high."

"I can believe that," said Bobby, rather grimly, "after what she went
through in the morning. For I'm afraid there's not much doubt,
Eleanor, that it's true. One of the detectives, too, saw her pass
through the hall, and I don't think that D'Hauteville denies it. They
want him to testify at the inquest, but so far, they can't get him to
say one thing or another."

"He would deny it, of course, if it were false," said Mrs. Bobby, in a
low voice. Her husband bent his head. "Well," she said, rallying,
"after all, I don't see anything in that. It would be pretty stupid,
if she were really guilty, to defend herself before she was accused.
No one but a fool would have done that, and the person who sent that
poison couldn't have been a fool. And she wouldn't have gone near the
studio; that's the last thing the real culprit would have done."

"That's what I say," said Bobby. "It doesn't seem on the face of it
the act of a guilty woman. But they have some theory of hysterical
remorse, and there is other evidence I haven't heard which fits into
that. They say that when she heard that it had really happened she
lost her head completely. There have been such cases, you know. Oh,
and then another thing. They're comparing the handwriting on the
package with the letters"--

"The letters?" broke in Mrs. Bobby, anxiously.

"Yes, that I told you of, you remember--written to him--they've got
experts examining them now."

"Ah, well, if the experts have got hold of the case," said Mrs. Bobby,
resignedly, "we might as well give up hope. They'd swear away any
person's life to prove a theory."

"Well, at least," said Bobby, "it's the life of a young and beautiful
girl. That really seemed to me, when I heard all this, the only hope.
Even handwriting experts are human." But his wife only sighed
despairingly.

"I think," she said, after awhile, "I must go to Elizabeth. I haven't
seen her for several days, and she mustn't think that her friends are
giving her up."

"You won't--tell her anything?" asked Bobby, anxiously.

"Do you think she doesn't know?"

"She would be the last person, in the natural order of events, to hear
of it."

"Then I shall say nothing," said his wife, after a moment's
reflection. "You wouldn't, would you?" she added, as she caught an odd
look in her husband's eyes.

"I--I don't know." Bobby seemed to reflect. "If--if she were to go
abroad just now," he said, doubtfully, "it might not be a bad plan."

"Bobby!" Mr. Van Antwerp's wife faced him indignantly. "You wouldn't
have her--run away from all this? You wouldn't have her frightened by
anything those people can threaten?" Eleanor Van Antwerp's dark eyes
sparkled, she held her head proudly. Her husband looked at her half in
doubt, half in admiration.

"You would face it?"

"Yes, if it cost me my life."

The look of admiration on Bobby's face brightened and then faded to
despondency. "Ah, well, you are right--theoretically, of course,
but--would Elizabeth, do you think, have the same courage? Or, if she
had, could you, knowing what you do, take the responsibility of
allowing her to face it?"

This was the doubt--the horrible doubt, which troubled Mrs. Bobby as
she drove to Elizabeth's home, and at the thought of it her heart
failed her. Her husband had judged her rightly--she could be braver
for herself than for others. Would it not be better, after all, to
suggest to the Misses Van Vorst the desirability of a trip abroad? She
looked thoughtfully out of the carriage window. It was a bleak
February day, and people in the street had their coat-collars turned
up against the chill east wind. The climate of New York at this time
is detestable; a change would do any one good. She would go herself to
the Riviera and take Elizabeth with her.

Mrs. Bobby had hardly reached this conclusion before the carriage
stopped in front of the quiet apartment house in Irving Place where
the Van Vorsts were spending the winter. It was an old-fashioned house
with an air of sober respectability, that seemed to make such wild
thoughts as filled Mrs. Bobby's brain peculiarly strained and
improbable, like the hallucinations of a fevered brain. It was a
shock, keyed up as she was to the tragic point, to enter the peaceful
little drawing-room with its bright coal fire and general air of
comfort, and to find Elizabeth prosaically engaged in looking over
visiting-cards and invitations. And yet Mrs. Bobby was shocked by the
change in her appearance, which every day made more apparent. Her face
was haggard, there was a deep purple flush in her cheeks; her lips
were dry and feverish, there was an odd, strained look in her eyes.
The hand she held out to her visitor burned like fire.

"I'm so glad you came in," she said, with a wan smile. "I've been
looking over these stupid things and my head aches. You see, I've
neglected my social duties shamefully--not sending cards, or even, I'm
afraid, answering some of my invitations. People must think me
horribly rude."

"Oh, they know you've been ill," Mrs. Bobby answered vaguely. She sat
down, all the wind taken out of her sails, and stared wonderingly at
Elizabeth. How could she--how could she look over visiting-cards and
talk about invitations, with this terrible danger hanging over her
head? Was it possible that she had no suspicions? And yet--did not
her eyes betray her? But Mrs. Bobby could not think of any way of
introducing the subject of which her mind and heart were full, and
there was silence till Elizabeth spoke again.

"It's odd, isn't it," she said languidly, "that Mrs. Lansdowne hasn't
asked me to her ball. Have you cards for it?"

"I--I believe so."

"Well, she has left me out," said Elizabeth. Mrs. Bobby started and
looked at her with some interest. "I suppose she thinks," Elizabeth
went on, "I--I'm not much of an addition just now. I certainly am not,
to look at." She laughed a little, in a feeble way. "Of course I
shouldn't go," she added, "but it isn't nice to be--left out."

"Perhaps it's a mistake," suggested Mrs. Bobby, not very impressively.
She was quite convinced to the contrary.

"Perhaps," Elizabeth acquiesced, "but if so, several other people have
done the same thing. The Van Aldens never asked me to their dance, and
I haven't had an invitation to a dinner for weeks. People forget one
quickly in New York, don't they?" And she made another painful attempt
at a laugh.

"I suppose," said Mrs. Bobby, "they think you don't want to go."

"I don't," said Elizabeth, "but they might at least give me the
opportunity of refusing." And then there was a pause, in the midst of
which Miss Joanna entered.

"Oh, Mrs. Van Antwerp," she said, "how glad I am to see you! Do tell
Elizabeth that she ought to be in bed. You can see for yourself she
has fever. It is the grippe, of course--she has never really got over
it."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bobby, looking doubtfully at Elizabeth, "it is the
grippe, of course."

"The grippe is a convenient disease," said Elizabeth, in a low tone,
"it means--so many things." She took up a sheet of paper and began to
write hastily. "It does me good," she said "to employ myself. And I
can't stay in bed--it drives me wild." Miss Joanna, as if weary of
expostulation, moved to the window.

"Yes, I declare," she announced, in the tone of one who makes a not
unexpected discovery, "there are those men again. Every time I look
out, one or other of them seems to be watching the house."

"Watching the house?" repeated Mrs. Bobby, startled.

"Yes, that's what it looks like, at least. And the other day, when I
went out, one of them stared at me so--most impertinent. I declare, if
it goes on, we shall have to make a complaint. And one of them
followed Elizabeth--didn't he, my dear?"

"I thought he did," said Elizabeth, indifferently, "but I didn't
notice much. I have thought several times lately that there were
people following me. Perhaps it is because my head feels so queer."

"What do the men look like?" asked Mrs. Bobby.

"Oh, quite respectable," said Miss Joanna. "They don't look like
beggars, certainly. Cornelia thought they looked rather like
detectives--she said they made her feel nervous; but that, of course,
is quite ridiculous."

"Quite ridiculous," echoed Mrs. Bobby. To herself she was saying, "Ah,
that trip abroad!"

"Eleanor has an invitation for Mrs. Lansdowne's ball, auntie," said
Elizabeth, suddenly changing the subject, which did not seem to
interest her, by the introduction of one that evidently rankled in her
mind. "She thinks it is odd I wasn't asked. I told you," she went on,
with a bitter smile, "that people are giving me up since my engagement
was broken off."

"But that is nonsense," remonstrated Miss Joanna, in distress. "Tell
her," she said, turning pleadingly to Mrs. Bobby, "that that isn't
so."

Mrs. Bobby started up and took Elizabeth's hand. "I don't know," she
said, speaking with strange earnestness, "who gives you up, Elizabeth
dear, and I don't care. I never will. Remember that, dear child. I
will stand by you whatever happens." And then, as if conscious of
having said too much, or fearful perhaps of saying more, Mrs. Bobby
swept hastily from the room, leaving her hearers petrified.

Miss Joanna was the first to speak. "How very strange she was!" she
said, in a low voice. "What--what do you think she meant?"

Elizabeth was staring vacantly at the door, but at her aunt's words
she turned.

"I don't know," she said, "what she meant, but one thing I
understand--that my social career is ended." With a little pale smile,
she swept aside the cards of invitation, locked them into a drawer and
left the room.




_Chapter XXXI_


Mrs. Bobby regained her carriage, and consulting her engagement book,
she ordered her coachman to drive her to the house of one of her
friends, whose "day at home" it was. It was a sudden resolution. She
had gone about very little that winter, since she had no longer the
incentive of chaperoning Elizabeth, and had not paid a visit for
weeks, on the plea of mourning for an uncle. But now she set her teeth
and said to herself that she must mingle with the world to find out,
if possible, what the world was saying.

Was it fancy, or did she distinguish, as she stood in the hall of Mrs.
Van Alden's house leaving cards, amidst the hum of voices in the
drawing-room, words that bore upon her own fevered anxiety? "Shocking
affair," and "so she is really involved in it"--surely she heard those
sentences. And then the conversation ceased abruptly as the butler
drew aside the portière and she stood for a moment on the threshold.
Her eyes were bright, her head erect; she glanced around taking mental
stock as it were of the company. Five or six women were seated about a
blazing wood fire, with an air unusual at functions of this kind of
having come to stay and of forming--or this again might have been her
fancy--a sort of council of justice. There was Mrs. Lansdowne, to
whose ball Elizabeth had not been invited; and there was Sibyl
Hartington, and one or two others who knew Mrs. Bobby and did not, as
it happened, love her very much. "Enemies," she thought, drawing her
breath sharply, "and discussing Elizabeth and me! It's the same
thing--I'm sure I feel as if it were I under suspicion." Eleanor Van
Antwerp had certainly never known such a feeling before, but her
bearing had never been more instinct with the nonchalant confidence of
a woman who seems absolutely unconscious of her position, for the
reason that it has never been questioned.

"I seem to have interrupted the conversation," she observed, lightly,
after she had been rather nervously greeted and kissed by her hostess,
and had taken her place in the circle. "Some one was telling a very
interesting story--I caught fragments of it as I came in." She glanced
her eye round the group. "It was you, Kitty, I think," she said.
"Won't you--please--begin the story over again and tell it for my
benefit?"

"Kitty," thus appealed to, colored and bit her lip. "Oh, the story
isn't really worth repeating," she said, hastily. She had no wish to
offend Mrs. Van Antwerp, and was heartily wishing that she had not
spoken so loud. Sibyl Hartington helped her out by observing, with her
placid smile:

"It's a story about a friend of yours, my dear Eleanor, so Kitty is
afraid to tell it."

"About a friend of mine?" said Mrs. Bobby, and she opened her eyes
very wide. "Then there's all the more reason," she said, decidedly,
"why I should hear it."

Her glance challenged the group, but no one spoke and at last the
hostess interposed. "My dear Eleanor, I'm sorry you should have heard
anything about it. We were only talking about poor Elizabeth Van
Vorst, and regretting that there is all this unfortunate gossip about
her. For my part, I don't believe there is a word of truth in what
they say, but it is certainly--uncomfortable."

"It makes it hard to know what to do," said Mrs. Lansdowne, a woman
with a deep bass voice and an air of being not so much indifferent to,
as unconscious of other people's feelings. "I couldn't for instance
ask Miss Van Vorst to my ball while there are these queer rumors about
her. I was sorry to leave out any friend of yours, Mrs. Van Antwerp;
but if a young woman gets herself talked about, no matter how or why,
I can't encourage her--it's against my principles. Let the girl behave
herself, I say, and keep out of the papers. I'm sure that's simple
enough."

"It's not always so simple," said Mrs. Bobby, and though the indignant
color had rushed into her cheeks, her tone was seraphic, "not so
simple for every one as it is for your daughters, Mrs. Lansdowne." A
subdued smile as she spoke went the round of the circle. Fortunately
Mrs. Lansdowne was not quick in her perceptions.

"No, it's true," she admitted, "my daughters have had unusual
advantages. I can't expect every one to come up to the same standard.
But one has to draw the line somewhere, and when a girl has done such
queer things as Miss Van Vorst, there seems nothing for it but to drop
her."

"But what--what has poor Elizabeth done?" asked Mrs. Bobby, with eyes
of innocent wonder, and again there followed an awkward silence.

"Well, you know, Eleanor, they tell very queer stories," the hostess
said at last, deprecatingly. "I never pay any attention to gossip, but
these things are sometimes forced upon one. Haven't you seen that
thing in _Scandal_?"

"I don't," said Mrs. Bobby, unmoved, "read '_Scandal_,' Mary."

"And _Chit Chat_," chimed in some one else. "There was a long
paragraph in _Chit Chat_. It seems that she was mixed up in some way
in that dreadful poisoning case. They say that she was actually
married to that young Halleck."

"At the same time that she was engaged to Julian Gerard," said Mrs.
Hartington, with her calm smile. "It's no wonder that he, poor man,
when he found it out, got out of the affair as best he could."

Mrs. Bobby looked steadily at the speaker. "As a friend of Mr.
Gerard's, Sibyl," she said, "I can state on his authority that the
engagement was broken by Miss Van Vorst."

Sibyl Hartington's calm, faintly amused smile again rippled across her
face. "I never doubted, my dear Eleanor," she said, "that Mr. Gerard
is a gentleman."

The entrance of another visitor at that moment was not altogether
unwelcome to Mrs. Bobby, who felt that she was being worsted; but the
new-comer immediately continued the same subject.

"I've just been hearing the most extraordinary news," she exclaimed,
sitting on the edge of her chair, and too much excited to notice Mrs.
Bobby's presence, "I heard it at luncheon. They say that Elizabeth Van
Vorst"--But here the speaker suddenly caught sight of Mrs. Bobby, and
stopped short.

"Well, what do they say?" said Mrs. Bobby, with rather a bitter smile.
"Don't keep us in suspense, Miss Dare, and above all, don't mind my
feelings. I would rather know the worst of this."

"Well, I don't believe there is any truth in it. They say that she is
really seriously implicated in that dreadful poisoning case; that the
police have letters she wrote to Halleck, and all sorts of unpleasant
things. But of course it's impossible--a girl like that, whom we all
know!"

"Do we?" said Mrs. Hartington, softly. "Do you think that we, any of
us, know much about her? You didn't, Eleanor, did you?"--turning to
Mrs. Bobby--"You just took her up in that charming, impulsive way of
yours--didn't you?--because people in the Neighborhood didn't have
much to do with her, and you felt sorry for her?"

Mrs. Bobby made a scornful little gesture. "You flatter me, Sibyl,"
she said. "I'm afraid I'm not so charitable as all that. I 'took up'
Elizabeth Van Vorst, as you say, because I liked her, and for no
other reason. It was for my own pleasure entirely that I asked her to
stay with me, and I have never regretted it."

Mrs. Hartington gave a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. "I
congratulate you," she said. "It was a rash action, some people
thought at the time. A girl whom you knew so slightly, whose mother
was such an impossible person--or at least, so they say. I don't of
course," she went on, in her soft, drawling tones, "know much about it
myself, but it does make all this gossip seem less extraordinary--doesn't
it?"

"Why, yes, of course, that accounts for it," said Mrs. Lansdowne,
looking relieved. "That sort of thing runs in families. A girl who has
a queer mother is sure to be queer herself and get herself talked
about."

"I never thought her very good style," some one who had not yet spoken
now found courage to observe. "Her hair is so conspicuous. I never
could understand why men seemed to admire her."

Mrs. Hartington raised her eye-brows. "Ah, the men!" she said, with
serene scorn. "She is exactly the sort of girl who would appeal to
men."

Mrs. Bobby felt that she had stayed as long as the limit of human
endurance would permit. She rose to her feet, her cheeks were flushed,
her eyes brilliant, her voice rang out with crystal clearness. "It's
hardly necessary for me to tell you," she said, "that Elizabeth Van
Vorst is my most intimate friend. I love her very dearly and always
shall. What her mother may have been is no affair of mine. But as for
the men liking her"--she turned suddenly to Mrs. Hartington--"they do
like her, Sibyl, and I think they show good taste. But if you mean the
inference you seem to draw from that"--she paused and drew her breath
quickly--"why, it's not very flattering, I think, to either men or
women."

Mrs. Hartington gave a short little laugh. "My dear, I'm not drawing
inferences one way or another. I merely stated a fact--complimentary,
one might think, to your protegée. But you take things so
seriously!"--She drew herself up with an air of some annoyance.

Mrs. Bobby's hands were tightly locked together inside her muff, she
faced the group appealingly, her dark eyes wandering from one to the
other. "Certainly, I take this thing seriously," she said, and there
was a thrill of earnestness in her voice which moved more than one of
her hearers. "It's no light matter for me to hear my friend spoken
of--like this. I had Elizabeth Van Vorst with me all last winter, I
feel as if I knew her like my own sister. I believe in her implicitly,
no matter what any one may say. And if--if some of you"--instinctively
her eyes fastened upon one or two whom she felt she was carrying with
her--"if you would try to think the best, give her the benefit of the
doubt, show that women can stand by one another--sometimes"--Her voice
faltered and she broke off suddenly; there were tears glistening in
her eyes as she held out her hand to her hostess. "Forgive me, Mary,"
she said. "I don't want to make a scene. But I can't help feeling
strongly, and in this case I want every one to know exactly how I
feel." And with that she left the room quickly before any one could
speak, yet conscious as she went of a subtle wave of sympathy, which
seemed to have made itself felt since her entrance.

"But it's useless--useless," she said sadly to her husband when she
got home. "You might as well try to stop the course of a torrent as
fight against the world's disapproval, when it is once roused against
any poor, defenceless girl. And it isn't as if she were a great
personage, or even as if she were still engaged to Julian! They've
nothing to gain by standing by her. Yet there were one or two, I
think, even of those women this afternoon, who felt with me. And at
least"--she consoled herself a little--"at least they shall see that
she has friends!"

"She'll need them, poor girl. The--the inquest--I've just heard--is
coming off next week." He took up a paper knife and played with it,
while he stole a furtive glance at his wife. "I think you had
better--prepare Elizabeth," he said.

"Prepare her?" she repeated anxiously, as he paused.

"For some confoundedly unpleasant questions! Yes. Have you the
strength to tell her?" His eyes questioned her anxiously. She was
white to the lips, but she met them without flinching.

"One can always find strength."

"It's confoundedly hard, I know." Bobby began to pace up and down
helplessly. "You don't know how I hate to have you mixed up in all
this, Eleanor," he said. "I'd give anything to have you out of it.
Wouldn't it be better for you to go abroad for awhile?"

"And desert Elizabeth? My dear Bobby, you wouldn't have me do that?"

"Well, you can't help her, you know," he urged.

"I can show that I believe in her. And, thank Heaven! social position
does count for something. It may help me to fight Elizabeth's
battles."

"It doesn't count for much, unfortunately, before the law."

"Not theoretically, no," said his wife, sceptically. "But
practically--it counts with every one and everywhere. By the way," she
added, struck with a sudden idea, "what sort of man is the District
Attorney? I might ask him to dinner." And she looked prepared to send
the invitation on the spot.

"My dear Eleanor, I'm afraid it's too late for that now. The thing to
do now, since matters have gone so far, is to prove Elizabeth's
innocence, and for that, the first step is to prepare her, so that she
won't be taken unawares. Her aunts too--they must be told, I suppose.
Poor things, I believe it will kill them!"

"People don't die so easily. It would be more merciful, I sometimes
think, if they did." She sat and thought for a moment. "I think I had
better go there at once," she said, at last, nervously. "I couldn't
sleep to-night with this hanging over my head."

And so, for the second time that day, she drove to the Van Vorsts'
apartment, feeling that her unexpected appearance in itself must
prepare them for some calamity. And indeed the telling proved easier
than she feared. She saw Elizabeth alone, and sat holding the girl's
hand, trying by many tender circumlocutions to break the force of the
blow. But Elizabeth understood almost immediately.

"They think I sent the poison--is that it?" she said, going at once to
the point which her friend was approaching so carefully. "Well, that
isn't so strange. Sometimes I feel," she added, wearily, and putting
her hand to her head, "as if I had done it myself. I think I--I might
have done it."

"Elizabeth, Elizabeth, what do you mean?"

"Because I wished it, you know," Elizabeth went on to explain quite
calmly. "I was married to him, and I wished that he might die, so that
no one would ever know it, I didn't tell any one but Julian--I
wouldn't have told him if I could have helped it. That was the reason
he gave me up--because I told him that I had been secretly married all
the time. He was angry because I hadn't told him before."

"But," interrupted Mrs. Bobby, with intense anxiety, "you did tell
him, at last?"

"Yes, of course I told him," said Elizabeth, in surprise. "I told him
New Year's Eve. Why else should he have given me up?"

"Then," cried Mrs. Bobby, rising to her feet in her excitement, "that
seems to me an unanswerable argument. If you had--had expected Paul
Halleck's death, you certainly wouldn't have told Julian Gerard of
your marriage. That's clear as daylight. Oh, Elizabeth, how fortunate
that you told him!"

"Fortunate?" said Elizabeth, listlessly. "I don't see that it is very
fortunate, since he has given me up and will never forgive me."

"But it may save you." Elizabeth looked at her blankly. "Oh, my dear
child," cried Mrs. Bobby, "don't you understand that they suspect you
of--of the murder?"

"You don't mean that they would put me in prison?"

Mrs. Bobby only answered by her silence. Elizabeth sat staring at her
for a moment, then the color rushed into her white face, her eyes
flashed. "How would they dare do that," she cried, "when I am
innocent?"

"Of course you are," said Mrs. Bobby. "No one but a fool would think
otherwise. And we will prove it, never fear. But you mustn't talk any
more of this morbid nonsense about being guilty of his death and all
that. I know what you mean well enough, but the general public doesn't
understand such psychological subtleties. And besides, it's not true.
The guilty person had no thought of doing you a service--be sure of
that. Paul Halleck would have died, my dear, if you had never known
him. And now keep up a brave heart, Elizabeth. Your friends will stand
by you, and when all this is over--happily over, you will look back
upon it as a bad dream--nothing more."

Mrs. Bobby had almost talked herself into feeling the confidence she
expressed; but Elizabeth listened languidly, with drooping head. All
color had faded again from her face; it looked haggard, worn; her
hands plucked nervously at some fringe on her gown. When she wiped her
eyes at the last words, the smile she conjured up was piteous.

"It's a dream," she murmured, "that is lasting--a terribly long time."




_Chapter XXXII_


There is an old prison well in the heart of the city, which presents a
grim, mediæval front to the busy world outside. Elizabeth knew that it
existed, but had never seen it. She did not know even where it was,
till she found herself condemned to spend eight months within its
walls.

This was after the inquest, when the evidence had gone as she had seen
herself, very much against her. It was a curious feeling--this
bewildered perception of a net closing round her, whose meshes she had
woven herself. The verdict of the jury was hardly a surprise. And then
they broke to her gently the fact that bail was refused, and they
brought her across the Bridge of Sighs, the name of which gave her an
odd little thrill, into the prison.

The inmates of The Tombs are mostly of the lowest class. Such a
prisoner as Miss Van Vorst was disconcerting to wardens and matrons
alike. The situation was unprecedented, they hardly knew how to deal
with it.

Elizabeth was placed in one of the ordinary cells; no other indeed was
to be had. It was small and dark, and had for furniture a cot-bed, a
faucet set in the wall, and one cane chair. Light and air--what there
was of either--came in through the corridor, above and below the iron
grating which barred the doorway. There was no window.

Elizabeth, to whom an abundance of light and air had been one of the
necessities of life, who had a passion for space and luxury, for
fresh, dainty surroundings, looked about her in blank dismay. Yet she
said nothing. From the first she seemed to school herself to a silent
stoicism, which her friends called courage and her enemies
insensibility, and which may have been a combination of both. The last
two months had been crowded with so many startling events, so intense,
conflicting a tumult of thought and emotion, that her capacity for
acute suffering was for the moment exhausted.

Yet the mere physical horror that the cell inspired her with was very
great. The first time that the key was turned upon her, and she was
left entirely alone, with the twilight coming on, with no power to
free herself, nothing to do but wait for the matron's return, she felt
as she had felt once when for some childish offence, she had been
locked into a dark closet. Now as then she threw herself against the
door, trying with fierce, unreasoning efforts to force the lock,
uttering hoarse cries for help. Then the door had been quickly opened,
her aunts had let her out with remorseful tears, and the experiment
had never been repeated. Now no help came to her, and she was left to
adapt herself to the situation as best she might. The struggle left
deep marks on her young face, a look in her eyes which they never
afterwards lost.

There were many ways in which the prison routine was softened in her
favor. Social distinctions count, as Mrs. Bobby had said, with every
one and everywhere. Money is powerful, even in The Tombs. The warden
and the other officials reaped in those days a harvest of gold coins
from Mrs. Bobby.

A more comfortable bed, a hand-mirror, all sorts of forbidden
luxuries, found their way into Elizabeth's cell. Neither warden nor
matron apparently recognized their existence. She was permitted to
receive her visitors alone, to have a light in her cell after dark, to
walk for an hour a day in the corridor or the court. At these times
she would see those other women, her fellow-prisoners, huddled
together in an abject group, and feel thankful that at least she was
not obliged to mingle with them. Her meals were served to her in her
cell, and she could order what she wanted. Her friends sent her
constantly an abundance of fruit and flowers.

The people who came to see her, and there were many of them, used to
go away wondering at her calmness. They went prepared for tragedy, and
Elizabeth received them as she might in her own drawing-room. They
noticed no change in her, except that her head had never been held so
proudly, and she had never looked so pale. But there were no
confidences, no tears, no consciousness apparently of the
extraordinary state of things. Even to her aunts, even to Eleanor Van
Antwerp, she maintained this attitude of proud reserve. They could
only guess at the thoughts which lay beneath it. There were times,
indeed, when she did not think, when her brain would seem dazed. In
those days she would read eagerly all the books that people brought
her; read them through from beginning to end, but she had never any
idea of what they were about.

There was one form of reading which no one suggested, which she did
not, apparently, think of herself. No one brought her a newspaper, and
she never asked to see one. Perhaps she did not realize how much her
case was discussed, perhaps she realized it only too well. Her aunts
were thankful for her lack of curiosity. They could not themselves
open a paper, or enter a street-car, without an agony of dread as to
what they might see or hear.

For the yellow journals, of course, were exploiting the affair--it was
Mrs. Bobby's opinion, indeed, that it had been started originally on
their account, for the enlivenment of a dull season. This may or may
not be true; but certainly they made the most of it. They published
Elizabeth's picture, and long accounts of her conquests. There were
pictures, too, of her grandmother, that stately beauty whose fame was
traditional, and of old Van Vorsts who had held important offices, and
served city and state with credit in colonial and revolutionary times.
Then, by contrast, there were accounts of her mother's past and her
mother's kindred through several generations of moral and social
disrepute. The Neighborhood was overrun by disguised reporters who
made copious notes of local items, and took photographs of the Van
Vorst Homestead, of the village, of Bassett Mills and even of the
church--thereby causing the Rector's wife nervous spasms in her
anxiety lest any of Elizabeth's moral perversions should be laid to
the account of the religious teaching that she had received. Bassett
Mills was all a-flutter in its excitement over this gratuitous
advertisement. But in the Neighborhood--the staid, aristocratic old
Neighborhood--there was a feeling of humiliation, a presentiment that
it could never recover from the disgrace of such notoriety.

And yet, in spite of all discredit, what a subject for
conversation--in the Neighborhood as well as Bassett Mills! Nothing
else was talked of at the various tea-parties, of which so many had
never been given before. People who had guests took them over on
Sunday afternoons to the Homestead, and wandered about the grounds
relating the family history, while the strangers stared with interest
at the old house, and the horse-shoe on the door. There was a dreary
look about the place for the Misses Van Vorst were not coming back
that summer, and the old gardener left in charge had not the heart
under the circumstances to keep it in order. Grass grew in the
gravel-walks, the flowers in the garden hung their heads, the foliage
was sadly in need of clipping. A shadow seemed to brood over house and
grounds, as in the day of old Madam Van Vorst.

In town, where there were more things to talk about, the great
poisoning case still took precedence of all other subjects, and
society was divided on account of it into warring camps. There were
those--a very large number--who followed Mrs. Hartington's lead, and
spoke of Elizabeth as a sort of adventuress, who had thrust herself
into circles which she had no right to enter; a party which disowned
her entirely and believed implicitly in her guilt. But there was
another party, smaller perhaps but not less influential, which took
uncompromisingly the opposite side. The people who composed it were
friends, many of them, of Mrs. Van Antwerp, and there were others who
had cared for Elizabeth for her own sake, and again others to whom the
romantic facts of the case appealed irresistibly, inducing them to
espouse her cause regardless of reason. These all spoke of her as a
suffering martyr and regarded her imprisonment as an outrage. They did
not discuss the evidence, but met all doubts with the one unanswerable
argument of their own intuitions.

But the first side had in point of logic, so much the best of it! This
conviction intruded itself reluctantly on Eleanor Van Antwerp's mind,
as she looked up from an exhaustive summary of the case for the
prosecution. The article presented, in clear, remorseless details, all
the links in the terrible chain of evidence--her hasty marriage, and
then her repentance; her efforts to buy off her husband; the trouble
she had to supply him with money; her evident fear of his betraying
her to Gerard; her refusal to name her wedding day, till she had in
sheer desperation decided on the murder; then when the thing was at
last accomplished, her sudden remorse, her strange actions; the rumor
that she had in the first excitement confessed her guilt before
witnesses; the description too, of the woman who had bought the
flask, and which fitted Elizabeth exactly in height, coloring and
general appearance; the resemblances which the experts were said to
have discovered between her letters and the handwriting on the
package--never was chain more strongly forged! And what, the article
further demanded, had her friends to offer in rebuttal but her social
position, her youth and her beauty?

"It's not much, certainly," Mrs. Bobby's anxiety admitted. "And yet a
good deal, too," her aristocratic instincts involuntarily responded;
"and will have their weight with the jury," her cynicism added. But
then again despair overwhelmed her, and she put the unavailing
question: "Bobby, is there--do you think there is any hope?"

Bobby stared back at her, his face hardly less white than hers.

"God only knows, Eleanor! If she were just a man, or even an ordinary
woman, I should say 'no;' but for a young girl, there's always a
chance. Let her"--he dropped his hand on the table beside him with a
deep sigh--"let her look as pretty as she can. It seems to me about
the only hope."

"She won't look pretty," his wife returned, with a little sob. "She is
just the shadow of her old self; if she stays in that place much
longer, I believe it will kill her. Bobby," she cried, with a sudden
burst of indignation, staring up at him with tragic eyes, "if that
child dies--there, it will be murder! And yet you say the law is
just!"

Bobby had said so much in the last few weeks in perfunctory defence of
the law that he was weary of the subject, and so he attempted no
further protestations, but watched his wife sadly as she walked
impatiently to and fro; a slight, childlike creature, her cheeks
flushed, her eyes brilliant with impotent anger, dashing herself as it
were against impenetrable barriers. Only once before in her life had
Eleanor Van Antwerp been confronted with an obstacle that did not
yield to her wishes. That was when the baby died, and she had resigned
herself to what she believed to be Divine Providence. But this seemed
mere human stupidity.

"If only men were not so logical!" she exclaimed, despairingly.
"Women, if they intended to get her off, would do it, no matter what
the evidence was; but men!--they are so bound hand and foot by their
sense of justice, their respect for law, and Heaven knows what! that
they are quite capable, even if they believe her innocent, of finding
her guilty, just because the evidence was against her."

"Well that's what they're supposed to do," Bobby put in,
deprecatingly, "they've got to abide by the evidence." It was the
twentieth time that he had made this explanation, and for the
twentieth time, she brushed it aside.

"What does it matter," she demanded, "about the evidence, when any one
with common-sense must _know_ the girl is innocent? But I see how it
is, Bobby," she went on, her lip quivering. "You don't really believe
in her the way that I do. You have doubts--at the bottom of your heart
you have doubts. Tell me the truth, and I'll try to forgive
you--_haven't_ you?"

She stopped before him, her dark eyes, fastened upon his, seemed to
read his soul, but he answered steadily: "Eleanor, upon my honor, I
believe in that child's innocence as you do. I'd give anything in the
world to get her off. (Yes, and I would," he added to himself "for
your sake, if she had committed twenty murders.")

She drew a long sigh of relief. "Oh, Bobby, you _are_ nice," she said,
gratefully. "You've been very good to me all this time--never once
saying 'I told you so,' when the whole thing has been all my fault for
not taking your advice."

"Your fault, you poor child! How do you make that out?"

"If I had never asked Elizabeth to stop with me," she said
tremulously, "all this wouldn't have happened. You warned me--don't
you remember?--and you were right. I've come to the conclusion, Bobby,
that you generally _are_ right and I wrong."

Her tone of submission was as edifying as it was surprising, but Bobby
with unwonted quickness cut it short. "Nonsense!" he said almost
roughly. "You were right in that case, as you generally are, and I was
wrong; and no harm would have come of it if Elizabeth--well, I don't
want to hit people when they're down," he said, apologetically "but if
she had only been frank with us from the first, all this wouldn't have
happened. My dear"--this in response to a reproachful look from his
wife--"I don't mean to be hard on her, but I can't hear you blame
yourself for what has been poor Elizabeth's own fault, helped out by
a most extraordinary train of circumstances."

"She was to blame, certainly," faltered his wife, reluctantly, "but I
can understand--I believe I should have done the same in her place."

"No, Eleanor," said Bobby, briefly and with some sternness, "you would
not."

"It's true," she admitted, "I don't think I could keep a secret if I
tried. But then neither apparently could Elizabeth--to the bitter end.
That is one thing I can't understand," she went on, "why you don't any
of you attach more importance to the fact that she told Julian
herself."

"Because," said Bobby, slowly, "we have only her own word that she did
so."

"But her aunts"--began Mrs. Bobby.

"They can't know what passed between them. What people think is that
he discovered the marriage and charged her with it. It seems
improbable that after deceiving him so long she should suddenly
repent. And of course he would shield her as far as possible, so his
version goes for nothing."

"All the same, I should like to hear it," said Mrs. Bobby decidedly.
"If I were Mr. Fenton, I should summon him at once as witness." (Mr.
Fenton was the counsel for the defence.)

"Why, Fenton thought of it," said Bobby. "He spoke about it to
Elizabeth, and she cried out 'Oh, not he--not he of all people' in
such a way that he--well, he thought he'd better not send for him, for
fear of discovering something that would go very much against us. It
did look badly, you know, that she should dread Gerard's evidence so."

Mrs. Bobby's reply to this was unexpected. "Is Mr. Fenton considered a
clever lawyer, dear?" she asked.

"The best that money can get," said Bobby, somewhat taken aback. "But
why, Eleanor?"--

"Oh, well--I hope he knows more about law than he does about women,
that's all. Now I say, send for Julian at once."

"Well, you know, Eleanor, I can't help thinking that if he knew of any
evidence in her favor he'd have turned up of his own accord before
this. It looks badly, I think--his staying away; as if he were afraid
of being questioned if he came."

Mrs. Bobby sat for a moment reflecting deeply, her brows knit. "I
don't believe," she said, suddenly, "that he knows a thing about it.
Where is he, do you know?"

"Some one saw him ages ago in London," said Bobby. "Goodness knows
where he is now. But in all events, he must have heard."

"I doubt it. It happened, you know, while he was on the ocean, and by
the time he had landed, the first excitement was over, and there was
nothing about it in the papers for a long time. So that, even if he
bought an American paper, he might not see anything about it, and the
foreign ones of course would have nothing--you know how little
interest they take in us over there. Oh, it might easily
happen--strange as it seems, that he has heard nothing."

"But why is it, do you think," said Bobby, "that Elizabeth doesn't
want him here?"

"My dear Bobby, how dull men are! Of course, she doesn't want to call
upon him in a time like this. She's too proud. But nothing will
prevent him--if I know him rightly--from coming at once, if there is
anything he can do to help her."

"Well, if you think it's any good, I'll send a detective after him,"
said Bobby, with the composure of one to whom money is no object.




_Chapter XXXIII_


The services of a detective proved imperative in finding Gerard. His
banks when applied to by cable, regretted to reply that they did not
know his address. He had left no directions to have his mail
forwarded. Apparently his one idea had been to efface himself and
break with some home ties. It was a proceeding which did not
altogether surprise Mrs. Bobby, who understood the phase of mind which
it indicated; but to Mr. Fenton it was proof positive of his own
suspicions, that Gerard dreaded to be summoned as witness on behalf of
the woman whom he had once loved.

"She is glad to have him out of the way," thought the astute lawyer to
himself. "No doubt he has evidence which she is afraid of. Yes, she
lied no doubt when she said she had told him herself of her marriage,
just as she lied when she said she couldn't remember what she had done
on the twenty-third of December. She remembered--I could see that
plainly--very well." The counsel for the defence was reluctantly
convinced of his client's guilt, but he had good hopes of saving her
nevertheless, though he did not think it was to be done by means that
were strictly legal. He said little and accepted Gerard's
disappearance with philosophy, even though he did not absolutely
discourage Bobby Van Antwerp from sending a detective on his track. It
could at least, the lawyer argued, do no harm, since he was quite
certain that Gerard however urgently summoned would not come. Bobby
lost heart and would have let the matter drop, but his wife's
influence again carried the day. The detective started, with urgent
directions from Mrs. Bobby to find the witness at any cost, and
equally urgent directions from Mr. Fenton by no means to find him,
unless his evidence were desirable.

Meanwhile the summer came and life in The Tombs assumed a different
phase.

The atmosphere in Elizabeth's cell grew unbearable, and the warden
allowed her to spend a large part of her time in the prison court.
Here, too, since the intense heat, the other women assembled for an
hour every day, and she was brought in actual contact with them for
the first time. The court was large, and she could sit on the bench
which the warden had placed for her in the shadow of the wall. And
yet, though she tried to, she could not ignore them; she found
herself, little by little, observing them, taking even some faint
interest in them. She grew to know them by name, and would talk to
some of them, asking timid questions, partly with an instinctive
desire to get away from her own thoughts, partly with the feeling that
they were human beings, in trouble like herself. There was a lurking
sympathy in her heart for even the most depraved. She would share with
them her fruit and flowers, or make little presents of one kind or
another, even though the matron, discovering this assured her that
they were in many cases quite unworthy of her kindness.

"They won't thank you for it, Miss," she said "they won't indeed.
They're just as likely as not to say the worst things of you behind
your back."

Elizabeth stared at her thoughtfully for a moment beneath knit brows.

"I don't know that I care about their thanking me," she said at last,
"and even if they're not worthy, that doesn't make it any the less
hard for them, does it?"

To the matron this sentiment had a taint of immorality and she drew
herself up primly. "Why, on that principle, Miss," she said, "there's
no use at all in good behavior." Her point of view was the correct
one, of course--at least for a prison official. But it was natural
that Elizabeth, in revolt against the hard judgment of the world,
should take the opposite side. And certainly the women, even the
roughest of them, seemed to be grateful in their own way for her
kindness, and respected absolutely the intangible barrier between
them. There were one or two, indeed, younger and more imaginative than
the rest, who would follow her with wistful eyes as she passed, or
flush in involuntary, awkward delight if she spoke to them; to whom
her presence in their midst appealed irresistibly, touching some
latent sense of romance, and lending a new interest to the prison
routine. There was something wraith-like, spiritual about her, as she
grew from day to day, more frail, her face more thin and wasted, her
eyes more unnaturally large and strained, and the shadows beneath them
deeper and darker. Her gowns, since the hot weather began, were always
white, unrelieved by color even at throat or belt. Only her hair made
a gleam of brightness, the more vivid for the pallor of her face and
the grayness of the prison walls.

It was this soft, wavy hair at which visitors to The Tombs looked most
curiously, recognizing one of the strong pieces of evidence against
her. There was a number of visitors to The Tombs, even on those hot
summer days; people who only stared at one prisoner and asked before
they left one question of the prison officials, which met the one
answer. The warden--a gruff old man, hardened by long contact with the
lowest offenders--seemed when his turn came to hesitate.

"Guilty, she?" he repeated, staring up at the questioner with his
shrewd old eyes. "Well, there ain't a guilty person in The Tombs--not
to hear them talk; but--she"--he paused a moment. "She never says
nothing; but--bless you"--carried beyond himself by an unwonted burst
of sentiment--"I'd as soon suspect an angel from heaven."

"Ah, he has had a large fee," the more cynical would observe as they
left, and it was true. But the canny old warden was quite capable of
accepting all the money in the world, and reserving the right to his
own opinion, which he had stated in this case with absolute honesty.
And it was shared, moreover, by the entire prison,--jailers and
criminals alike.

Elizabeth grew conscious of the general sentiment and it cheered her
more than its intrinsic value seemed to warrant. For it was based on
no tangible evidence, was the result of a hundred unconsidered,
unimportant words and actions, the effect of which, to those who had
not seen or heard them, it was hard to explain; and it could penetrate
little to the outside world. But she felt strangely indifferent to the
outside world. Her horizon was bounded by the prison walls.

One day, sitting dull and languid on her bench in the shadow of the
wall, she chanced to overhear a fragment of a conversation between the
warden and a visitor. They stood within the door of the office, and
their voices came to her distinctly. "I tell you," the warden said,
apparently bringing his argument to a conclusion, "they'll never put a
woman--let alone a young and pretty one like her--in the electric
chair."

"Ah, but if she's guilty,"--the visitor's voice demanded. And then,
with an odd grunt from the warden, they passed on. She could not hear
the rest.

But what she had heard thrilled her with a new, sharp pang of terror,
the reason of which she could not have explained. There was nothing in
the warden's assertion, nothing even in the visitor's protest. She
knew of course that there were people who believed her guilty, and the
man's words were reassuring rather than otherwise. Yet something in
them called up before her vividly for the first time the very danger
which he disclaimed. Yes, she was to be tried for her life! Incredible
stupidity!--how was it she had never realized it before?

There was after all nothing extraordinary, unprecedented in the idea;
it was one which had exercised over her in times past a curious
fascination. She remembered well having read a graphic account of the
last hours of a noted criminal, everything that he had said and done,
the way in which he had met his fate, his last words ... it all came
back to her with startling distinctness. She had tried at the time to
put herself in his place, to think how she would have felt.... It was
so futile, she had desisted from it at last with a smile at her own
absurdity, the healthy instincts of her warm young life asserting
themselves, as they generally did, against the occasional morbidness
of her imagination. Now, looking back on it, the whole thing seemed
one of those presentiments with which people doomed to misfortune are
visited.

Yet the idea was absurd, even now. There was no danger, for she was
innocent. That man was guilty--or so the papers said. She remembered
that he had protested his innocence--to the end. And perhaps he had
spoken the truth.

What did the papers say about her own case? The evidence against her
was strong--she had always vaguely known that. But--what was it the
man had said?--they'd never put a woman, guilty or innocent, in the
electric chair. But what woman would accept her life on such terms as
that? Elizabeth raised her head with that characteristic, proud little
motion which not all the humiliations of prison life had availed to
break her of entirely. "I would rather die," she said to herself, "I
would rather die."

And then she remembered how she had shrunk from death--that morning
months ago in the park. She felt again the intense physical repulsion,
the instinctive clinging to life, the dread of the unknown....

That evening when the younger matron--the one she liked the best--came
with her dinner, she put her through a series of questions, which
embarrassed the kind woman not a little. Had she ever, Elizabeth
demanded, seen people who were condemned to death and how had they
behaved? Did they seem frightened, or were they calm and brave? Were
they--did the matron really believe that they were guilty, beyond
possibility of doubt?

"Are innocent people ever condemned," asked the girl, sitting huddled
together on her bed and staring at the matron with haggard eyes.
"Surely there couldn't be--you don't suppose there could be--such a
terrible mistake?"

"I"--The matron's voice suddenly failed her, her eyes filled with
tears. "Heaven knows I hope not, Miss," she said and went out hastily.

Elizabeth sat still, staring before her. "She believes me
innocent--but she is afraid I will be found guilty." A little shudder
passed through her, in spite of the intense heat. And then again the
dull cloud of weary indifference descended upon her, and she said to
herself that she did not care.

But as time went on, she knew that this was false.

A few days later Mrs. Bobby came back, after spending a week in the
country much against her will. It seemed to her that Elizabeth looked
much worse than when she saw her last. She sighed as she realized,
more emphatically than ever, how much of the girl's beauty had left
her with that wealth of color and outline which had been its most
striking characteristic. Certainly any one who judged of her by the
famous picture, taken in her first bloom, would be wofully
disappointed now. There was only the soft sweep of the hair, and the
strange shadow in the eyes--of which the first premonition as it were
had somehow crept into the picture--but for these points of
resemblance one would hardly know her for the same woman.

"No," Mrs. Bobby reflected, "they won't acquit her for her beauty."
But aloud she talked cheerfully, giving the Neighborhood news--what
there was of it, skimming the cream of her letters from friends at
gayer places--profoundly uninteresting just then, and mocking the
scene about them with its frivolous incongruity--but what matter.
Anything to keep going the ball of conversation! But at last, in spite
of herself, there came a pause.

It was intensely hot. The sun beat down upon the rough uneven stones
which paved the prison court, it baked the wall against which the two
women leaned. Before their eyes there rose up sharply the walls of
the men's prison, and beyond a fragment of the Court-house, with which
the Bridge of Sighs formed a connecting link, invisible from where
they sat. A little way off, in a small circle of shade, a group of
women prisoners gathered silent, inert. A great stillness brooded over
the place, broken only by the buzzing of flies and the noises in the
street, which sounded dreamily as if it were many miles away. A man
was crying "Strawberries, fresh strawberries!" and his voice floated
in to the prison, bringing with it a tantalizing suggestion of
coolness and freedom and green fields.

Involuntarily Elizabeth made a gesture of weariness, and raised to her
parched lips the great bunch of roses, fresh from the country, which
Mrs. Bobby had brought. They already hung their heads.

"I suppose," the girl said dreamily, her eyes half shut, "our flowers
must be all out at the Homestead. It always looks so pretty there now,
before the heat has lasted too long. I can see it--the river with the
sails on it, and the fields covered with daisies--they must be out
now--ah, and the wild-roses!"--She drew a long breath. "Oh, I am sick
sometimes for a sight of it all," she broke out with sudden vehemence.
"I'd give anything to lie down in the grass with the trees over me,
and the cool wind in my face, and so--sleep"--Her voice sank away, she
made a weary gesture. "I'm so tired," she said, "I'd like to sleep
forever."

"My dear child." Mrs. Bobby caught her breath, a mist of tears in her
eyes. "Don't you ever sleep here?"--she asked tentatively after a
moment, and Elizabeth answered in the same dreary way, unconscious,
apparently, that she was departing from her usual reserve.

"No, I don't sleep often," she said, "especially since the nights have
been so hot. But when I do"--she paused and stared reflectively before
her, while the shadow in her eyes grew deeper. "There's a dream that
haunts me now," she said at last, "whenever I fall asleep. I dream
about my trial, and--it always goes against me. I stand there all
alone, the judge pronounces sentence, and I--I try to speak, I try to
tell them that I'm innocent, but--the words won't come--I wake up half
strangled"--she broke off shuddering. "Ah, you can't imagine how
horrible it is," she said, "worse even than--lying awake."

Mrs. Bobby was silent for a moment, but when she spoke her voice was
steady. "It's a horrible dream," she said, "but it's impossible--quite
impossible that it should come true. You won't be left alone, we shall
all stand by you, you will be acquitted surely--surely"--in spite of
herself, her voice suddenly faltered, in a way that belied her words.

"You think so?" Elizabeth said, quickly. "You _hope_ so. But--if you
should be mistaken?" She put out her hand and grasped Mrs. Bobby's
wrist. "Tell me the worst," she said. "I'd rather know it. Is there
much danger, do you--in your heart of hearts, do you think that I
shall be acquitted?" Involuntarily her grasp tightened, her strained,
dilated eyes searched her friend's face with a look that seemed to
compel only the truth--to tolerate no evasions. And Eleanor Van
Antwerp, with all her courage, could not meet it. She turned her face
away with a little sob.

Elizabeth sat rigid for a moment, waiting for the answer that did not
come; then her fingers relaxed their hold, she took her hand away and
sank back against the wall.

There was a long silence. The noon-day sun crept towards them,
dazzling the eyes, a few flies buzzed aimlessly about. Upon Eleanor
Van Antwerp's mind the prison court, as she saw it then, baking in the
noon-day heat--the group of women huddled together, the rags of some,
the tawdry finery of others, the look of dogged misery on their coarse
faces--the whole scene impressed itself, calling up always in after
years a sense of powerless despair.

At last Elizabeth turned to her, and a faint smile hovered about her
white lips.

"Do you know," she said, "did the warden show you? in that corner
there they have--the old scaffold--what's left of it, at least. They
keep it as an interesting relic. Oh, he wouldn't show it to me"--she
smiled again painfully--" he's too considerate--I heard him telling
one of the visitors. They don't have anything of the kind now, he
said,--there is--Sing Sing and the electric chair. And that is--or so
they say--more merciful. But is it--do you really think it can be?"
She paused and stared up at Mrs. Bobby with eyes full of a dawning
terror. "To have a hood put over one's face," she went on, her voice
trembling, "that's how they do it, isn't it?--to wait--wait for the
shock." ... She stopped, the look of terror in her eyes grew deeper.
She lifted the roses from her lap and held them up before her face, as
if to shut out, with their color and fragrance, some horrible vision.
"Oh, I see it day and night," she said, "day and night! If I see it
much longer, I shall go mad."

Mrs. Bobby's hand tightened convulsively upon hers.

"Elizabeth, my dear," she cried, "you mustn't think of such
possibilities. It could never--come to that, they would never--carry
their cruelty to that extent"--Her voice faltered.

Elizabeth put down her roses and looked up at her. Her face showed
recovered self-control. "Why--because I'm a woman?" she asked, with a
pale little smile. "That's what the warden said--that they wouldn't
condemn a woman to death. But even if they--stopped short of that,
would imprisonment--would this sort of thing, or worse"--she swept her
hand with a comprehensive gesture round her--"wouldn't death, on the
whole, be better?"

And Mrs. Bobby could not answer, for she thought in her heart it would
be--infinitely better.

But in a moment she rallied her energies.

"Elizabeth," she said, "there's no necessity to consider--either
alternative. I believe firmly that we shall get you off. But in order
to do it you must help us--to defend you. You seem indifferent about
it; Mr. Fenton complains that you keep things back. You can't afford
to trifle--tell us everything. Isn't there"--she leaned forward
eagerly and grasped Elizabeth's hand--"doesn't Julian Gerard know
something that would help us?"

She felt Elizabeth start and shiver; then stiffen into sudden
rigidity. The hand she held was withdrawn, and with the action the
girl seemed to release herself, mentally and physically, from her
grasp.

"I don't know," she said, and her voice was cold, almost as though she
resented being questioned, "I don't know why you think that."

"I don't think--I feel it! There is something that he can say." Mrs.
Bobby's eyes seemed to challenge a denial. Elizabeth met them with a
look of defiance.

"There is nothing," she said. "He knows nothing; or if he did"--she
lowered her voice with a sudden change of tone--"if he could save me,
I'd rather die than have him sent for."

"Ah--you'd rather die?" Mrs. Bobby caught her breath. "And you think
that is fair--to yourself, to your aunts, to us all?"

"I don't know." The girl's voice had the ring of weary obstinacy that
suffering will sometimes assume. "I only know I don't want him--sent
for."

Mrs. Bobby seemed to reflect. "We can't send for him," she said at
last, "we don't know where he is."

Elizabeth started. "You don't," she repeated, in a low voice, "know
where he is?"--

"No, he left no address. His mail is at his banker's--they don't know
where to forward it."

Elizabeth turned her face away. "Ah, I see," she murmured, "he doesn't
wish to be reminded of--anything at home." A pale cold smile flitted
across her white face. "It is better so," she said, firmly, "far, far
better. I am glad that he is away and that there is no use in sending
for him."

"But if there were"--all Mrs. Bobby's self-control could not keep the
tremor from her voice--"if there were, Elizabeth, isn't there
something that he could testify in your favor? Do tell me, dear," she
urged; the girl sat silent. "You see I have guessed it--it can do no
harm for me to know what it is."

Elizabeth spoke at last, low and hesitatingly. "He knows that on the
twenty-third of December, when--when that man said he saw me in
Brooklyn, I was with him--with Julian. I went out that morning,
meaning to do some shopping, but I met him accidentally. He persuaded
me to go up to the Metropolitan Museum--there was a picture he wanted
to show me. We were there some hours. And--and that is all."

"And that was," said Mrs. Bobby breathlessly, "on the twenty-third of
December. You are _sure_?"

"Quite sure," said the girl listlessly, "but what difference does it
make? I wouldn't tell Mr. Fenton--I said I couldn't remember what I
did that day, and I wouldn't tell you now, if I thought that you could
send for him. You can't send for him, can you?" She looked at Mrs.
Bobby with sudden alarm. "You really don't know where he is?"

"Upon my word and honor," Mrs. Bobby assured her, "I don't." And then
she said little more, but kissed Elizabeth presently, bade her keep up
her courage, and left sooner than she generally did.

"No, I don't know where he is," she said to herself, as the hansom
bore her swiftly up-town, and she stared out absently at the deserted
streets. "We don't know, but please God, we shall soon. If only that
man finds him, if he can only get him here in time."




_Chapter XXXIV_


This was in the early summer; and Elizabeth's trial was to be in
November. The time approached, and nothing had been heard of Julian
Gerard. Efforts were made to postpone the trial, that this important
witness might have time to appear. But the influence of people like
the Van Antwerps, which seems in some ways all-powerful, is in others
curiously slight. The District Attorney was acting in the interests of
the yellow journals and they, according to their own account, in the
interests of the people, which required, as they set forth in
high-sounding editorials, that no more favor should be shown to Miss
Van Vorst than to the lowest criminal.

After all, the girl's health had suffered so severely from the long
confinement that it seemed a cruelty to lengthen it, even with the
hope of Gerard's return. Mr. Fenton himself was of opinion that the
trial should not be postponed. He had done his best for his client,
though hampered more, perhaps, than he realized by his secret doubt of
everything she said. He did not believe in this alibi, which she had
trumped up, as he decided, when the one person who could confirm or
deny it was safely out of the way. Yet he tried to find some other
witness who remembered, or imagined having seen her at the Museum on
the morning when she was supposed to have been in Brooklyn. No such
person could be found. The case for the defence was lamentably weak.
Mr. Fenton admitted the fact to himself with a shrug of the shoulders,
and fell back philosophically on his conviction that no jury would
send a young woman of Elizabeth's position and attractions to the
electric chair.

Perhaps the person most to be pitied in those days was Miss Cornelia,
who had been summoned as witness for the prosecution to corroborate
the testimony of Bridget O'Flaherty, her former waitress, as to her
niece's words and manner on the morning after the murder. The poor
lady was in a pitiful state of agitation. "What shall I say?" she
asked, looking appealingly from one to the other of Elizabeth's
friends and advisers.

"Say anything," said Mrs. Bobby, hastily, "any--any lie that you can
invent."

She stopped. Miss Cornelia drew herself up with dignity. "I don't
think our child's cause can be helped by--by lies, Mrs. Van Antwerp,"
she said.

Mrs. Bobby felt herself rebuked. "Well, I am not given to lies myself,
as a rule," she explained, apologetically, "but in a case like this it
seems to me that the end justifies the means. It's a doctrine brought
into discredit, I know, by the Jesuits, but still it seems to have a
certain foundation in common-sense."

"I don't know anything about the Jesuits," said Miss Cornelia, with
some stiffness, "but I shall try to act as our Church would advise,
even--even if Elizabeth"--here her voice broke.

"I think," said Bobby Van Antwerp, coming to the rescue, "that Miss
Cornelia is right, Eleanor. It is much better to tell the exact truth,
and Fenton will make the best of it.--Good Heavens," he said
afterwards to his wife, "you don't suppose that the poor lady could
invent a plausible story, or even keep back anything that wouldn't be
brought out in cross-examination and make a worse effect than if she
gave it of her own accord!"

But upon Miss Cornelia the opposite side of the question was beginning
to make an impression. Her mind moved slowly. It was not easy for her
to break from old tradition. Her conscience had hitherto recognized
the broadly drawn line between right and wrong; no indefinite, subtle
gradations. As she had said once to Elizabeth, fully meaning it, one
could always do right if one tried. But if--if one could not tell what
the right was?...

Miss Joanna, sitting opposite to her in the twilight, broke the
silence hesitatingly. "I suppose, sister," she said, "I suppose you
remember--exactly what the poor child said--that morning? You
haven't"--Miss Joanna caught her breath--"you haven't forgotten?"
There was a note of entreaty in her voice.

Miss Cornelia could see it so plainly; the breakfast table and the
paper with those startling headlines, and the look on Elizabeth's
face, when she had made that extraordinary assertion. A confession of
guilt! That was the way in which it would be construed--there seemed
no way out of it. Miss Cornelia did not think that the most merciful
jury could acquit her after that. And yet the child was innocent--Miss
Cornelia knew that as surely as she knew that the Bible was inspired.
Was it reasonable, was it right that she should be required to give
evidence against her? Over Miss Cornelia's mind there swept a sudden,
sharp sense of injustice, a passionate rebellion against fate.

But a life-long habit of truth-telling is hard to overcome. She
answered Miss Joanna after a moment. "I--I haven't forgotten, sister,"
she said, and the hot tears scorched her eyeballs.

Miss Joanna put away her knitting with a hopeless sigh. "Well, of
course, sister, you must speak the truth," she said, drearily,
"but--it does seem hard." Then she went out of the room, crying
quietly.

Miss Cornelia sat motionless in the twilight, while that new tumult of
rebellion still raged within her. Ah, yes, it seemed more than
hard--it seemed cruel, unjust, that such a thing should be required of
her. Those strange people, the Jesuits, whom she had always held in
horror, had some reason on their side after all. There were cases to
which the simple, old-fashioned rules of right and wrong did not
apply, which were extraordinary, unprecedented.... Miss Cornelia could
not help asking herself--with a thrill of self-condemnation, indeed,
and yet another feeling which defended the question--whether in
certain circumstances, the wrong were not more to be commended, wiser,
better than the right.

She spent a sleepless night, thinking it over. The whole foundations
of her life, of her faith seemed shaken. She looked the next morning
so exhausted, when she went down as usual to The Tombs, that Elizabeth
at once divined that some new misfortune had happened, and it was not
long before she drew it out of her.

She sat for a long time very still, one hand clasping Miss Cornelia's,
the fingers of the other tapping on the ledge of the wall beside her.

"Of course, auntie," she said at last, quietly, "you must tell exactly
what happened. There's no good to be gained by lies; at least"--she
made an attempt at a smile--"my own success in that line hasn't been
very striking. I was a little out of my head that morning, and I don't
remember exactly what I said! but whatever it was"--she raised her
head proudly--"I don't want anything kept back. Let them know the
whole truth; then, if they condemn me, well and good. At least I
shan't have anything"--her voice faltered--"anything _more_ to
reproach myself with."

"Elizabeth!" The older woman gazed up at her admiringly. "You are so
brave--you are a lesson to me! But you--you don't realize, my
darling--" sobs choked her voice.

"Oh, yes--I realize." A pale smile flitted across the girl's face. "I
have realized--quite clearly--all these months. But that's no reason,
auntie, why you should save me by lies."

And then she turned the subject, and began to talk calmly enough,
about one of the women prisoners, in whose case she took a keen
interest. Nothing more was said about her own affairs. She had
relapsed, since that conversation months before with Mrs. Bobby, into
her old reserve, and spoke very little of herself. The cooler weather
was helping her. She seemed stronger, and always quite calm. Miss
Cornelia went away, feeling rebuked for her own cowardice. Elizabeth
was right, she thought with a pang of self-reproach; nothing but the
truth must be told in her defence. But meanwhile Miss Cornelia tried
to reconcile two opposite instincts; offering up day and night two
apparently irreconcilable petitions; that she might be enabled to
speak the truth exactly, and yet do no harm to her niece's cause.




_Chapter XXXV_


It was the first day of Elizabeth's trial. She could hardly realize
that it had come--this event which they had anticipated so long, the
thought of which had lately crowded out every other. There was nothing
alarming about the present proceedings--the appearance of one jury-man
after another, generally followed in each case by a peremptory
challenge. One was objected to because he was thought to have formed a
favorable opinion, another an unfavorable one, and still another
because he was apparently incapable of forming any opinion at all. If
she had not been on trial for her life, she might have thought it
dull.

Her gaze wandered to that wide court-room window opposite, from which
she could see an expanse of roofs, flag-staffs and chimneys, full of
charm and excitement after the unbroken outline of blank walls, which
for many months had bounded her view. Then, forgetting herself, she
glanced about the room, quickly turned and shrank back, while the
color rushed into her white face. There were some women whom she knew,
thickly veiled, in the crowd behind her--women who were against her.
Those who were her friends had the consideration to stay away. And
there were others whom she did not know, who crowded as close to the
bar as they could, eying her with eager curiosity, making remarks
about her in a stage whisper. As the heroine of this sensational case,
she was a disappointment both in dress and appearance.

"Well, her hair waves prettily"--the words came distinctly to
Elizabeth's ears in a lull in the proceeding--"but that's about all. I
don't see why she was ever called a beauty, do you?"

"Why, no, indeed. Her features aren't regular--not a bit. And isn't
she thin and white!"

"Hush!" a kindlier voice broke in, suppressing the others. "It's no
wonder, poor thing. Most people would lose their looks, if they'd been
through what she has."

A pang shot through Elizabeth none the less distinct because the
reason was, in view of what was going on, so trifling and absurd. She
had dressed herself that morning with unusual care, resolved to
present as far as possible an undisturbed front to the world; and she
had not realized that the plain black gown, and the unrelieved
sombreness of the black hat, which would once have thrown into more
dazzling relief her fresh young beauty, now emphasized with startling
plainness the change in her appearance. For a moment, the fact forced
itself upon her and hurt even then. When a woman has always been
regarded as a beauty, it is hard to become accustomed to a different
point of view. After all, what difference did it make? She had not
realized the effect which her looks were supposed to produce on the
jury.

For a while the prospect of any jury at all seemed dubious. The hours
passed, the day came to an end, and there were exactly two men in the
box. It was not till the end of the third day that the number was
complete--twelve most unhappy men, whose faces Eleanor Van Antwerp
scanned eagerly. Some, she decided, were kind; others--too logical;
all of them were more or less intelligent. There were one or two, she
thought, to whom the pathos of Elizabeth's pale and faded looks might
appeal with an eloquence that fresh coloring and rounded curves would
have lacked entirely. Upon these men she based her hopes.

And so the trial, once fairly started, dragged on its weary length.
Mrs. Bobby spent her days there, sitting beside Elizabeth; her whole
life, just then, seemed bounded by the court-house walls. She had no
interest in anything outside. And Elizabeth's aunts, too, came every
day. It was pathetic to see these timid, elderly women, plunged for
the first time in their sheltered lives into this fierce glare of
publicity, under which they bore up unflinchingly, in the effort to
show to all the world their firm faith in their niece's ultimate
acquittal.

As for Elizabeth, she had little hope; but neither had she, except at
times, any great fear. The worst had been that first day, and now she
was used to being stared at; used even to the thought that she was
being tried for her life. The scene and its accessories--the
listening, eager crowd behind her, the judge before her with his
impassive face, in which she thought she could perceive, now and
again--or did her hopes deceive her?--a gleam of sympathy; the jury
weary but resigned, the reporters taking notes, scanning her with eyes
that noted every detail of her manner and bearing, placed upon them
Heaven knows what construction! Bobby Van Antwerp moving restlessly
about, holding long conferences with the lawyers; her counsel and the
District Attorney wrangling, glaring at each other over the heads of
unfortunate witnesses--the whole thing lost its terrors, grew to be an
accepted part of her life's routine.

The evidence at first was technical. There was much she did not
understand--she wondered if the jury did. There were the doctors,
showing with many long words and tedious explanations, with what sort
of poison the murder had been committed; and then there were the
handwriting experts, with still longer words and more tedious
explanations. Now--what was it that they had brought out? Those
unfortunate letters which she remembered so well having written, in
great haste and anxiety. The experts were pointing out numerous points
of resemblance between them and another piece of paper, which she had
never seen before. And now it was the secret marriage they were
proving--though what was the use of that, when no one denied it? The
question of motive was absolutely clear; the District Attorney had
expatiated upon it at great length in his opening speech.

All this Elizabeth grasped more or less distinctly. She realized that
the evidence was strong against her. But she could not, weak and dazed
as she was, keep her mind on it. The voice of the witnesses would
grow indistinct, a mist would pass over the anxious faces around her,
a lull would come in the nervous tension of the atmosphere; the blue
sky, which she saw from the window, would seem very near, and she
would float off into phases of oblivion, from which she would be
roused, perhaps, by a touch on her arm, or a voice in her ear.
"Listen, darling, that was a point in your favor," her aunts or
Eleanor Van Antwerp would say.

These points were few and far between. But there was one which
Elizabeth understood--she hoped that the jury did.

Mr. Fenton was examining one of the medical experts for the
prosecution, a man who had had large experience in poisoning cases.
The counsel for the defence was putting him through series of
questions, the drift of which was not altogether plain. What sort of a
crime did he consider poisoning? An atrocious one, was it
not?--generally committed by hardened criminals? Had the witness ever
been in contact with a case of poisoning where the whole scheme had
been concocted and carried out by a girl of twenty, far removed by
education, friends and antecedents from any connection with crime? No,
the witness could not, in his own experience, recall any such case,
but he had no doubt that it had been known, though he agreed in
response to Mr. Fenton's next question, that it would be slightly
abnormal. And here the District Attorney interposed with one of those
objections which each lawyer seemed to make mechanically, whenever a
question proved inconvenient to his side; but the Judge decided in
favor of Mr. Fenton, and he went on imperturbably, shifting his ground
a little.

"Poisoning is a crime--don't you think so?--that calls for a great
deal of thought and calculation?"

"Yes," the witness thought it would undoubtedly.

"The person who planned it would have plenty of time to consider the
consequences?"

The witness responded: "I should think so."

"He or she--whoever it was that planned it--would be probably of a
cold-blooded and calculating disposition?"

"Probably."

"And not likely, do you think so?--to suffer from hysterical remorse
as soon as the act was accomplished?"

Here the opposing counsel again intervened, and was again silenced by
the Judge. Mr. Fenton repeated his question.

"I ask you," he said, addressing the witness with a certain solemnity,
"as a man who has had experience with criminals and human nature,
whether you think it likely that a woman, strong-minded and
cold-blooded enough to commit this diabolical crime, on hearing of its
accomplishment--a thing she has been expecting for days--would be
seized with a fit of hysterical remorse, would utter wild,
incriminating words, in the presence of--no matter whom, any one who
chanced to be present, and would rush up at once to look at the body
of the man whom she had murdered?"

The witness hesitated. "It--it doesn't seem likely," he admitted at
last.

"It would be much more, don't you think," said Mr. Fenton quietly,
"like the conduct of an innocent woman, who was suffering from a
nervous shock, and had no thought of controlling her actions because
she had no idea of being suspected?"

The witness, after a long pause: "Yes, it--would certainly seem so."

"It certainly does," said Mr. Fenton. "Thank you, doctor. I have no
more questions to ask." And he sat down with the air of one who has
scored a point.

Thereupon the prosecution, as if to prove the strength of the evidence
which he had anticipated, placed upon the stand Bridget O'Flaherty,
formerly maid-servant to the Misses Van Vorst, who swore upon her
solemn oath that the prisoner had in her hearing declared herself
guilty of the murder of Paul Halleck. Yes, those were her very words,
the maid declared--"that she had killed him," and she had added that
"it had come at last--just as she despaired of it" or something of the
kind, referring no doubt to the fact that Halleck had kept the poison
some time before taking it. The woman's testimony was full and
circumstantial, and she gave the impression of telling the truth.

Mr. Fenton, on cross-examination, proved that she had been dismissed
without a character from the services of the Misses Van Vorst, also
that she had been paid for her evidence by a yellow journal. Its
effect was distinctly undermined when he permitted her to leave the
stand. And with that the prosecution called upon Miss Cornelia to
corroborate the maid's statement.

Miss Cornelia was deathly white; her head shook, her thin, silvery
curls fluttered, as if they had caught the infection of her own
nervousness. In one hand she grasped her smelling-salts desperately,
with the other she revolved in an agitated way a small black fan. A
murmur of sympathy ran through the court-room as she took her place.
Even the District Attorney seemed sorry for her and put his opening
questions with unwonted gentleness. His tone was still bland when he
came to the important point--had she noticed anything peculiar in her
niece's manner on the morning after the murder?

Miss Cornelia's answer was low, but it was quite audible. "She
was--shocked, naturally."

"Naturally. But did she seem surprised?"

Miss Cornelia's answer was this time still lower, and given with more
hesitation. "I--I think so."

"You mean you are not sure?"

"I--I was so upset myself"--began Miss Cornelia.

"That you did not notice?"

"No, I--I did not notice," said Miss Cornelia, relieved.

"You thought that her manner was unremarkable, and simply what you
might have expected under the circumstances?"

"Yes, I--I thought so," said Miss Cornelia. She added to herself the
mental reservation that she had no idea what sort of manner under the
circumstances, she should have expected.

The District Attorney assumed a more impressive manner. "Miss Van
Vorst," he said, "do you believe in the sacredness of an oath?"

"Yes, I--I certainly."

"You would not speak anything but the truth?"

"No," said Miss Cornelia, this time more firmly.

"Then I ask you," said the District Attorney, suddenly drawing himself
up to his full height, and fixing his eyes upon her, "I ask you, on
your sacred oath, did your niece, or did she not, on the morning after
the murder of Paul Halleck, say to you that she had killed him, or
words to that effect?"

There was a long silence. Miss Cornelia looked desperately about her;
at the Judge, whose face showed more than ever a touch of human
sympathy; at Mr. Fenton, white with anxiety, trying to telegraph a
hundred things which she could not understand; at the jury, bending
eagerly forward; then back at those most interested,--her sister in an
agony of suspense, Mrs. Van Antwerp flushed and trembling in her vain
desire to intervene. Lastly, Miss Cornelia's haggard eyes sought
Elizabeth herself; the girl was sitting white and rigid, motionless as
a statue, her hands clenched, her eyes resolutely bent upon the floor.
If it was a terrible moment for her; how much worse was it for the
aunt who had brought her up, who was now called upon by a refinement
of cruelty to destroy what seemed to be her only chance. Oh, for the
courage--it seemed to her almost noble!--to utter one good lie! But
there were the lynx-like eyes of the District Attorney fixed upon her,
there was the oath she had taken, weighing upon her conscientious
soul.... Suddenly she felt, with a sense of despair, that her silence
had already spoken louder than speech. And, even as the thought passed
through her mind, her answer framed itself on her lips and seemed to
be uttered without her own volition; one word, barely audible, but
caught at once and registered by twenty reporters, while a suppressed
sigh went the round of the court-room.

"Yes."

"Thank you," said the District Attorney. "That is all I wished to
know."




_Chapter XXXVI_


There was still cross-examination.

Mr. Fenton, too, began with unimportant questions. He gave Miss
Cornelia, who looked ready to faint, time to recover herself a little.
The questions he asked were easy to answer. Had her niece, in the
course of her education, given them much trouble, had she ever
deceived them, kept anything from them before this fatal secret? Ah,
no, no! Miss Cornelia gave her answers tremulously, yet with a fervent
relief, an eager desire to make herself heard throughout the
court-room.

"Then with your knowledge of your niece's character," Mr. Fenton
asked, speaking almost carelessly, "you didn't think of her as the
sort of person likely to commit a crime?"

Miss Cornelia drew herself up with sudden dignity and her voice was
plainly audible, and without a tremor. "Most certainly not," she said.

"Then how," inquired Mr. Fenton calmly, "did you account for her
extraordinary assertion that she had committed this murder?"

Miss Cornelia hardly hesitated. "I thought she was out of her mind,"
she said. "I couldn't account for it in any other way."

"It never occurred to you for a moment that it was true?"

"Not for a moment." The words came out indignantly.

"You naturally did not suppose that were she really guilty, she would
proclaim it quite so readily as that?"

Miss Cornelia stared. "I never," she said, simply, "thought of such a
thing as her being guilty."

"But you asked her, did you not, for some explanation of her words?"

"I asked her," faltered Miss Cornelia, "what she meant by saying such
a dreadful thing. And she said--she said"----

"Yes," said Mr. Fenton, encouragingly. "Take your time and tell us the
exact truth. What did she say?"

"She seemed to be rather dazed--She said that she had wished so much
for it to happen that when it did, it seemed almost like an answer to
her wishes--as if she were accountable for it."

"And you accepted her explanation?" said Mr. Fenton. "It seemed to you
plausible?"

"I knew what she meant--yes. But I could see that she was over-wrought
and excited, or she wouldn't have thought of it."

"Did she seem distressed over Halleck's death?"

Miss Cornelia hesitated. "N--not at first," she said. "She couldn't
seem to realize it."

"And afterwards?"----

"Yes, she seemed distressed then. I thought," said Miss Cornelia
firmly "that she felt very badly indeed when she realized it."

"And there was nothing in her manner that could induce you to believe
that she expected it, or knew a thing about it beyond what she read in
the papers?"

"Nothing."

With this word, firmly pronounced, Miss Cornelia's ordeal came to an
end; she descended white and dazed. Elizabeth leaned over as she
returned to her place and pressed her hand with a faint little smile.
"It's all right, auntie, I'm glad you spoke the truth." And so the
episode passed.

"She really has done no more harm than we expected," Bobby Van Antwerp
observed to his wife. "It is one of those things which sound much
worse than they really are. After all, what does it amount to? The
hysterical assertion of an excited girl! A guilty woman is more
careful what she says."

"I will tell Elizabeth," said his wife, in relief, "what you say." But
though she found an opportunity after the day's session, to whisper
this encouragement into the girl's ear, Elizabeth listened vacantly
and did not seem fully to grasp it. The maid's evidence, her aunt's
corroboration, had brought up vividly to her mind the danger that
existed all the time behind these slow, technical deliberations. That
night the horrible waking dream, from which for awhile she had been
free, returned more startlingly real than ever, and the face of the
Judge who sentenced her was the same face in which, during the long
days in the court-room, she had thought she detected some involuntary
gleams of sympathy. It had seemed a kind face in the day-time, but in
her dream it was inexorably stern.

The next morning, at the trial, her mind did not wander; she kept it
resolutely fixed on the evidence. Mr. D'Hauteville was on the stand,
and she wondered what more fatal revelations were to be made of her
words and actions on that unfortunate morning, when she hardly knew
what she said or did. But no new developments were brought out. There
was no trace in Mr. D'Hauteville's evidence or his easy, unembarrassed
manner of the suspicions which he had been perhaps the first person in
town to entertain.

Yes, he had seen Miss Van Vorst on the morning after the murder, and
had himself taken her into the studio. Was there anything peculiar in
her manner? Certainly; she seemed much distressed, as was natural, he
thought, under the circumstances. Had she tried to possess herself of
the fatal flask, or of any other incriminating objects, as for
instance her own letters? No, most emphatically no. Was it true, as
the elevator man had already stated, that she had defended herself
against his accusations? He could not remember anything of the kind;
certainly he had not accused her, as he had no reason to suspect her.

Mr. Fenton on cross-examination, drew from him a description of her
tears, of the fearless way in which she had entered, her apparent
indifference to being observed. Was it, Mr. Fenton demanded, the
manner of a guilty woman? The witness fully agreed that it was not.
And then he left the stand, saying to himself philosophically that all
was fair in the cause of a beautiful and unfortunate girl, whom he had
admired extremely, and with whom his friend Gerard had been, and might
be still, desperately in love.

The next witness was the Brooklyn tradesman, whose evidence had been
already so much exploited by the yellow journals that it lacked the
force of novelty. He deposed to having sold the flask on the morning
of the twenty-third of December, to a woman in black, thickly veiled,
slight and tall, and with reddish hair. The witness was quite sure
about the date, and as to the time he was less explicit, but convinced
that it was somewhere between the hours of ten and twelve. He was a
middle-aged man with a plain, honest face, and evidently anxious to
tell what he knew and no more. When the District Attorney, in a
dramatic manner, desired him to look at the defendant, and declare if
she were the woman to whom he sold the flask, he seemed to shrink in
distress from the terrible responsibility thus placed upon him.

"I--it is so long ago," he protested, "and--you--must remember that
she wore a veil."

"Which entirely obscured her face?"----

"No, not entirely," the witness reluctantly admitted.

"Look at the defendant," the District Attorney insisted, "and tell the
court if her general appearance recalls that of the woman to whom you
sold the flask."

He turned to Elizabeth and requested her to rise. She grew a shade
paler and stared at him for a moment as if startled; then slowly, she
obeyed him, and stood facing the witness, who brought reluctantly his
anxious gaze to bear upon her. She was ashy-white, but she held her
head erect, her eyes met his without flinching. Thus they stood for
fully a minute, and the silence in the court-room was tense with
nervous excitement. Then the witness spoke.

"I--there is a certain resemblance," he said.

"Then you identify her?" said the District Attorney.

The witness was silent. He looked again at Elizabeth. She was
trembling now, and caught hold of a chair as if for support. The
witness cleared his throat. He was thinking that he had a daughter of
about Elizabeth's age.

"I--I really could not tell," he began.

"Take your time," said the District Attorney, impressively. "This is a
very important point."

And then there was again a long silence. In the midst of it the sun,
bursting through a gray mass of clouds, touched Elizabeth's hair with
a wave of light. It stood out, a shining halo, against the rim of her
black hat. The witness stared at it as if fascinated. Then he uttered
a sound--it might almost have been a sob--of relief.

"That is not the same woman," he said. "The hair is quite different!
That other woman's hair was a much deeper red--it didn't shine and
glisten. And her whole air, the way she held herself was different. I
am sure it is not the same."

And this opinion, once announced, he clung to tenaciously--nothing the
District Attorney said could shake it. Mr. Fenton would not even
cross-examine, and there was great rejoicing in the ranks of the
defense.

But the next day the prosecution placed upon the stand a druggist's
clerk, who remembered having sold a bottle of arsenic to a woman
dressed in black on the morning of the twenty-third of December. The
occurrence was impressed on his mind because he had demurred as to
selling poison, and she had presented a physician's certificate. She
was handsomely dressed and seemed like a lady; he had noticed
particularly that her hair was reddish. And when asked to identify
Elizabeth, he swore unhesitatingly that she was the same woman.

Upon Mr. Fenton's cross-examination, it became evident what important
questions may hang on the color of a woman's hair.

_Mr. Fenton_: "You said, did you not, that the woman's hair was red?"

_Witness_, cautiously: "I said, reddish. That's not quite the same
thing."

_Mr. Fenton_: "Explain the difference."

_Witness_, confused: "Well, I--I don't know. I meant to say it was
sort of--sort of light"----

"You meant to say, in other words, that it was not black?"

_Witness_, recovering himself and speaking stubbornly: "No, I meant to
say that it was reddish--sort of sandy"----

"Ah--like the District Attorney's moustache, for instance?"

There was laughter in the court-room. The District Attorney's
moustache was a brilliant carrot color, which at the opposing
counsel's words, was emulated by his face.

"I object to these personalities," he said.

Mr. Fenton was instructed by the Judge to be more serious, but held to
his point.

"Your Honor, it is necessary to find out what the witness means by the
vague word 'reddish.' If he thinks it applies to the District
Attorney's moustache"----

"But I don't," objected the aggrieved witness, to the renewed
amusement of the court-room. "I call that carroty."

"Then point out, among people present, what hair you consider
reddish."

The witness's eyes wandered till they alighted upon the distinctly
sandy locks of one of the experts for the prosecution. "I call that
hair reddish," he announced, with some satisfaction at finding a way
out of his dilemma.

"Ah--now oblige me, by looking at the defendant's hair and tell us if
you think it is like that of this gentleman."

The witness glanced helplessly at Elizabeth. "It--isn't much like it,"
he admitted.

"And yet you describe both as 'reddish?'"

The witness was desperate. "Well, I--I don't exactly know"--he said.

"What you mean by 'reddish?'" said Mr. Fenton.

"Well--no," said the witness.

"I see that you don't. It's not necessary for you to tell us that. You
are color blind evidently, and by 'reddish' you simply mean anything
between black and tow-color. But you can't swear away a woman's life
with such vague descriptions as this. You can go now. I have no more
questions to ask."

The crestfallen witness gladly retreated. But in spite of his
discomfiture, his evidence had been a serious blow to the defense, and
when, a few days later, the prosecution closed its case, it was
admitted on every side to be a strong one.

The defense opened quietly enough. Mr. Fenton, too, brought out his
handwriting experts, who were prepared with an equally startling array
of technical details, to swear to the exact opposite of what had been
solemnly declared by the experts for the prosecution. The court
settled down into a dreamy mood, and the spectators for the most part
went to sleep.

There was a break in the monotony, and one which created much
excitement, when Elizabeth took the stand on her own behalf. She had
been very anxious to do this, and Mr. Fenton had reluctantly
consented, with many misgivings and elaborate instructions, to which
he saw, to his alarm, that she listened almost vacantly. But when she
began to testify his doubts disappeared. She gave her evidence very
simply and directly, and there was something in the soft, low tones of
her voice, an indefinable ring of girlishness, of youth and
inexperience, which carried with it an illogical thrill of conviction.

She had never, she said, bought the flask which contained the poison,
nor had she ever seen one exactly like it. She had not gone to
Brooklyn on the twenty-third of December--she had never gone there in
her life. She had spent the morning of the twenty-third of December at
the Metropolitan Museum. She had not bought the bottle of arsenic, and
knew nothing of it. She had no reason to expect Paul Halleck's death.
She had read of it in the papers. No, she had not meant the assertion
literally when she said that she had killed him; she had been startled
because his death had seemed to come in direct answer to her wishes,
and she had somehow felt accountable for it. Yes, it was a morbid
idea--she realized it now, but she had not been at all well at the
time. That was the reason she had gone up to the studio; she had been
in a state of nervous excitement and hardly knew what she did. No, she
had not thought of the police suspecting her in consequence; such an
idea had never entered her mind.

On the whole, Mr. Fenton was satisfied with the effect that she was
producing. He had made the agreeable discovery that he was beginning
to believe in her himself; and if this conviction was impressing
itself more and more upon his own suspicious mind, it must, he
thought, be all-powerful with the jury, whom he had already mentally
appraised as kindly men, anxious to escape from an unpleasant duty,
and willing to give the prisoner the full benefit of every doubt.

But when Mr. Fenton at last sat down and the District Attorney took
his place, then, indeed, began a very bad quarter of an hour for
Elizabeth. Question by question, the lawyer drew out of her her
reasons for keeping her marriage secret and for wishing Halleck dead,
her engagement to Gerard and the manner in which she had deceived him.
Her color changed from white to red and back again to ghastly pallor,
her voice faltered and broke piteously, but still the terrible inquiry
proceeded. Behind her, her aunts were biting their lips in agony and
Mrs. Bobby was beside herself with indignation. "I'd give anything in
the world," she said to her husband, "to get even with that man."
Elizabeth's counsel was keeping up a running fire of objections, but
in vain. The District Attorney got in his questions somehow or
another, and Elizabeth answered them as best she could.

"Why," she was asked among other things, "was your engagement to Mr.
Gerard broken off?"

"Because," she faltered, "I--I told him of my marriage."

"Why did you suddenly tell him, when you had kept it concealed so
long?"

Elizabeth looked up with a piteous appeal in her eyes, which was
answered by an objection on the part of her counsel, and she was told
by the Judge that she need answer no question unless she wished. But
by this time she had recovered herself.

"I am quite willing to answer," she said. "I told him because I was
sorry I had deceived him. I had no other reason."

"You are quite sure that you _did_ tell him, and that he did not--find
out for himself?"

There was an insulting tone to the question, but she answered it
steadily, without anger. "I am quite sure," she said.

"Who was with you on the day that you say you went to the Metropolitan
Museum?" This was the next question, put with disconcerting
suddenness.

She turned still whiter, if that were possible, than before, and her
answer was barely audible. "Mr. Gerard."

"Was any one else with you?"

"No one."

"Is he the only person who can corroborate your statement?"

"Yes."

"Then it is a pity he is not here."

She was silent.

"Mr. Gerard," observed Mr. Fenton, "when he went abroad left no
address. We made efforts to communicate with him, but so far, we have
not succeeded. It is most unfortunate."

"Most unfortunate, certainly," echoed the District Attorney, "for the
defendant. But perhaps he was not anxious to be summoned. We have
heard of witnesses who went to the ends of the earth to avoid it."

He turned to Elizabeth. "Do you know of any reason," he asked, "why he
should not wish to come?"

Elizabeth's hands were clasped together nervously. "I--I cannot tell."

"Did you send for him, as soon as you knew that his testimony was
needed?"

"I did not."

"_Why_ did you not?" said the District Attorney, in his sneering
voice.

The color flushed into her face. "Because I--because I"--Her voice
faltered and broke. "I did not _wish_ him sent for," she said, with a
sudden flash of defiance. Then she turned deathly white, and put up
her handkerchief to her lips. "I--will not answer any more questions,"
she added, faintly.

After all, it had been very bad--worse, far worse, than she had
expected. She felt as she left the stand that she had done her cause
only harm. It seemed to her moreover, that whether she were acquitted
or found guilty, she could never, after the abasement of that
cross-examination, hold up her head again.

The outlook was gloomy, and the case for the defence was almost
closed. But when Mrs. Bobby arrived in court the next morning, she was
greeted by Mr. Fenton with a broad smile.

"We must put the handwriting experts on again," he said, cheerfully.
"It will be dull, but anything to gain time. I have had a cable from
Mr. Gerard. He will be here in a few days."




_Chapter XXXVII_


Julian Gerard paced impatiently the deck of the steamer on which, for
eight miserable days, he had existed without sight of a newspaper. It
was early dawn; the outlines of the Goddess of Liberty loomed
uncertainly through a thick fog. He remembered how, when he had last
seen his native shores, he had been distraught with bitter anger
against the woman to whom his heart now turned with an eager longing,
a passionate remorse.

For the hundredth time his mind analyzed and condemned that strange
whim, the expression of a passing but very real phase of his
disappointment and disillusion, which had led him to cut himself off
from the world he had left behind. He had no wish to hear from home,
to be reminded of home ties, or of the woman whom he had resolved to
forget. Beneath his self-repressed exterior there was a strain of
adventure in his blood, which made him turn, in a crisis like this, to
the primitive resources of uncivilized life.

He had left home with no definite plans; but in London he met a
friend, who was about to start for his farm in South Africa. Gerard at
once decided to accompany him. South Africa was as good a place as
any other, when all one desired was solitude and hardship, and to get
away from one's self, and the unsatisfactory tone of the world.

The farm was deep in the interior of the country, many miles distant
from railroad or telegraph station. For months the two men saw no one
but the natives; they had no connection with the outside world. Gerard
rode and hunted and studied, and took notes on the condition of the
country. It was not a bad life on the whole, with a certain charm for
a man satiated with all that wealth can give. He might even have
enjoyed it, if he could have forgotten what had driven him to it, or
erased from his memory the one face which haunted him.

The worst of it was, that she always seemed to be unhappy; he always
saw her as he had left her, white and sad, with pathetic eyes. The
thought of her which he had carried away that night seemed to have
entirely effaced his earlier impressions of her, as she had first
flashed upon him in the vivid radiance of her fresh beauty, as he had
seen her often in a ball-room, a being meant only for smiles. He had
never pictured her then as suffering; but now, he could not think of
her in any other way.

One evening, as he and his friend sat together smoking, he found
himself impelled, as it were, in spite of himself, to tell his story.
The doubts, the misgivings which tortured him had grown too strong; it
was a relief to put them into words. He spoke low and bitterly, in
hurried phrases that were evidently the expression of his constant
thoughts; not excusing the conduct of the woman who had deceived him,
dwelling upon it rather with some harshness, for the very wish perhaps
which he was conscious of to do the reverse. The other man, as he
spoke, scanned his face keenly. At the end he made only one comment.
"And yet she loved you?"

Gerard stared at him for a moment, the color flushing into his dark
cheek. And then his face softened. Yes, it was not his money and
position--he could at least do her that justice. "I believe she did,"
he said at last in a low voice.

"Then, for Heaven's sake," the other man flashed out, "what more do
you want? Why, good Lord, if a woman _loved_ me!"--and here he broke
off and sat in silence, staring fixedly into the fire.

Gerard paced the floor that night, and his friend in the next room
smiled grimly to hear him. The same smile flickered across his
impassive features when Gerard, the next morning, announced his
departure. His reasons were plausible; he wished to go about the
country and study for himself the political situation of which he had
hitherto seen little or nothing. His host, after that first
involuntary smile, heard him through unmoved and expressed his
approval. He escorted him to the nearest town, wrung his hand at
parting, and went back, with a grimmer look than ever, to his own
solitude.

Gerard had no plans; he was conscious of only one wish--to be where he
could have news of home. At Cape Town he met the detective, who had
followed him, led astray by various false clues, till he had at last
found the right track. An hour later the two men started for New
York. And now at last the wretched journey was over, and Gerard paced
the deck of the ship and wondered miserably what new developments
might have occurred.

There was a sensation in the court-room when he appeared. There had
been rumors for days that the trial was being delayed for the arrival
of an important witness, but it had hardly been expected that this
would prove to be Elizabeth's missing lover, who had disappeared from
view, as the prosecution had asserted, to avoid testifying against
her. At least that reason for his absence could not be true, since it
was Mr. Fenton who was bringing him in, with an evident air of
triumph. Gerard himself had a worn and haggard look, which showed even
through the sun-burn which had darkened his face. He had grown very
thin, and there were white threads in his hair which were not visible
a year before; his features were set in lines of absolute, impassive
rigidity. He glanced neither to the right nor left, but sat down at
once in the ranks of witnesses.

There was a short pause of breathless expectancy, and then the
prisoner was brought in. Her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp were with her
as usual, and behind followed the police officer--a little in the
background, and with the air he considerately wore of effacing himself
as much as possible. Those who were near Gerard saw him wince and
flush painfully. He had been prepared for this, but the reality
shocked him, almost beyond his powers of self-control. How changed she
was! Paler even than he remembered her, and thin and worn till, but
for her eyes and hair, he might scarcely have known her. It gave him a
shock, too, somehow to see her all in black; he had always pictured
her, illogically, in white as she had been that last evening.... For a
moment she hardly seemed the same woman he had thought of, dreamed of,
all these months. A rush of remorseful tenderness swept over him, all
the greater because she was so changed. He would have liked to go to
her before them all, and proclaim to the whole world his love and
faith. But what he actually did was to turn his eyes away, to spare
her.

She knew that he was there. She had read the news in the trembling joy
depicted on her aunts' faces, before Eleanor Van Antwerp had
whispered: "Darling, prepare yourself! He has come--he has come to
save you." It hardly seemed a surprise, now that it had happened; she
had always known in her heart that he would come. But she was not
glad, she did not wish to be saved--by him. She still felt as she had
felt from the first, that she would rather die than sit in her place
of humiliation and see the pity in his eyes.... Ah, thank Heaven, he
had turned them away; for him, no doubt, as for her it was a painful
moment. He felt sorry for her, of course--a woman whom he had loved
once, who was being punished more than she deserved. But there was an
invincible pride in her nature which rebelled against his pity, which
would have preferred condemnation, contempt. Yet, after all, pity was
all that she deserved; she had never been worthy of his love. Let her
take what poor remnant of it was left and be thankful. Yet deep down
in her heart, there was, in spite of herself, a feeling of joy that
the world would know that he had not forsaken her.

There was little time for these conflicting thoughts to oppose each
other in Elizabeth's weary brain. Gerard was called to the stand, and
then she could do nothing but listen--and listen gratefully--while in
quiet, even tones, speaking very simply and to the point, he
corroborated all that she herself had testified. Yes, he remembered
perfectly the morning of the twenty-third of December. He had spent it
with Miss Van Vorst at the Metropolitan Museum. They had been at the
Museum for several hours, and he had left her at her home at half-past
one. Had he known then of her marriage to Halleck? No, not then, but
soon afterwards. She had told him on New Year's Eve. No, he had not
suspected it, or drawn out the avowal in any way. It had been entirely
voluntary. Naturally their engagement had been at an end, and he had
gone abroad immediately. That was his evidence. It materially
strengthened the defence on two points; first, that the prisoner had
not bought either the flask or the poison; second, that she had not
expected Paul Halleck's death.

The District Attorney, realizing this, tried to undermine its
credibility. It was not an easy thing with a man of Gerard's character
and high standing; but after all, a man in love is hardly an
accountable being. The District Attorney dwelt sarcastically on the
improbability of his having remained in ignorance all this time of the
impending trial, and insinuated that he must have had serious
objections to returning, which had been finally overcome by the
efforts of the defense. He asked his questions in a blustering way,
which fell just short of insolence. Gerard answered them quietly,
apparently unmoved. Yes, he admitted, it seemed improbable that he
should not have heard of the trial, but it was nevertheless absolutely
true. He had spent the greater part of his absence on a farm in South
Africa; he had led a rough, solitary life, read no newspapers,
received no letters. He had first heard that his evidence was needed
at Cape town, five weeks before. No, he had not received a letter from
the defendant, urging him to come to her rescue, nor did he believe
that any such letter had been sent. It would have been quite
unnecessary.

"Your disinterested chivalry, in other words," sneered the District
Attorney, "was sufficient, without such an appeal?"

"It is not a question of chivalry," said Gerard, coolly, "it is a
question of telling the truth."

"Which of course you are anxious to do."

"Of course."

His imperturbability seemed proof, against all the offensiveness of
the other's manner. The District Attorney, shifting his ground,
questioned him as to the broken engagement; and here he was rejoiced
to find his man more vulnerable. A tremor would cross Gerard's face,
he changed color more than once. But still his answers were given
quietly, in low, measured tones. Yes, it was true that Miss Van Vorst
had kept him in ignorance of her marriage; but he did not think that
her reasons for her silence need be discussed, since they were quite
irrelevant.

"And you mean to assure us," said the District Attorney,
incredulously, "that she told you at last of her own accord, without
the slightest necessity?"

"Most certainly."

"And what she told you then was the only information you received of
her marriage?"

"Yes."

"It was the only reason for breaking the engagement?"

"Yes."

"And now that that reason no longer exists," said the District
Attorney, "the engagement, I suppose, is likely to be renewed?"

The question was so unexpected that Mr. Fenton was not ready with an
objection, and Gerard spoke before he could interpose.

"I don't think that I am bound to answer questions as to what may or
may not occur in the future."

Mr. Fenton hastily agreed with him, and he was sustained by the judge.
But the District Attorney defended his line of inquiry.

"Your Honor, it is important for me to show how far this witness is
biassed in favor of the defendant. He has wished to marry her once, it
is possible, apparently, that he may be in the same position again.
You won't deny," he went on, turning to Gerard, "--that there _is_
such a possibility?"

Gerard hesitated for perhaps a second. Then he looked the lawyer
squarely, defiantly in the face. He was very pale, but there was an
angry light in his eyes; his voice rang out clearly. "I deny nothing,"
he said, "except that my feelings toward Miss Van Vorst have
influenced the truth of anything I said."

Mr. Fenton again formally entered his objection, and after some
wrangling, question and answer were stricken from the record. Still,
the jury had heard them and could form their own conclusions. Mr.
Fenton was not dissatisfied; there was a romantic element in the
situation which must, he thought, appeal irresistibly to the popular
imagination. And indeed, as Gerard left the stand, the general
sympathy was on his side, even among those who secretly thought that
he had stretched a point here and there, on behalf of the woman he
loved. It was possible that his evidence was false; but the people who
thought thus, if they were men, did not blame him; if they were women,
they admired him rather the more.

The eyes of the court-room were fixed upon him as he crossed over to
where Elizabeth sat and shook hands with her quietly, as if they had
parted yesterday. And then he seated himself near her, in the little
circle of her supporters. Eleanor Van Antwerp put out her hand to him,
her dark eyes shining through a mist of tears.

"Julian, you don't know how happy I am to have you back."

He shuddered, "Don't speak of it, Eleanor. I can never forgive myself
for having gone."

Elizabeth heard the words, but her eyes were resolutely bent on the
ground, and she refused to take any of the comfort that his presence
might have imparted. It was natural that he should feel remorseful,
eager to show to the world as much as possible that he had not
forsaken her, that he thoroughly believed in her innocence. But for
anything more, such a possibility as the District Attorney had
suggested, which he did not deny, could not, of course, very well deny
under the circumstances?... Ah, no, there could be no question any
more of love between them. Her own pride would not permit it, even if
what she called his pity could influence his judgment to that extent.
And then, with a start, she remembered that she was still on trial for
her life, and that all thoughts of love and marriage were incongruous,
almost grotesque. The case for the defense was closed, the District
Attorney was to make his final address the next day. The thing would
soon be decided, one way or the other.

The next morning, a box of flowers was brought to her; the white roses
which he had always sent her. For a moment she hesitated, touched them
lovingly, and then at last she took one of them and fastened it in her
belt. "It may bring luck," she murmured, as if to excuse her action,
and then she bent her head, and pressed her lips to its fragrant
petals.

A little later, when she entered the court-room, the eyes of all were
fixed on the flower. It was the first touch of color that had ever
relieved her black gown.

"You see," one woman whispered, "it's the sign of innocence."

Her companion, less easily moved, replied cautiously: "Perhaps."




_Chapter XXXVIII_


The tide of popular sentiment was turning in Elizabeth's favor. It had
not been with her at first, in spite of her youth and the pathetic
circumstances of her position; nay, against her all the more on that
very account with many people, who feared a display of mawkish
sentiment, and to whom the cold-blooded character of the crime stood
out the more harshly, by contrast with her soft and girlish looks. But
now one thing and another--an intangible something in her manner on
the witness-stand; Gerard's return and his evidence on her behalf; his
apparently unchanged devotion--all this had created a strong revulsion
of feeling, which was increased rather than diminished by the District
Attorney's charge.

The District Attorney was in a brutal mood. He did not spare
Elizabeth, he left it, he said, to the jury to determine the weight of
Gerard's evidence. For himself, he would not for the world suggest
that a gentleman of Mr. Gerard's high character would testify falsely;
yet he might be--mistaken; he might easily make some slight error in
dates, misled by his--his interest in the defendant. While he talked
Gerard bit his lip, inwardly cursing that dictate of civilization
which had abolished duelling, and made even horsewhipping a doubtful
expedient. Mrs. Bobby was considering ways by which one could be
avenged on "a horrible man, not in society, whom one couldn't snub by
not asking him to dinner, or anything of that kind." Elizabeth felt,
with a new thrill of pain, that she was involving Gerard in her own
disgrace. But Mr. Fenton surveyed the District Attorney unmoved
through half-closed eyes, and said to himself coolly that he was going
too far.

His own charge was a skillful defense of Gerard's evidence, a
criticism, not too violent, of the District Attorney's brutality, and
an appeal, not too open, to the sympathies of the jury. Elizabeth
flushed as she realized that this was the point, after all; she was to
be saved on issues that would not have been effectual with a man. And
then the Judge's charge began, and she forgot all sense of
humiliation, forgot everything but the thought that her fate hung in
the balance, to be decided one way or the other by those
carefully-balanced, judicial phrases. Did she imagine it, or was
there, through all the calm analysis of evidence, the impartial
weighing of this or that detail, a conviction of her innocence so
decided that it made itself felt almost unconsciously?

"Strong on our side!" Bobby Van Antwerp's voice, unusually animated
and exultant, sounded in his wife's ear at the end. "The prosecution
are furious--they say it's horribly unfair. But of course, we won't
quarrel with that."

Eleanor was deathly white; her hands were tightly locked together. At
Bobby's words she gave a little sob of hysterical relief. "Oh,
Bobby," she murmured, under her breath, "thank God that judges are
human, after all! Now, if the jury are anything short of brutes,
they'll acquit her at once and make an end of this."

But the jury fell short of this test of humanity, and retired to
deliberate. Mrs. Bobby scanned their faces anxiously, as she had done
at the beginning of the trial. They were care-worn and gloomy--naturally,
with a woman's life in their hands; but surely--surely they should
look happier, since it was in their power to save her?

"I wish, Bobby," she murmured, with that sob again in her throat, but
this time not one of relief, "I wish we had tried if they wouldn't
take money!"

"Don't, Eleanor," said Bobby. "They're all honest men--and besides,
one can't do such things!" To himself he was thinking that women
really seemed on such occasions as this to be entirely without
principle, and yet that somehow one liked them all the better for it.

This was at two o'clock. Three, four, five o'clock came, and still
they made no sign. The long deliberation seemed ominous to the anxious
group who waited in a small, dark room on the ground floor of the
court-house, starting at every sound and counting the moments as they
dragged wearily along. Mr. Fenton and the other counsel came
restlessly in and out, with a cheerful air that covered but
indifferently their intense anxiety; Bobby and Julian Gerard stood by
the window, talking occasionally in low tones, more often silent and
gazing at the prison walls that rose up grimly before their eyes.
Elizabeth sat at a small table in the middle of the room, and her
aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp sat around her in a forlorn circle. It was
a long while since any one had spoken; all consoling suggestions were
exhausted.

Elizabeth's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes, wide-open
yet unseeing, stared steadily before her. Vaguely she was conscious
that there were people in the room, that by the window stood the man
whose presence might have mattered more to her at some other time than
anything else on earth; that her aunts and Eleanor Van Antwerp were
beside her, and would bend forward now and then, one or other of them,
to press her hand. In a dull, mechanical way, she was thankful to know
that they were there; yet nothing they said or did could help her, a
great gulf seemed to yawn between her and the outside world.... It is
thus, perhaps, that the dying feel when they see, with their failing
sight, the faces of friends, and know that even love is powerless to
reach them. Elizabeth suffered, during those hours of suspense, the
agony of death a hundred times over. But as the afternoon wore on,
hope faded and the numbness of despair crept over her tortured nerves.

"I don't like their staying out so long," Bobby Van Antwerp could not
help murmuring to Gerard. "After the charge, I thought they'd let her
off at once. They all want to--that's certain. But there were one or
two of them who looked--infernally conscientious."

"I don't want any of them"--Gerard began, but stopped. "To go against
his convictions," was what he had meant to add, but the words remained
unspoken. There are limits to even a Puritan conscience. "Good God!
Bobby," he whispered, hoarsely, "a man who could convict her deserves
to be shot!"

"I agree with you, old man," said Bobby, tranquilly. And then they
once more fell silent, and the shadows lengthened, and some one lit a
feeble gas-jet, which brought out, in ghastly relief, the look of
strained expectancy on each face.

At six o'clock there was a rustle, an excitement. Mr. Fenton came in
and spoke to Bobby, and he spoke to his wife. She touched Elizabeth on
the shoulder. "Dear, we--we go up now," she said. Elizabeth rose and
mechanically put up her hand to her hair.

"Do I look all right?" she said, and then smiled vaguely at the
commonplace question. A merciful stupor had descended upon her in the
last hour; when she looked at her aunts, she saw that they were
suffering far more than she. "I am not frightened," she said, "please
don't be frightened." She was determined that she would be brave. This
was the thought uppermost in her mind.

They went up to the court-room, and on the threshold Mr. Fenton said
to her: "Remember, that even if the verdict is--is unfavorable, it is
not final. We shall appeal." She bent her head, wondering mechanically
that any one should speak of things to happen _after_ the verdict. Her
whole life seemed bounded by the events of the next few minutes; she
could not look beyond.... The thought crossed her mind of how slight a
thing would decide her fate--the difference between one word or two,
guilty or not guilty. A mere trifle--a word in three letters; yet all
the difference between honor and dishonor, life and death. Her mind
fastened upon the irrelevant detail and dallied with it; the while she
was conscious, with sickening intensity, of each movement in the
court-room--the breathless atmosphere of a suspense, in which the mere
rustling of a paper jarred upon the nerves; the jury filing in, the
formal opening question, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you decided upon
your verdict?" Her throat was parched, balls of fire danced before her
eyes, there was a sound in her ears like the rushing of many waters.
Guilty or not guilty? One word or two? The question beat upon her
brain with a dull persistence, and she was conscious, vaguely, that
the answer was of vital importance, but somehow she could not bring
herself to realize it.

"_Not Guilty._"

The words rang clear and confident, across that gulf which separated
her from the outside world. As through a mist she saw the relief on
the faces of those around her, but still she herself was conscious of
no feeling. She still sat white and dazed, staring before her, while
her lips moved mechanically, repeating the words that seemed so
meaningless: "_Not Guilty._"

There was a pause, and then a stir, a murmur of relief. Some women
sobbed aloud. But she herself still sat staring before her, repeating
the answer that seemed to have no meaning: "_Not Guilty._"




_Chapter XXXIX_


By the next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she
had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself,
the inevitable reaction was setting in.

"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit
brows. The fire--it was a long time since she had sat beside one--gave
out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and
was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of
physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene,
stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she
struggled indeed against it.

She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little
while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion,
something of a nervous shock.

     _"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted.
     As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer.
     That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There
     are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come
     quickly it may be too late."_

     _AMANDA._"

The address was that of a hospital.

"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill."

Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered
treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an
irrelevant subject.

"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly,
"and her mother came down to be near her--but dear me, that girl
always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should
trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have
behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see
you, or sending messages, or anything."

"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants
me to come and see her, and I think"--she hesitated a moment--"I think
I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words
sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she
had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met
with some faint opposition.

Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my
dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment.

"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was
bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her
aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips
of each.

"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"--she stopped.

"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking
up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"--she faltered as
a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And
then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took
her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you--you must see him. He has been so
unhappy. He--he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The
girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away
her hand.

"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it--it would be more
painful than seeing Amanda. And--if he loves me, why, so much the
worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't
you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest
thing I can do for him is--not to see him?" And then the tears sprang
to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room.

When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out,
in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied
a black veil over her face.

"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without
any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if--if anything
happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further
protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both
affectionately. "You--you don't mind, do you," she said, with a note
of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly.

"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said,
feebly.

Elizabeth smiled. "Why should you, dear?" she said, quietly. "I've got
to face the world alone some time, I suppose. And it will be nice to
see what it's like--I've almost forgotten." She gave a little sigh,
but checked it instantly, and went out before they could say any more.

Once in the street the world seemed so strange that it was startling,
and for a moment turned her faint and giddy. It was a mild midwinter
day--the trial had lasted over Christmas and into the new year--almost
there seemed a foretaste of spring in the air. To Elizabeth the
sunlight was dazzling; she put up her hand to ward it off. She walked
slowly and feebly, as if she were convalescing from a long illness.
She had not realized before how weak she was. Fortunately there was
but a short walk before her, through the quiet regions of Irving
Place, past Gramercy Park, and on to the hospital. She met no one she
knew, but several strangers glanced at her curiously, or so she
imagined, as if they recognized her, even through her veil. They might
know her from the pictures with which the papers had been filled; they
had seen one, no doubt, only that morning, with an account of the
verdict. They were wondering still, perhaps, if she were guilty or
innocent.

She was very tired when she reached the hospital, and the meeting
with Amanda loomed up before her like a nightmare. Her hand trembled
as she rang the bell. A woman in a sister's dress opened the door--the
hospital was under the charge of a Protestant order. There was
something conventual about the waiting-room, into which she was shown.
There was little furniture, pictures of saints hung on the walls, the
wide window was filled with stained glass, through which the light
streamed faintly and fell in bars of crimson and purple upon the
polished floor. The sister, speaking in the subdued voice which the
place seemed to demand, bade Elizabeth seat herself and took up her
name.

Elizabeth sank down with a sense of physical relief, which obliterated
all other feelings. A moment later she looked up with a start. The
door opened and a woman entered. It was Amanda's mother.

"Well Elizabeth, so you've got off!" she said, mechanically touching
with dry lips her niece's cheek. "I'm sure I'm glad enough, for the
sake of the family. And then I never thought you did it."

Elizabeth flushed painfully. "That was kind of you, Aunt Rebecca," she
said.

"Well, a great many people did, you know, and probably do still, for
that matter. But lor'--what difference does it make, as long as you've
got off? Some people might think all the more of you. There was that
girl at----who committed that murder that everybody talked about--she
got a hundred offers, they say, right after she was acquitted. And
everybody knew that she got off, just because she was a woman."

Elizabeth shuddered. "Please don't talk about it, Aunt Rebecca," she
said, faintly. "Tell me about Amanda."

A sort of contraction crossed Aunt Rebecca's face, which might in any
one else, have resulted in tears. "Oh, Amanda's pretty poorly," she
said, in an odd, dry voice. "I guess all those sanitariums and
new-fangled inventions, haven't done her much good. Why the doctor
sent her here, I don't know. It's a queer Catholic place, and I don't
hold with such notions, but Amanda seems taken with the sisters"--she
broke off abruptly as one of their number entered.

She was a woman of middle age, with a grave, fine face and musical
voice which harmonized with the place and her own costume. In her
presence Amanda's mother, for all her uneasy contempt seemed to sink
at once into insignificance. The Sister took possession very gently,
but completely, of Elizabeth. Her charge had been very anxious, she
said, to see her; it was kind of Miss Van Vorst to come. And then she
led the way up the stairs, and down the long white corridors, talking
quietly as she went of Amanda's case. The girl was suffering from a
complication of maladies, and the Sister thought that there was,
besides, some trouble weighing on her mind, under the stress of which
she grew daily weaker. No, there was, humanly speaking, little hope,
though Amanda's poor mother did not realize it, but the Sister thought
it would do her patient good to see Miss Van Vorst, of whom she had
talked a great deal. All this time there was not a word, not a
curious glance, to show that the Sister knew that she had beside her
the subject of so much discussion. And yet Elizabeth felt herself
enveloped in an atmosphere of sympathy, a tacit recognition of the
fact that she had suffered, which held in it not a trace of blame or
suspicion. Elizabeth felt grateful.

The private room which Amanda occupied as one of the few "paying
patients," was near the roof of the house, at the head of several
flights of stairs. Sunlight poured in through the window, the floor
was covered with matting, the walls bare and hung with religious
pictures. Opposite the small iron bed, and placed where the light fell
full upon it, was an engraving, the copy of a famous picture, of
Christ upon the Cross. It was singularly vivid, and the sorrowful
dignity of the face had attracted the eyes and soothed the sufferings
of many an occupant of the room.

Amanda's strange, light eyes, as they stood out unnaturally large and
dilated in her thin, wasted face, were not fixed upon the picture; but
turned with eager expectancy towards the door. She was sitting up in
bed, her head propped with pillows. Her skin had faded to a duller,
more ghastly tint than ever, but a bright spot of red burned in either
cheek. As Elizabeth entered she started, and an odd look flitted
across her face--it was hard to tell whether it indicated relief, or
fear, or perhaps a mingling of both.

"So you've come," she said, and drew a long sobbing breath. It was all
her greeting. Elizabeth, embarrassed, murmured a few words of
sympathy, as she sank into the chair nearest the door. The Sister,
with a keen glance from one to the other, left the two girls alone.

Amanda immediately assumed control of the situation.

"Sit there," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, and pointing to a
chair by the window, "sit there so I can look at you." Elizabeth
mechanically obeyed and threw back her veil. Amanda's eyes fastened
eagerly upon her face.

"Why, you--you've lost your looks," she announced, abruptly. "Did you
know it?" There was a note of involuntary satisfaction in her voice.

Elizabeth tried to smile. "Worse things have happened to me than that,
Amanda," she said.

"I didn't think anything could be worse--to you," Amanda said, feebly.

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking that suffering had not yet
produced in Amanda any regenerating effect.

"Well, after all, I guess it don't matter," Amanda said, drearily,
after a pause. "You're acquitted just the same, and Mr. Gerard is just
as crazy about you as ever, they say. I guess you've got the best of
me still." She sank into a gloomy silence.

Elizabeth dared not speak. She was wondering if she could not escape,
since her cousin had nothing to say, beyond the old jealous complaint.
But suddenly Amanda turned to her.

"I've something I want to tell you," she said, speaking feebly and
with difficulty. "Sister made me promise that I--would; she said that
if there was any--any way in which I'd injured you, it would ease my
mind to--tell you. But first you must promise"--she looked about her
suspiciously--"you must swear to me on your oath that you won't
repeat--anything I tell you."

She raised herself up on her pillows, her breath came in convulsive
gasps, she fixed her eyes intently upon Elizabeth. "Promise," she
said, in her weak, hoarse voice, "swear to me on your oath that you
won't--repeat what I tell you now."

Elizabeth trembled, her brain felt dazed. Those strained, eager eyes
held her with a terrible insistence. "I--I promise," she repeated,
hardly knowing what she said, conscious only of a wish to have them
withdrawn.

Amanda sank back as if relieved, on the pillows, but still she
questioned, with a look of doubt. "You won't break your word. You are
sure?"

"Quite sure," said Elizabeth. Her brain still seemed dazed, her lips
moved mechanically.

Amanda seemed satisfied. Still, she did not speak, she lay quiet, with
half-closed eyes. At last, with a painful effort, she raised herself
up, and fixed her eyes again intently upon Elizabeth. "I sent the
poison," she said. The words came in a hoarse whisper.

Elizabeth stared at her without moving; only a slight shudder passed
through her. The words echoed in her ear, beat upon her brain. The
odd part of it was that they did not surprise her. She seemed somehow
to have heard, or thought them, before.

"Yes," Amanda repeated, after a moment, "I sent the poison. It was
after I had left the sanitarium--no one knew that I had left it. I
dressed as like you as I could, I copied your handwriting, I knew they
would think it was you. But I didn't"--a slight undertone of contempt
made itself felt in her voice--"I didn't know how easy it would be,
for I didn't suppose you'd do all those stupid things that made them
suspect you."

She was silent. Elizabeth still stared at her motionless, aghast. "But
why--why," she faltered, "what object, Amanda, could you have?"

A look of intense bitterness crossed the sick girl's face. She seemed
to flare up all at once into a red heat of anger, as dry, withered
wood will sometimes give out the fiercest flames. "What object!" she
repeated. "You ask what object!--and you know how he scorned me!
Didn't you wish him to die? You admitted it in court--because he stood
in your way; and do you think that is anything to being
humiliated--dragged in the dust, as I was?"

She leaned back panting on the pillows; the fierce flame of anger
which passed over her seemed to consume her feeble strength. When she
spoke again it was much more feebly. "That time when I--I went to him
at the studio," she said, "I thought maybe he'd come back to me
again--seeing you didn't seem to want him. I thought--but there, I
was a fool. Most women are, I guess, when they care about a man. He
laughed at me and said that I'd deceived myself--that it was I who did
the love-making. That was a lie, but it was what he said, I guess,
about most girls--when he got tired of them. I got wild, it seemed as
if my brain was on fire, and I--I threatened him. He only laughed. And
then I taunted him--about you; that seemed to hurt him more. I said as
how you had so many beaux, you didn't care any longer about him. He
said then, I was mistaken, that you were just as fond of him as
ever--really, that you would do anything he wanted"--

She paused, her breath seemed to fail her. Elizabeth sat listening,
stupefied, incapable of speech or motion. Amanda went on presently,
huddling one word upon another: "I didn't believe him, I thought it
was only to make me feel worse. And then, when I went out, I met
you--the thought came to me that I'd find out the truth. I came back,
I'd left the door open, I saw you give him money--but there was a look
on your face that made me think you didn't do it--for love."

She paused again and struggled for breath. Elizabeth spoke
involuntarily. "But how did you know," she asked, "about the pearls?"

"What, that you'd sold them?" Amanda spoke quietly, with a slight
smile, as at the simplicity of the question. "I knew it the moment I
saw you--that evening, and you didn't have them on. Then when I spoke
of them, I saw I was right--I saw how I'd frightened you. There was a
secret--I didn't know what; but it was something you were ashamed of.
Then, when you got engaged to that other man, I understood--I knew you
were afraid of his finding it out. I used to write to him, warning
him. He never answered my letters, or paid any attention--I guess he
thought I was crazy; but I had to keep on writing--I couldn't help it,
somehow. I had to do everything I did. It seemed as if something urged
me on. The only thing that kept me from--from having my revenge was
that you might reap the benefit. And then this plan came to me, and I
saw how I could--get even--with you both."

The hoarse, feeble voice grew fainter and died away, as if from sheer
exhaustion. Elizabeth interposed an indignant protest. "And so," she
said, "you wanted me to suffer--for your crime? You would have been
glad if they had found me guilty?"

Amanda did not answer for a moment. "No," she said at last, "I didn't
want you to die. I knew you'd get off--every one said so--because you
were so pretty and so swell. They wouldn't"--the bitter smile again
hovered about her white lips--"they wouldn't have said that about me.
But--if they had found you guilty"--she paused--"I had quite made up
my mind to confess. It was horrible lying here, thinking it over--I
don't believe death can be worse. You couldn't have suffered--anything
like it; for you were innocent."

She looked at Elizabeth with a strange horror in her eyes. Her face
was ghastly, beads of perspiration stood on her forehead, and on the
little rings of dark red hair, which clung about her temples. "Oh,
you don't know what it is," she said, "you don't know what it is. It's
the thought of that that's killing me inch by inch; it's not the
disease. And yet I'm afraid--I'm afraid to confess"--her voice broke
piteously. "You don't want me to--do you?--now that you've got off. It
won't do you any good--any longer, and as for me, though I don't want
to live, I'm afraid--to die." The feeble voice again faltered and died
away.

Elizabeth sat silent, her brain in a whirl. Before her there rose the
thought of the long months of torture, the prison cell, the terrible,
unnecessary suspicion that still clouded her life.... If Amanda would
confess, it would be something. People would never again believe her
guilty. And yet!----

Mechanically, her eyes wandered about the room, the incongruous
setting for this strange scene--bright, calm and peaceful; filled with
the pictures of martyred saints. Her gaze lingered fascinated on the
face of Christ in the engraving. It might have been the effect of the
light, or the over-wrought state of her nerves which made it appear so
real, instinct with mysterious life and power. Almost it seemed as if
the lips moved, the sorrowful eyes rested, with a look of infinite
pity, on Amanda ... ... "You won't betray me?" the feeble voice
pleaded. "I trusted you--you promised? You won't break your word?"

"No"--Elizabeth spoke slowly and thoughtfully--"I won't break my word.
I did break a promise I made you once, and repented it, ever since;
but this time I shall keep it. If you confess, it must be for your own
sake, not for mine. No one I care about believes me guilty. Let it
go."

Amanda drew a sigh of relief. Her head fell back, her attitude of
tension relaxed insensibly.

"You are very generous," she said, faintly. "I--I won't be
ungrateful." And then a silence fell upon them. Amanda's eyes closed,
she seemed exhausted. Elizabeth, seeing this, got up.

"I had better go. You're very tired." No answer came. But as she
reached the door Amanda's eyes unclosed, she turned her face towards
her.

"Good-bye," she said. "I'm sorry you've--lost your looks. Perhaps
you'll--get them back." The words came out with a great effort. And
then she turned her face away and said no more.

The Sister was waiting outside in the corridor. She accompanied
Elizabeth to the door of the hospital.

As they parted she laid her hand for an instant on the girl's arm, her
grave, clear eyes scanned the white, exhausted face.

"My dear," she said, "did your cousin tell you--what she sent for you
to say?"

Elizabeth met her gaze firmly, with eyes as clear as her own. "It is a
secret," she said, quietly. "I promised--not to repeat it."

A cloud passed over the Sister's face; her hand rested for a moment
tenderly on Elizabeth's arm. "Poor child!" was all she said. It would
have been hard to tell to whom she referred--Elizabeth or Amanda.

An instant later the great hospital door swung to, and Elizabeth found
herself again in the outside world.

Amanda lay absolutely still. She was conscious, for the moment, of
nothing but the utter vacuity of exhaustion. It was only little by
little that her strength revived, her brain began to work, those
thoughts weighed upon her again, which were killing her inch by inch.

It is hard to understand the processes of a mind like Amanda's,
diseased perhaps from the first, made more so, as life went on, by
illness and adverse circumstances. As to how far she was accountable,
who can decide?...

One thing is certain, that some sort of moral struggle now took place
within her. Her brow was contracted, her lips moved, now and then she
stirred uneasily. Her piteous gaze fastened half unconsciously, as
Elizabeth's had done, on the face of the Christ in the engraving. For
her as for Elizabeth, the pictured eyes held a curious fascination.
But we read into inanimate objects, above all the symbols of our
faith, our own thoughts and convictions. It was not pity which Amanda
saw in the sorrowful eyes which to her, too, seemed alive with a
singular power.

When the Sister came in, a little later, she asked her a question.

"Isn't it enough if we confess our sins?" she asked, feebly. "You
said that would be enough to have them forgiven."

The Sister looked down at her gravely. "Repentance is not enough," she
said, "unless we do what we can to make amends."

Amanda turned away with a feeble moan.

It was late in the afternoon when she nerved herself, as for a great
effort. She called the Sister to her and whispered. What she said did
not seem to cause surprise. The Sister's face brightened, she left the
room quickly. It was evident that she was prepared for an emergency
like this. An hour later the small room was filled--there was a
lawyer, witnesses.... Amanda's weak voice spoke steadily, without a
pause....

When it was over, she sank back exhausted, and her eyes again sought
the face in the engraving. She found there what she expected. With a
long sigh of relief she turned her face to the wall and slept. The
Sister quietly pulled down the blind.

"She will rest now," she said softly, and it was true. Amanda never
awoke.




_Chapter XL_


"Don't you think," said Gerard, "that I have waited long enough?"

It was five months later. The mellow afternoon sunlight pierced the
foliage, which, interlacing, formed an arch overhead. Wild roses grew
in profusion along the roadside. Beyond, the fields were thickly
strewn with buttercups and daisies. The air was fragrant with the
scent of honeysuckle.

Elizabeth wore a white gown; the hands carelessly clasped before her
were filled with June roses. So far, she matched the day and the
season. But her head drooped languidly, like a wilting flower, the
country air had brought no color to her cheeks. Lines of suffering
still lingered about her mouth. The eyes which were cast down, almost
hidden by their long lashes, held a latent shadow in their depths.

The man by her side, who had just come up from town, noted all this
with a keen anxiety.

"Don't you think," he repeated, with an impatience the greater for
what her looks conveyed, "don't you think that I have waited long
enough?"

A quiver crossed her face, but she did not look up. "It's not my fault
that you have--waited," she murmured.

The man made a rueful gesture. "Oh, you need not tell me that," he
said. "If you had had your way, you would have sent me--back to South
Africa, I believe." He broke off with a bitter laugh. As if in spite
of herself, a smile flickered beneath her drooping lids.

"Not quite so far, perhaps." The words sounded with a demure accent.
But in an instant the smile vanished, her lip quivered, she looked up
at him with a tremulous earnestness. "Ah, can't you understand," she
cried, "why I want you to go? Haven't I brought you trouble enough? Do
you think that now"--she paused and caught her breath--"now that all
this disgrace has come upon me," she went on with an effort, "do you
think I would burden you with it?"

"Disgrace!"--He flushed hotly.--"I don't know why there should be
disgrace," he said, "when every one knows now--even those idiots who
doubted you--how baseless the whole miserable accusation was."

"People don't reason." She sighed wearily. "There will always be a
cloud over me--I feel it even here. People at The Mills stare at me,
the Neighborhood"--she smiled painfully--"the Neighborhood feels that
I have brought upon it eternal discredit. Ah, you can't blame
them"--as Gerard muttered under his breath an ejaculation. "It will be
the same in town--everywhere. People will always remember that I was
horribly talked about, that I have been in prison. For myself"--her
lip trembled--"I'm hardened, but for you"--

"For me"--he put out his hand and took hers determinedly into his
strong grasp--"for me it is inevitable that, whatever troubles you
have, I must share them."

There was silence for a moment. They stood facing each other, the only
actors in the peaceful country scene; the man strong, determined, his
eyes aglow with the fire of mastery; the woman pale, drooping,
exhausted, yet still with some power in her weakness, that opposed
itself to his strength. She put out her hand at last in a gesture of
entreaty. "Ah, don't let us go all over this again," she pleaded.
"Don't make it so hard for me. It's hard enough"--The words seemed to
escape her unawares.

"Ah!" A gleam of triumph crossed his face. "It is hard, then?"

"Most things are hard."--She spoke with recovered firmness.--"Life is
hard, but one must--bear it. At least I'll try to bear it--alone. The
only amends I can make to you"--she clasped her hands suddenly in a
passionate gesture of renunciation--"the only atonement is to efface
myself, to sink out of your life as if I had never--been in it." She
paused, her breath came in convulsive gasps, but still she faced him
resolute, the look in her eyes with which some penitent of the early
church might have welcomed lifelong immolation. "To efface myself,"
she repeated, dwelling upon the words as if they held some painful
satisfaction, "to sink out of your life--it is the only atonement I
can make."

"You can't make it." Gerard's words rang out clearly. He took her
hands again resolutely in his. "You can't efface yourself," he said.
"It's beyond your power." A smile flickered across his face, his eyes
looked into hers with an imperious tenderness, before which they fell
abashed. "Do you know," he said, "why I went off in that idiotic
fashion into the wilds, tried to cut myself off from the world? I was
bitter, angry--I wanted to forget you; I thought, if there were
nothing to remind me of you, I might. And then day and night I thought
of you, day and night your face haunted me.... Ah, Elizabeth"--his
voice broke--"ask me to do anything except--forget you."

There was again silence. Elizabeth's lips parted, her breath
fluttered, a warm, lovely color flooded her face. He thought she had
yielded. But almost instantly the color faded, she drew her hands from
his grasp and shrank away, as if under the weight of some painful
memory. "And,--and that deception," she gasped out. "What has happened
to change that? You said--don't you remember?--that you could
never"--her voice quivered--"never trust me again." She lifted her
head suddenly, she looked him firmly, steadily, in the face, with eyes
that seemed the index to her soul. "I did deceive you," she said.
"Nothing can change that fact. Why should you trust me now?"

"Ah, it would be hard on most of us"--the words sprung impetuously to
his lips--"if there were no forgiveness, if strict justice were always
meted out." He put out his hand in a passionate gesture, a rush of
feeling thrilled his voice. "Elizabeth," he cried, "don't bring up
words which I said that night in anger, which I have repented--God
knows!--ever since. You had done an heroic thing in telling me the
truth at last, just when it was hardest--I--brute that I was--could
only think of my own misery. But let the past go--it shall not ruin
our lives any longer." He put his arm around her and drew her towards
him. He felt her heart beat, her pulses throb; his voice took on a
deeper note of tenderness. "The future is ours, and love is ours--my
darling, does anything else matter?"

The argument may not have been a wise one, but it has gained more
victories than all the logic in the world. Elizabeth, weary of
struggling, resigned herself to her defeat....

Later she looked up, gave a little, fluttering sigh, and her eyes
sought his with a wistful sweetness. "Dear, I'm not worth it," she
murmured, "but I will try--oh, I will try so hard." ... Gerard,
smiling, cut the sentence short.

They walked on homeward through the fragrant lanes, in which they two
seemed the only wanderers. The Misses Van Vorst, sitting by the
drawing-room windows, saw them come with a little thrill of anxiety.
Miss Joanna dropped a stitch in her knitting, and Miss Cornelia's
thin, silvery curls fluttered, as if stirred by some intangible wave
of sympathy.

Elizabeth crossed the flower-studded lawn and came towards them, her
white skirts swaying about her in the gentle summer wind. She held her
head erect, her color was brilliant, her eyes lustrous. The setting
sun shone on her hair and lit it up into a vivid glory. Elizabeth's
aunts stole a glance at her, at the look on Gerard's face. Then their
eyes met and they smiled softly at each other through a mist of tears.




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End of Project Gutenberg's The Ordeal of Elizabeth, by Elizabeth Von Arnim