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A Romantic Young Lady

by Robert Grant · English · Gutenberg #28236 · 432,556 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Romantic Young Lady

Author: Robert Grant


        
Release date: March 1, 2009 [eBook #28236]

Language: English

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Credits: E-text prepared by Bethanne M. Simms, Katherine Ward, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


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Transcriber's note:

   Hyphenation and punctuation have been changed to be consistent
   throughout the text.

   Probable typographical errors were corrected: "instanteously,"
   "thorougly," "acquiesence," "speculatious," "her's."

   Otherwise the original punctuation and spelling have been
   retained.

   Text enclosed by underscores was in italics (_italics_).

   Text enclosed by equal signs was in bold face (=bold=).

   Greek transliterations are enclosed by tilde characters
   (~Greek~).

   An asterism was changed to three asterisks in a row.

   A Table of Contents was added by the transcriber.





A ROMANTIC YOUNG LADY.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "_Mr. Grant is nothing if not entertaining--nothing if not
    subtle. Himself a clever analyst, he defies analysis._"--THE
    UNIVERSITY.

MR. GRANT'S NOVELS.


THE KNAVE OF HEARTS.

1 vol. 12mo. $1.50.

    "It is a companion to 'The Confessions of a Frivolous Girl,'
    being the autobiography of a young man who devotes himself to
    the profession of heart-breaking. The various species of
    American female flirts are amusingly and clearly sketched by a
    few light but powerful strokes, and this, together with the
    simple yet surprisingly successful methods employed to make the
    girls' acquaintance, to lead them gently on to the brink of the
    precipice, and then to drop them, instantaneously and utterly,
    makes the book a veritable 'flirt's vade mecum.'"--_The Argonaut._


AN AVERAGE MAN.

1 vol. 12mo. $1.50.

    "There is a good strong purpose throughout the story. The style
    is rapid and bright."--_Life._


THE CONFESSIONS OF A FRIVOLOUS GIRL.

1 vol. 16mo. $1.25.

    "The greatest social literary hit of the year."--_Chicago Tribune._

    "A screaming success."--_Saturday Review._

    "Clever and piquant sketches--refreshing spirit and
    vivacity."--_Harper's Magazine._


A ROMANTIC YOUNG LADY.

1 vol. 12mo. $1.50.

Mr. Grant's latest work, and in many respects his best.

_Sold by booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price by the
publishers_,

=TICKNOR & COMPANY, BOSTON.=

       *       *       *       *       *


A ROMANTIC YOUNG LADY

by

ROBERT GRANT

Author of
"The Confessions of a Frivolous Girl,"
"An Average Man,"
"The Knave of Hearts," Etc.







Boston
Ticknor and Company
1886

Copyright, 1886,
by Ticknor and Company.
All rights reserved.

University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge.




CONTENTS


 BOOK                                         PAGE
   I. Innocence.                                 7
  II. Sophistication.                           71
 III. (Un)common Sense.                        221




BOOK I.

INNOCENCE.


I.

My mother died in giving me birth. My father was a very rich man, a
railway magnate, so called, absorbed in great business enterprises. Thus
it happened that I was brought up between two fires,--my father's
sister, Aunt Agnes; and my mother's sister, Aunt Helen.

Aunt Agnes was prim but cultivated. She wrote for reviews and wore
eye-glasses, and her library table was habitually littered with
pamphlets and tomes. On the other hand, Aunt Helen was a neat, dapper
little woman, who lived in a gem of a house and delighted in bric-a-brac
and entertaining. They were both spinsters. Each of them passed one
evening in every week with me. On Tuesdays I dined with Aunt Agnes, and
on Fridays with Aunt Helen. Thus I was alone only two evenings out of
seven, for on Sundays my father did not go to the Club.

From the age of ten until I was fifteen I attended a private school. I
proved ambitious and quick at my books. Aunt Helen was anxious that I
should be well grounded in the modern languages, while Aunt Agnes wished
me to pursue what she styled "serious" studies. In my efforts to please
them both I broke down in health. My father was the first to observe my
pallid cheeks, and at the advice of a physician I was taken away from
school. For nearly a year I was idle, save that I read at random in my
father's library. Then my aunts for once put their heads together and
insisted upon my having a governess. They told my father that the next
three years were the most important in my life, and that the best way to
foster my health was to find some judicious person to be my companion.

Aunt Helen was in favor of one who had youth and good spirits, but Aunt
Agnes thought it important that a governess should inspire respect. I
was not consulted, and my father declined to arbitrate between them. In
the end, the favorite of Aunt Agnes was installed, through the chance
discovery that the other applicant had been at one time on the stage.

Miss Jenks was a kind but sober disciplinarian of fifty. I was her pupil
until I was eighteen; and though I was none the less lonely because of
her companionship, I am in her debt to-day for the pains she took to
systematize my heterogeneous acquirements and teach me the evils of
superficiality. Her views of life were autumnal in tint, and her laugh
was never hearty. She rarely conversed with me at length; but if I made
inquiries concerning any matter of knowledge, I was sure to find a book
or pamphlet on my desk the next day, with slips marking the valuable
pages. She kept me so steadily employed during the hours I was not in
bed or in the fresh air that I had no time for novel-reading,--a pastime
I had indulged in formerly to a considerable extent. I thrived
physically under this regimen, but I became silent and grave. Miss Jenks
seemed constantly on her guard against undue enthusiasm, and abetted by
her example I inclined to introspection and over conscientiousness. I
picked up pins, and went out of my way to kick orange-peel from the
sidewalk, on principle.

But apart from, or rather concurrent with, this sobriety of character I
was a dreamer in secret, and delighted to give the rein to fancy. I
liked to picture myself in some of the romantic situations of which
I had read, and to build castles for the future. But all these
imaginations were of a realistic order, as distinguished from ghosts and
fairies and other creations of that class. I was completely free from
superstitions. It was not for luck that I picked up pins, but that they
should not be wasted. In like manner I never hesitated to let a
horse-shoe lie in the road, to walk under a ladder, or be one of
thirteen at table. And yet I was distinctly a dreamer. If it was in the
way of lovers, my thoughts were entirely subjective. I knew no young men
except the boys at dancing-school; and they as a rule avoided me, for I
was shy, and for the present only moderately pretty. I think I tried in
my day-dreams to form an ideal of what a lover's mental and moral
attributes should be without ever endowing the abstraction with a head.
I found a happiness in doing so much,--akin, I fancy, to that of the
votary who kneels before a shrine of which the doors are closed. It was
the consciousness of a great possible happiness that thrilled me, rather
than any definite vision.

When Miss Jenks left us I was a well educated girl for my age. What I
knew I knew thoroughly, and the wishes of both my aunts had been
respected. Perhaps the most striking circumstances connected with my
bringing up, however, were that at eighteen I had no idea I was the
heiress to an enormous fortune, and that I could pass young men in the
street without self-consciousness. Strangely, too, I had grown up
without having formed an intimacy with any girls of my own age. I have
never quite been able to decide whether the ability I thus acquired to
think for and by myself was more valuable than the happiness that
results from such friendships; yet I have never distinctly regretted not
having made a confidant among my contemporaries.


II.

Miss Jenks went away in October, and a few days later Aunt Helen
broached the subject of preparations for the winter. I was to go into
society; and she had taken upon her shoulders the burden of having me
well-dressed and "presentable," as she called it. My clothes ordered
from Paris were at her house, and she took even more pleasure than I in
studying their effect when tried on, and in selecting from my mother's
jewelry the most appropriate articles for my toilet. There were certain
trinkets among them which she told me were all the rage; and she
concluded with a homily that I was very fortunate to be able to have
such expensive things to wear, and that many girls had to be content
with two ball-dresses, or in some instances with one. I was glad to put
myself entirely in her hands, for I felt that she knew about such
matters. My own sensations were a mixture of timidity, bewilderment, and
exultation.

One evening a short time previous to the beginning of the gay season my
father turned to me and said,--

"There is something I wish to tell you, Virginia. I have recently made
my will. With the exception of a few legacies for charitable uses and a
bequest to each of your aunts, I have left everything to you. Very
likely it may be a surprise to you to hear that you will be very rich.
It is proper and right you should know it now, just as it was important
you should remain in ignorance of the fact during childhood. I have
requested hitherto your aunts and your governess to make no allusions to
your future prospects. If I am not mistaken, you learn the truth from me
for the first time."

He paused as if expecting an answer.

"Yes, it has never occurred to me to inquire about the future," said I.
"I knew that we lived in comfort. Beyond that I have not thought on the
subject."

"It is as I supposed," said my father. "Unless I see reason to alter the
present distribution of my property, you will be one of the richest
women in town. When you were a child, Virginia, I felt badly at times
that you were not a boy; I wanted a son to inherit my name and fortune.
But one day it occurred to me, that, though a daughter could not make
money, she might learn to spend it as well as a son. The thought
comforted me; for I have made all the money we can need for many
generations to come, and my only desire is that when I am gone there
shall be some one to use it as I would like. There is an idea, I know,
that women are not fitted to comprehend the value of money, and that it
is unwise to give them the control of large sums. However correct that
may be, the tendency of all modern legislation shows that the world is
in favor of their administering their own affairs. At any rate, I
propose to make the experiment. Unless you convince me beforehand that I
am mistaken, I shall leave you at my death the mistress of over three
million dollars."

While I was trying to form a definite idea of so much wealth, my father
rose, and going to a side-table took up a large tin box, on the top of
which lay a plush-covered case and a pile of pamphlets.

"In this trunk," he said, "you will find one hundred thousand dollars in
first-rate securities, registered in your name. I want you to learn, so
far as is possible for a woman, the care of property. These newspapers
and reports will help you somewhat. I shall be glad to answer all your
questions, and will keep you supplied with the latest intelligence
relating to your property; for I give you these stocks and bonds to use
as you see fit. You will find a cheque-book and a bank-book inside. One
must learn to appreciate the value of money in order to use it well. I
would not advise you to change your investments at first without
consulting me. You must expect to make mistakes at the outset, but I
have great confidence in your good sense. I should have been afraid to
make the experiment in the case of many girls."

These words of my father brought the tears to my eyes. He had been
watching me after all, while I sometimes half fancied him oblivious of
my existence. At the moment, I was too confused to do more than thank
him and gather up in a dazed way the pamphlets he placed before me. He
put the little key that dangled from the tin box into the lock, and
disclosed to me the parchment securities within.

"Carefully managed, that ought to yield you six per cent net," said he.

"But what am I to do with so much money every year?" I cried aghast.

My father laughed, and said: "That is for you to decide, Virginia. You
will learn only too soon the part that money plays in the world," he
added gravely. "Prepare yourself to be courted and flattered for its
sake. Some people would say, 'Do not destroy her faith in human nature.
She will learn the truth soon enough.' I believe that to be forewarned
is to be forearmed. Good and true men are abundant, but there are
unscrupulous and mercenary ones as well, who will woo you for the sake
of your fortune and not because they love you.

"One word more," said he, without regard to the expression of pain that
overspread my face at his last speech. "Do not be afraid to use your
money. Avoid foolish extravagance, but learn to enjoy life and the
blessings at your disposal. It used to be considered wrong by our
forefathers to surround themselves with beautiful things, and any but
the simplest comforts. Some people are of that opinion still, but I do
not agree with them. Your own good sense will be the best criterion of
what is unduly ostentatious; but never hesitate to have anything you may
wish because you fear the verdict of others. In short, be independent,
and think for yourself if you wish to be happy. Your Aunt Helen has
undertaken the charge of your wardrobe; that is something of which I
know nothing. I can tell when a young lady is well dressed, but I am not
capable of selecting her dresses. Here, however," he said, taking the
plush-covered case from the table, "is something that will make your
toilet more complete."

I started with delight on raising the lid, to discover a superb necklace
of the largest pearls. Under the impulse of the moment I flung my arms
about my father's neck and kissed him. He seemed touched by my
impetuosity, and stood for a moment with my head between his hands
looking into my eyes.

"I believe you have in you the making of a noble woman, my dear," he
said proudly. "You have your mother's sweet disposition, and also I
think my fixity of purpose."

I lay awake that night for hours. It seemed to me that I had grown five
years older in a single day, and I felt a new responsibility in living.
My father's trust and generosity had stirred me deeply, and I made many
a solemn vow not to prove unworthy of such confidence. But athwart the
satisfaction these thoughts inspired, rose the recollection of what he
had said regarding the insincerity of men. I had of course read in
novels of fortune-hunters, but no suspicion of their existence within
the pale of the polite society of which I was so soon to form a part had
ever marred the rosy simplicity of my imagination. This was my first
peep at the world's wickedness, and it shocked me to think that human
nature could be so base.

I had seen but little of my Aunt Agnes during the autumn, perhaps
because I more than half suspected she did not sympathize with the plans
and preparations for my social education. I remembered some years
before, at the time when the question of my attending dancing-school was
being debated, to have heard her express disapproval of girls who
frittered away their time and health in the pursuit of what she called
"vain pleasures." I had not conversed with her on the subject, but I had
obtained an intimation from her short and acrid manner on the one or two
occasions when we had met of late that she was quite aware of what was
going on, and condemned it unequivocally.

Although I knew that Aunt Agnes was very fond of me, and I in turn loved
and respected her, she was apt to inspire me with awe even on ordinary
occasions. Her character was as upright as her figure, which in defiance
of the relaxed customs of the day was always arrayed against a
straight-backed chair. Conventionalities of every sort were an
abomination to her. Black silk was the full extent of her condescension
in the matter of what she was pleased to call Babylonian attire, and she
had no patience with the ordinary vanities of her sex.

She received me frostily when I went to visit her a few days after the
conversation with my father, and suffered me to kiss both her cheeks in
turn without evincing a sign of being mollified. Remembering that she
was fond of directness, I opened fire at once by observing that I was
invited to a ball at Mrs. Dale's a week hence.

"All girls are fools," she answered abruptly, after a moment. I bowed my
head submissively, and awaited the storm.

"I expected better things of you, Virginia," she continued. "I hoped you
were too sensible to follow the herd, and waste the best years of your
life in folly."

"Folly?" I echoed faintly.

"Yes, folly. What else is it but folly to sit up night after night,
until the small hours of the morning, waltzing with brainless young
men?"

"But, Aunty, my father wishes me to go into society."

"Pshaw! What does he know about balls and parties? He is under the thumb
of your Aunt Helen. At your age he was working hard for his living, and
learning to be of use in the world."

"But I have not to earn my living," said I.

"So much the worse for you. Humph! You have found that out, have you?"

I understood that she referred to what my father had told me. "Yes, I
know my father is very rich. If I do not go to parties, how am I to
learn anything about life?"

"Life! You are very simple, child, if you expect to learn what life is
by dancing the German. The first thing we shall hear is, that you are
engaged to some young dandy who is after your fortune. Then you will be
snuffed out. You will become a fashionable simpleton, who goes to bed at
four and gets up at noon. Life, indeed!"

This cruel insinuation, following so soon upon what I had lately heard,
cut like a knife. I answered firmly,--

"My father has already warned me to be on my guard against insincere
persons."

"Much good a warning would do, if you were to take it into your head to
like anybody! Tell _me_! I may not understand girls" (this was a thrust
at Aunt Helen), "but I know the dispositions of my own family. When a
Harlan gets a fixed idea, it takes a deal of pounding to drive it out;
and you're a Harlan, Virginia, if there ever was one."

This last reflection seemed to console her a little, or at least to
suggest the futility of trying to alter my determination; for after
speaking of other matters for a few moments she exclaimed,--

"Well! girls will be girls, I suppose, to the end of time,"--and rising
she went to an escritoire and took out a small parcel, which it was
evident she had intended to present to me from the first. "There,
Virginia, if you are bent on being frivolous, is a bit of old lace that
your Aunt Helen, or anybody else, would have to hunt a long time to
equal. You will find a locket inside which I wore when your father was
married. I shall never use such frippery again, and you might as well
have them now as when I am dead."

Knowing that she meant to be gracious, I thanked her warmly. But having
doubts regarding her taste, I abstained from opening the package
until I reached home. Then I found that the lace even surpassed in
exquisiteness the estimate Aunt Agnes had put upon it. Aunt Helen was
fairly envious, and spent the evening in wondering "where on earth" her
rival could have come into possession of such a treasure.

But the locket--a cameo, bizarre, and out of the run of ordinary
personal ornaments--excited her contempt.

"It is fit for a woman of forty, and would make you look like a guy,
Virginia."

The idea of looking different from other people did not disturb me.
Indeed, I had resolved to be thoroughly independent. So, on the evening
of Mrs. Dale's ball, I announced my intention of wearing the locket, and
of reserving my necklace of pearls for some more brilliant occasion.
Aunt Helen, who supervised my toilet, was greatly distressed at my
obstinacy. Nevertheless I left the house with it on. But at the last
moment my courage failed me; I slipped it off and put it in my
pocket,--thus making a courtesy to conventionality on the threshold of
society.


III.

My recollections of the first few parties I attended are confused. A
great many young men were introduced to me, but I scarcely distinguished
one from another. I was alternately dazed and dazzled by the attentions
I received. There is no object in disguising the fact that I had become
very handsome, and my brilliant financial prospects were of course well
known.

My emotions were doubtless those of an average society belle, eager to
drain the cup of pleasure to the dregs. I lived to dance, and cared
little with whom I danced, provided he danced well. The mere physical
satisfaction of waltzing, coupled with the glamor of a universal homage,
contented me.

But this did not last long. I learned to make distinctions, and to
generalize; and from this primary stage of development I began to
entertain positive likes and dislikes.

It was not however until the winter was waning that Mr. Roger Dale
occupied a different place in my thoughts from half-a-dozen others,
although he had been polite to me from the time of my first ball at his
mother's house. It would be difficult to say exactly what distinguished
him from the rest of their admirers in the eyes of every girl with any
pretensions to beauty or style; but he was undeniably considered at that
time, in the circle of my acquaintance, as the most fascinating man in
society. He was commonly spoken of as interesting, and there was a vague
impression that he was lacking in constancy. It was not unnatural
therefore that I should be flattered at his singling me out for
assiduous attentions, especially when he possessed the art of letting me
understand in a quiet, gentlemanly fashion, and without the aid of
garish compliments, that I was the only girl in the room for whom he
cared a straw. I did not believe him, but I was pleased, for that was
the way in which I wished to be wooed by the one whom I wished to
believe.

So in course of time I became willing to retire with him into
conservatories and ante-rooms to avoid interruption. I was still fond of
dancing, but I had recovered from the frenzy which blinded me to
everything but the rapture of the moment. I liked to hear Mr. Dale talk,
and without an affinity of ideas our intimacy must have died a natural
death. But we found a common ground of sympathy in our revolt against
the subserviency in modern life of romance to matter-of-fact
considerations. He harped upon this string, and awoke a corresponding
chord in my breast. His ideas were a correlation of the dreams of my
girlhood. I felt that I was understood. There was such a thing as the
love I had imagined; Mr. Dale had pondered over it, fathomed it, and
could talk about it. Not that I considered myself in love with him, or
him with me. We simply were friends,--that was all. But existence seemed
nobler when illumined by his theories.

He declared that the Puritan fathers and their descendants lacked the
power of expression. People were afraid to acknowledge they loved. The
ardor that distinguished the passion of other races and made it
beautiful was nowhere to be found, for if it ever dared to manifest
itself the breath of ridicule wilted its growth. The expensive "floral
offering" was more prized than the single dewy bud of the true lover,
and the zeal and sentiment of chivalry had yielded to the blighting
prose of a commercial age.

My Aunt Helen was the first of the family to comment on my intimacy with
him.

"What does your friend Mr. Dale do?" she asked one day.

"Do?"

"Yes. I mean what is his business down town?"

"I don't know, Aunt Helen," I answered; and I spoke the truth. I had
never thought to inquire.

"The Dale blood is not the very best in the world," she continued
presently, with her head bent over her work almost as though
soliloquizing. "As regards position they are well enough, but two of
this young man's uncles were extremely dissipated, and I fancy that the
father was not much to boast of. He died early, just after I was grown
up. I remember him though. He was a handsome creature."

I listened with glowing cheeks, but made no response.

"They have very little to live on I imagine," she observed nearly five
minutes later.

"Of whom are you speaking?" I inquired with dignity.

"The Dales, child, of course. It was generally supposed that Mrs. Dale
was left very poorly off. I believe her husband's life was insured for
something, and they own their house. Pussy always looks well dressed,
but they must have to scrimp in other ways."

Pussy Dale was Roger's eldest sister, a girl of just my age. They were a
family of five, four of whom were daughters.

"I don't see that their being poor is anything against them," I said a
little hotly.

"No-o," replied Aunt Helen reflectively, "perhaps not. But I don't know
what your father would say to him for a son-in-law."

"A son-in-law? You have no right to make such insinuations, Aunt Helen,"
I protested. "Mr. Dale and I are friends, and nothing more."

"I am glad to hear it, dear; for though I should try to reconcile myself
to whomever you chose, believing that a girl is the best judge of what
will contribute to her own happiness, I own frankly that I should be
better pleased with some one whose antecedents were a little more
creditable."

I gritted my teeth and sewed industriously in silence for the rest of
the evening. I felt injured, without scarcely knowing why. Aunt Helen's
accusations were vague at best. It was impossible for me to doubt Mr.
Dale. But on the other hand the idea of our marriage was not a serious
consideration. Still I felt annoyed and troubled, and I could not help
thinking of what my father and Aunt Agnes had said by way of warning.
But though I lay awake long that night I fell asleep at last, convinced
that Roger Dale was the noblest and sincerest soul alive, and that to
doubt him would be to wrong the sacred name of friendship.

This conversation took place in March; but in the next two months Mr.
Dale was so much at our house that I was not surprised when my father
asked one evening the same question put to me by Aunt Helen. Our
intimacy had continued without further developments, except a constantly
increasing devotion on his part and a corresponding pleasure in his
society on my own. I did not make my infatuation conspicuous by walking
with him in the streets, but otherwise I did not attempt to disguise the
partiality I felt for him. Had I mixed more with other girls before
entering society I might have been less guileless. But as it was, I
never thought of tempering by coquetry the satisfaction visible in my
face whenever Mr. Dale appeared.

This time I was prepared with an answer to the question concerning his
occupation down town:--

"He is in the wool business, and doing very well."

"A wool broker?"

"I think so."

"Humph!"

My father walked up and down the room a few times. "I have already
cautioned you, Virginia, against false prophets who come to you in
sheep's clothing."

He was jocose doubtless so as to pass the matter off lightly, and to
spare my feelings. But I chose to be offended, and answered haughtily,--

"I don't understand what you mean."

He stood still and looked directly at me. "Simply this, Virginia: I
trust you are too sensible to throw yourself away on a man who is not
worthy of you."

"You do Mr. Dale a great injustice," I replied, with an assumption of
dignity; "and me too." Whereupon I swept out of the room.

I flung myself upon my bed and burst into tears. These remarks of my
father and aunt were straws, but they showed me how the wind was likely
to blow. Those upon whom I had a right to rely for sympathy were ready
to desert me first of all. It was cruel and unkind. Had I asked to be
allowed to marry Mr. Dale? Had either of us ever hinted at the subject?
Never! And yet my father was the first to cast suspicions and make
insinuations, for I understood his unjust taunt. Sheep's clothing,
indeed! Detraction was the surest way to make me love him; for if there
was any one under the sun whose sentiments were noble and unselfish,
whose motives were manly and disinterested, I believed it was Roger
Dale. Why had my father spoken in such high terms of my good sense only
six months ago if he thought it necessary to caution me again to-day? I
felt bitter and wronged.

Just then my glance chanced to fall on the tin box in which were the
securities my father had given me in the autumn, and I blushed as I
reflected that except to deposit the dividends that were sent to me I
had done nothing toward understanding the care of my property. I had
used the cheque-book to give a little money in charity and to pay some
bills, but the pile of financial pamphlets lay on the shelf of my desk
still unread. I had not had time to devote myself to them, or rather the
time had slipped away before I realized it.

There was some ground after all for my father's reproof. It was possible
that my neglect and apparent disregard of his wishes had led him to
speak severely of Mr. Dale. The thought comforted me and brought sleep
to my eyes. I rose early, and spent an hour before breakfast in reading
the Annual Report of one of the Railway Companies in which I held stock;
and I went downstairs with a confused mind, but with a sense of awakened
virtue. I was cheerful and animated at table, and asked several
questions concerning mortgage bonds and sinking funds that brought a
pleasant expression to my father's face.

The reason why I felt so buoyant was not merely the light-heartedness of
repentance. My romantic spirit had conceived a scheme for convincing my
father that he had unjustly sneered at Mr. Dale's business capacity. I
was resolved to consult him as to my investments, and I felt sure that
the profits accruing from his sage advice would plead his cause more
eloquently than any words of mine. Let but my father perceive my
admirer's sterling qualities, and I knew that he would be eager to make
amends for his injustice by pushing him forward in business. The idea
took strong possession of me, for ever since hearing Aunt Helen speak
of Mr. Dale's lack of means I had been eager at heart to assist him. I
would gladly have asked him to put my money into some commercial
venture, and have insisted upon his keeping a portion of the gains; but
to that I felt he would never consent.

And yet I did not believe that I was in love with Roger Dale. The
thought never occurred to me. I was ready to have our relations continue
indefinitely as they were. But I was not able to regard the hostility of
my family without impatience that added a spice of martyrdom to my
interviews with him. The very fact that others thought ill made it all
the more incumbent upon me to be steadfast and undoubting.


IV.

Before I had an opportunity to broach the question of investments to Mr.
Dale, Aunt Agnes added her quota to my sense of wrong. One evening when
she came to dinner I divined, from the intense rigidity of her posture
at table, that she was offended with me. To tell the truth, I felt a
trifle guilty. My visits to her during the winter had been spasmodic and
hurried. What was worse, so greatly was I carried away by my social
success, that whenever we did meet I prattled on about fashionable
frivolities regardless of her frown. But though I was conscious of not
standing in her good graces, I felt tolerably secure from comments on
the score of Mr. Dale, for the reason that as she never went anywhere
she would know nothing of my intimacy with him unless Aunt Helen or my
father were to make her a confidant; and this I did not think likely.
Therefore, when she introduced the subject while we were alone together
in the drawing-room after dinner, I was a little disconcerted.

"Who is this Mr. Gale whose name I see connected with yours?" she asked
severely.

"With mine?"

"Yes, with yours. Don't beat about the bush! You know perfectly well
whom I mean."

"Excuse me, Aunt Agnes, there is no Mr. Gale among my acquaintance. I
know a Mr. Dale."

She frowned, and began to fumble in her pocket. "The principle is the
same whether it is Gale or Dale or Tompkins. I never expected to learn
of my niece's engagement from the public press. I am confident the
notice said 'Gale.' Ah! I thought so. Plain as the nose on your face,"
she added, producing from her porte-monnaie a newspaper cutting and
reading aloud: "'It is rumored that the engagement of the beautiful and
accomplished daughter of Augustus Harlan, the Railway Magnate, to Mr.
Roger Gale of this city will soon be announced.'"

"It is not true, Aunt Agnes," I cried indignantly. Needless to say I was
startled at this bit of information, coming too as it did from such an
unexpected source. My aunt's knowledge of it seemed fully as remarkable
to me as the fact of the publication.

"I trust not," she replied with emphasis. "I did not seriously suppose
my own niece so far lost to all sense of propriety as to take such a
step unbeknown to me. But it seems to me, Virginia, you must have been
behaving in a, to say the least, very peculiar manner, to get your name
into the newspapers. Where there is so much smoke there is apt to be a
little fire. Who is this Mr. Gale?"

"His name is Dale, Aunt Agnes."

"Well, Dale then. You won't put me off by quibbling. If you want your
father to know of it, you are taking just the course to make me tell
him."

"My father knows all there is to know. Mr. Dale is a friend of mine and
comes to the house by permission. There is no possibility of an
engagement between us."

"An engagement! I should hope not. Do you consider yourself qualified to
enter upon the cares and responsibilities of married life?"

"I have already said that I have no intention of getting married."

"Getting married! Why, the child is crazy. You talk of matrimony as if
it were as simple a proceeding as changing your dress or going to a
party."

"Some people would appear to find it so," I answered, goaded to
impertinence.

But Aunt Agnes apparently did not perceive my innuendo. "I dare say,"
said she with asperity. "That is because there are so many fools in the
world."

We sat in silence for some minutes. My aunt was so much excited that I
could see her hands tremble as she put the obnoxious cutting back into
her porte-monnaie. All of a sudden she looked at me over her glasses and
said,--

"I am willing to give you one more chance, Virginia."

I waited for her to continue.

"If you choose to take advantage of it, well and good. If not, you must
go your own ways. I am not going to make my life a burden over you any
longer. If you prefer to be giddy and foolish, let those take the
responsibility who have encouraged you to become so. No one shall blame
me."

"You know, Aunt Agnes, I wish to be nothing of the sort."

"Very well, then. I propose to pass the summer in Europe, and it strikes
me as an excellent opportunity for you to cut adrift from the
objectionable associations you have formed during the past few months.
With a fresh start, and surroundings calculated to inspire in you a
desire for self-improvement, it will not be too late to hope for better
things. I have every confidence in the natural stability of your
character if you are once put upon the right track. I blame your
advisers more than I blame you."

I listened to her words with some disquietude. I had never crossed the
Atlantic, and at any ordinary time would have jumped at the chance. But
I had already other plans in store for the summer that I did not feel
prepared to relinquish, even for the pleasure of a trip to Europe.

"It is very kind of you to think of me," I said.

"No, it isn't. It's only natural," she answered shortly. "You are my
brother's child, and let alone any affection I may have for you, it is
my duty to save you from harm if I can."

"Who else is going?" I asked out of sheer cowardice; for I had already
made up my mind to decline the invitation.

"Who else? Nobody. If a woman at my age has not learned to travel
without an escort, it is time she did. I suppose that's what you're
driving at. Well, what do you say? Go, or remain at home as you like.
Only I shall regard it as a choice once and for all."

"Aunt Agnes," I answered with an endeavor to express in my tone and
manner the affection and gratitude I felt, "I thank you with all my
heart for your kindness. Whatever you may say, it _was_ extremely kind
of you to offer to take me abroad with you, and I wish I could go."

"What is there to prevent your going?" she inquired sharply.

I hesitated an instant, and then boldly spoke the truth, though I knew
it would operate like a two-edged sword:--

"I have already promised to spend the summer at Tinker's Reach with Aunt
Helen, and she would be disappointed if I failed her at the last moment,
for all her plans are made on that understanding."

"Ah! That is it," she replied with bitter calmness. "Very well, I
disclaim all further responsibility. You act with your eyes open, and
must take the consequences."

There was so much pain and concern in her expression that for an instant
I hesitated, and thought of changing my mind. I went to her and knelt
down beside her chair.

"Aunt Agnes, you must not talk so. I love you as dearly as I love Aunt
Helen; and if I had not promised to spend the summer with her I should
be delighted to go with you. Do not repulse me. I have so few relatives
to care for me, and I shall be very unhappy if you go away angry."

But she refused to be mollified. She did not scold me, and she coldly
suffered me to embrace her at parting; but her air was more grim than I
had ever seen it, and I was conscious of having wounded her deeply.

Perhaps it is needless to say that Mr. Dale was at the bottom of my
decision. A few weeks previous I had confided to him that Aunt Helen had
invited me to spend the summer with her at her new cottage at Tinker's
Reach. He assured me that there were few more charming spots, that it
was a favorite resort of his own, and that he himself proposed to pass
his vacation there. Naturally, I felt bound to a certain extent after
this to go to Tinker's Reach. Indeed, I was eagerly looking forward to a
continuance of our friendship under such happy auspices.

When I had spoken to Mr. Dale regarding his business he replied, as I
have already stated, that it was "wool." But I noticed he was brief,
and his manner did not encourage me to ask further questions, I ascribed
his reserve to modesty, or the proper reluctance some people have to
talk of private affairs that in no way concern the interrogator. This
impression was heightened by the investigations which I quietly made in
regard to the point, feeling that though I could not admit the
possibility of a doubt even in regard to his business sagacity, it was
well to have evidence with which to rebut the insinuations of my family.
Every one of the young men whom I questioned regarding Mr. Dale's
prospects assured me that he was doing very well, and attended his
office daily.

This was pleasant tidings, and encouraged me to speak to him of the
matter I had at heart. With all my tendency to romance and indifference
to the opinion of others, I realized that it must be delicately handled.
I must not seem to offer a gift or to place him under an obligation.
Accordingly, one day shortly before we left town, I explained to him the
condition of my affairs; how my father had settled a sum upon me with
the request that I should manage it intelligently, with a view to having
the control of larger amounts later. I said further that I was anxious
to learn, and to acquit myself with credit; and that it had struck me
as a brilliant scheme to double my property (I fixed upon this as a
reasonable estimate) by some investment. He listened to my words with
close attention, and as he made no comment at this point I said:--

"You are down town, Mr. Dale, and must necessarily understand business
matters. I come to you for advice. I want you to tell me what to buy. I
will give you the money, and when you think it time to sell I will
authorize you to do so. You see I am not entirely ignorant myself."

Roger Dale gave a short laugh, and made no response for a moment. "It
wouldn't do," he said at last, shaking his head. "What would your father
say if he heard of it? He doesn't have any too high an opinion of me
already, I fancy."

"But, Mr. Dale, that would be the very way to prove to him that you are
a practical business man. If my father were to take you into his
confidence he could push you ahead very fast, I know. I will show him
the profits of your investments, and bestow the credit where it
belongs."

The idea seemed to amuse him, for he laughed again. "You seem to forget,
Miss Harlan, that instead of profits you might lose it all."

"That would be impossible. I have too much confidence in your judgment
to fear any such result," I answered sweetly, led away by the eagerness
I felt to obtain his consent to the project.

He gave me a swift sidelong glance that made me tremble and set my heart
fluttering, though I did not know why.

"Besides," I said speaking fast and feverishly, "the money is mine. I
have a right to do what I please with it."

There was a pause, and then he said with the same glance, only longer
and intenser than before: "Miss Harlan, I cannot accept such a
responsibility unless you give it to me forever."

I was stunned. I had brought this upon myself I could see plainly, now
that it was too late. My undignified, unfeminine conduct stood out
before me the moment he had spoken, in all its mortifying nakedness. He
had mistaken my meaning, but it was I who was to blame for the error.
Humiliated and confused, I was at a loss for words; but a reply was
necessary.

"You have misunderstood me entirely, Mr. Dale. Let us change the
subject, if you please," I said with dignity.

Fortunately some one came in just at this moment, and Mr. Dale shortly
rose to go. But he dared in taking leave to look at me again in the
manner I have described, and in spite of my will and desire my eyes fell
as they encountered his.

We did not meet again, much to my relief, before I left town. I was in
an harassing state of mind, and happiness alternated in my thoughts with
despair. For a terrible secret had dawned upon me,--terrible, because I
foresaw the painful consequences which would result therefrom. I loved
Roger Dale. It was useless to disguise it longer from myself. His words
had made the truth manifest, and that which I fancied friendship was
become a mutual passion. Any mortification I may have felt at having
unwittingly prompted the speech that had filled my heart with joy was
nullified by the consciousness that I was beloved.

But the thought of braving the opposition of my family distressed me
beyond measure, as it must needs distress any conscientious girl in a
similar position. My instincts told me that it was vain to hope that
they would relent. Their objections were baseless, but none the less I
knew that they would prove insuperable. I found myself face to face
with a dilemma fraught with unhappiness whichever way I should solve it.
What was there to allege against Mr. Dale? Nothing. He was poor. But
what of that? My father had money enough for us both. Why need he mar by
cruel suspicions and prejudices this great joy of my life? I remember to
have wondered sometimes that girls could marry contrary to the consent
of their parents, but it seemed to me now that no one could sacrifice an
attachment as strong as mine to blind authority without doing wrong to
the eternal principles of love and honor. I vowed in secret that if
Roger Dale should prove as true to me as I would be to him, nothing
should keep us apart.


V.

Tinker's Reach, as most people know, is a very popular summer resort on
the Atlantic sea-coast. It possesses the advantages both of the ocean
and the country. There are beautiful drives in its vicinity variegated
by mountain peaks, ponds almost large enough to be classed as lakes, and
extensive woods where one--or more readily two--may be lost with ease.
On the other hand the harbor is adapted to all sorts of craft, from the
two hundred ton yacht to the bark canoe; and for those who prefer
looking at the waves to riding over them, there are superb rocks to sit
upon and clamber over, which abound in eyries for the retiring and caves
for the curious. Altogether it is a delightful place.

It takes its name, not as might be supposed from one of the aborigines,
but from a small variety of mackerel known to fishermen as "tinkers,"
which used to be seined off the main head-land in large quantities.
Originally a primitive settlement, fashionable patronage had dotted the
shore with large hotels and showy villas, which at this period were less
numerous than at present.

Soon after my arrival I received a note from Mr. Dale announcing that he
would be able to get away from the city by the end of the week. The
receipt of this missive thrilled me with joy; but I felt that proper
sentiments obliged me to tell my Aunt Helen. It would scarcely be
honorable to carry on an affair of which she disapproved, while enjoying
her hospitality and under her protection. Besides, I was not without
hopes of winning her over to my side. She had always been the one to
whom I had gone for sympathy, and her desertion in this case made me
feel sadly the need of an ally. So I said to her one evening,--

"Mr. Dale will be here early next week."

Aunt Helen shifted uneasily in her chair. "I don't know what your father
would say to that. He disapproves of your intimacy with Mr. Dale."

"I know it, Aunt Helen. He is prejudiced against him."

"Mr. Dale is certainly a very constant young man," she replied.

My heart gave a bound. Her remarks before had been rather in the form
of criticisms than regular objections. I laid down my work with the
resolve to throw myself on her mercy.

"Aunt Helen, why is it that all of you are so opposed to Mr. Dale?"

"Opposed! Well, dear, I should hardly call it that," said my aunt. "Your
father has an idea, I believe, that Mr. Dale is mercenary in his views.
What foundation for it he may have I do not know. As for myself, I
cannot say I am opposed, for I scarcely know the young man."

"My father is very unjust," I said with tears in my eyes.

"It may be, dear. Very likely he would own himself that it was merely an
impression; but it is only right that he should watch over your
interests carefully."

"Is it watching over my interests to cast suspicion on the motives of
one of my best friends?"

"It will all come right in the end, dear."

"He is noble and high-minded. No one shall say anything against him in
my presence," I cried fiercely.

My aunt smoothed out the lap of her dress reflectively. "You are quite
justified in standing up for your friend, Virginia. No one can blame
you for that. I have no doubt this young Dale is all you describe him to
be. Only," she added, with an apologetic cough, "be discreet. Some
persons, perhaps, would wish to be better informed before ceasing to
feel uneasy. I believe, though, in trusting to a girl's own instinct in
these matters: it rarely goes astray. If my parents had followed that
course, I might have been more happy."

She raised her handkerchief to her eyes to stay a tear, and with an
impulse of gratitude and pity I went to her and kissed her.

"Yes," she murmured, acknowledging my sympathy with a pressure of the
hand, "when I was just about your age there was a young man who was very
fond of me, and I liked him. He wished to marry me."

"And your father objected to him?"

"He thought we were too young. He insisted upon our waiting until we had
more money. So we did, and he fell into bad habits, and--and we drifted
apart. It is a long story."

"Oh, Aunt Helen, I am very sorry."

"Thank you, dear. I should never have told you except to show that I
could sympathize with you. Only, as I have said, be discreet. It is a
serious responsibility for me to assume. I hope you will take no
decisive steps without consulting your father. Kiss me, Virginia."

We embraced with fervor, and I was sure that I had gained an ally.

Mr. Dale arrived on the expected day and was kindly welcomed by my aunt,
who asked him to stay to tea. It was a superb evening, and he proposed
that we should go out on the water as was the custom at Tinker's Reach.

He had been an accomplished oar in College, and a dozen strokes sent the
light boat skimming beyond the bevy of similar craft by which we were
surrounded. The sea was calm as a mill-pond, and the moon was at the
full. I lay back with my face turned to the heavens and my fingers
trailing in the cool water. Mr. Dale rowed on until the lights on shore
seemed mere specks, and we could just perceive the gentle roll of the
Atlantic swell. He rested on his oars and listened. The voices of the
others were lost in the distance, and only the tinkle of a banjo wafted
from afar broke the night's tranquillity. The water was alive with
phosphorescence that sparkled like gems around the blades.

We had neither of us spoken since starting. I know not what were his
thoughts, but mine were full of happiness. I felt sure,--sure of his
love, and sure that he should have mine for the asking. And yet, so
perfect was my peace, that I hoped he would postpone the words that were
to make us still nearer to each other. We had talked so much of love and
of its rapture and unselfishness earlier in our acquaintance, that now
it was come to us silence seemed the most fitting commentary.

But he had made up his mind to speak at once.

"Virginia, I have brought you out here where we are alone, and where
only Nature can interrupt us, to tell you that I adore you. Let the
inconstant moon and twinkling stars laugh as they please. I know that
true love exists, for my soul is full of it at this moment. Speak,
dearest, and make me happy forever."

In the fulness of my transport at his ardent words, it seemed to me that
heaven was come down to earth. My dreams had promised no such
blessedness as this. Faintly and softly I murmured,--

"Roger, you know that I love you with all my heart."

"My darling!"

"My beloved!"

Is there an hour to compare in unqualified happiness with that in which
a woman of impulsive nature, ignorant of the world and blindly trusting,
whispers the confidences of her innocent bosom in the ear of her
accepted lover? Roger and I, alternately silent with bliss or
overflowing with the rapture of the heart's language, strolled arm in
arm along the moonlit shores far into the night.

Only one incident marred our content. "Virginia," said Roger suddenly,
"what will your father say?"

My father! I had never thought of him. So absorbing had been the
consciousness that Roger Dale loved me and I returned his love, that
every other consideration was blotted from my mind.

"Not to-night. We will not talk of that to-night. Let me be happy while
I can," I cried, pressing his arm with feverish fondness.

"He dislikes me then? I was sure of it," he said quietly, but there was
a scowl on his face.

"He does not know you, Roger. But I will make him give his consent. He
cannot refuse me anything."

We walked on in silence. I felt stirred and rebellious. "Dearest," said
I, in a low tone of determination, "I will be true to you whatever
happens."

He stooped his head and kissed me. "If you are as constant to me, sweet
Virginia, as I shall be to you, nothing can separate us."

Oh, joyous words! Were they not the very same with which I had fortified
my courage scarcely a month ago?

We parted just after midnight. My aunt was sitting up for me, and I
burst into the room in great excitement.

"Oh, Aunt Helen, I am engaged, I am engaged! I am so happy!"

"My darling child!"

We wept in each other's arms.

"He is so noble, Aunty; so good and kind!"

"God grant he may continue so!" she said, stroking my hair.

I gave a vent to my ecstasy in talk. While I rattled on she sat drying
her eyes and looking at me with a half fond, half uneasy expression. Now
and again she sobbed hysterically. At last she exclaimed, "What will
your father say?"

"We will think of that to-morrow," I said. "I mean to be perfectly happy
to-night."

"You will have to write to him of course."

"We have decided on nothing yet."

"Oh, Virginia, I am all in a flutter. What _will_ he say? He is sure to
blame me, and Heaven knows I acted for what seemed to me the best."

"It _was_ the best, dear Aunt Helen. Can't you see how happy I am? When
Roger and I are married, you shall come and live with us always, and
have the best room in the house; for if it hadn't been for you I might
never have known what it is to be loved by the noblest man in the
world."

It was a long time before I fell asleep. I was aroused in the morning by
a knock at my door. It was Aunt Helen.

"Let me in," she said mysteriously.

"Well?" said I when I had risen and admitted her, "what is it? What has
happened?"

"Your father has just arrived. He is downstairs."

"Father?"

"Yes. He knows nothing of course. I have scarcely slept a wink all
night, Virginia. I feel dreadfully nervous. What _will_ he say?"

I got back into bed and drew the clothes up to my chin in an affectation
of composure. But I was overwhelmed by the news. His opposition seemed a
much more serious consideration than when regarded by moonlight. A
visit from him at any other time would not have been a surprise, for he
had said he should run down to Tinker's Reach at his first leisure
moment.

My aunt stood at the foot of the bed, watching my face and expecting me
to speak.

"What do you mean to do about it?" she asked.

"Tell him," I replied.

"I suppose you might put it off until you return to town, especially if
you would make up your mind to see very little of Mr. Dale in the mean
time."

"No. It is best to have it over and done with. I want it settled now and
forever." I felt my courage hardening.

"Well, Heaven bless you, child!" she said, kissing me. "You must admit,
Virginia, that I have warned you all along that your father was opposed
to Mr. Dale."

"It is not your fault in any way, Aunt Helen. I shall tell him so."

She left me, and I dressed deliberately. There was evidently no escape
from the situation. But upon one point I was perfectly decided: nothing
should induce me to give up Roger. I was ready to postpone our wedding
for the present, or to humor my father's objections in any reasonable
way. But renounce him, never! Having arrived at this determination I
went downstairs. My father was eating his breakfast, and I waited until
he was comfortably settled with a cigar on the sofa, before making my
confession. Aunt Helen had taken the precaution to absent herself from
the room. I began bravely:--

"Father, there is something I wish to tell you that interests me very
deeply."

He removed the cigar, and looked at me inquiringly. I saw he did not
suspect the truth.

"I am engaged to be married to Mr. Roger Dale. You must not be angry,
father," I continued hastily. "You cannot help liking him when you know
him better. He is worthy of me in every way."

I ventured to look at him; he was smoking with quick, nervous puffs that
betokened great excitement.

"Bah!" he cried presently. "Bah! what a fool I have been! I might have
known it would end in some such way as this. No girl ever had a better
opportunity than you, and yet you are ready to sacrifice everything for
the sake of a fellow who is no more fit to be your husband than the
veriest beggar in the street. You have disappointed me terribly,
Virginia. I believed you to be sensible and clever; but the admission
you have just made proves you to be little short of a goose. Bah! you
couldn't have chosen worse. A dissipated, mercenary good-for-nothing!"

"You must not speak in that way of Roger, father. I cannot sit here and
let him be abused. Scold me as much as you please, but don't say
anything against him. You do not understand him."

"Understand him, indeed! It is you who do not understand him. I never
expected that a daughter of mine would fall in love with a barber's
block."

This was too much for my endurance. "You are unjust," I cried with,
flashing eyes. "It is too late to talk so. We love each other, and if my
own father repulses me we must go elsewhere for a blessing."

I have an idea that I looked like a queen of tragedy as I stood and
braved him thus, for he gazed at me with a sort of astonishment, and
made a movement as if to deter me from leaving the room. Just then, as
fortune willed, the door was thrown open, and the servant ushered in
Roger Dale.

He looked from the one to the other of us, and his cheeks reddened.

"So, sir," exclaimed my father, "you have come to claim your bride! You
will have to reckon with me first; and I warn you that you will need
stronger arguments than any I have ever heard in your favor, to convince
me that you are the proper man to marry my daughter. Virginia, you may
leave us. I will send for you when I wish for you. This gentleman and I
are capable of settling this matter together."

I saw that my father was in a rage that would not brook resistance. But
my own blood was boiling. Roger stood pale but seemingly unabashed,
gazing at me as if he waited for me to speak. I addressed him:--

"Whatever my father may say to you, Roger, do not forget that I have
promised to be your wife." With this speech I left the room.


VI.

I went to my room and bolted the door. Presently Aunt Helen knocked, but
I declined to let her in. I felt grievously wronged. My father had
trampled upon the most sacred sentiments of my soul. He had spurned and
insulted the man I loved. What proofs had he of the charges he had
brought? Dissipation! It could not be. I surely would have discovered
this long ago if it had been true. Mercenary! Could he be called
mercenary whom a high sense of honor had forbidden to assist me in the
investment of my property? Good for nothing! Ah, my father did not know
the noble impulses that underlay Roger Dale's unostentatious manner!

I do not know how long it was before Aunt Helen knocked a second time,
and said that my father had sent for me. It was probably not more than
half an hour, but it had seemed to me an eternity. I was waiting for the
summons, with the box containing my securities beside me; and with this
in my hands I confronted my father once more in the parlor.

He was no longer visibly angry. Both he and Roger were smoking, and
sitting at ease as I entered. I took a chair close by my lover's side,
and looked at him fondly. He returned my glance, but there was a shadow
of annoyance in his expression that made me feel uneasy. It brought to
my mind his face as I had noticed it the previous evening, when he spoke
of my father's prejudice against him.

At last my father saw fit to begin. He spoke in a deliberate,
business-like tone, free from passion. "I have sent for you, Virginia,
to repeat to you what I have already said to Mr. Dale. Once and for all,
I will never give my consent to your marriage. I am utterly and
radically opposed to it. I have been from the first, as you are aware.
If you ask for my reasons, I do not consider this gentleman fitted to be
my son-in-law. He has on his own admission no means to support a wife;
he has no ambition or desire to excel, and I know from positive evidence
that his habits are by no means exemplary."

He paused, and I glanced anxiously at Roger; but his eyes were fixed on
the floor, and he sat drumming gently on the table with the fingers of
one hand.

"If you persevere in this piece of folly contrary to my expressed
wishes, you do it, Virginia, at your own peril, for I warn you that my
resolution is fixed and cannot be shaken. Do not hope, either of you, by
nursing the affair along to overcome my objections later. That is a
favorite resort of young people in novels; but if fathers in real life
are so weak in general, I shall prove an exception. As you know,
Virginia, the part of a tyrannical parent is the last I ever expected to
be called upon to play. I have allowed you every indulgence, and trusted
you to an extent that I am beginning to believe was unwise. But I will
not waste time in words; my resolution is perfectly explicit. My will is
made in your favor. If I should die to-day, you would be mistress of all
my property. Unless you promise me not to marry this man, I shall alter
it to-morrow, and neither of you shall ever receive one cent from me
during my lifetime or at my decease. This sounds like a threat, but it
is only intended to show to the fullest extent in my power how fatal to
your happiness I consider this union would be. I can say no more than
this. I cannot prevent you from marrying Mr. Dale if you are bent upon
it. There are no laws to punish foolish women or mercenary men; but you
must take the consequences. What you have in that box," he continued,
nodding towards me, "is all you will ever receive at my hands. If I am
not mistaken, this young gentleman would play ducks-and-drakes with that
in a very short time. I have said my say, and now you can suit
yourselves."

I had listened to his words with a constantly increasing indignation
that overshadowed the remorse I felt at having disappointed his hopes.
So incensed was I at his aspersions of Roger that I almost laughed when
he spoke of disinheriting me. But the taunt that Roger was courting me
for my money was most galling of all, by very force of reiteration. I
started to my feet once more with a defiant air.

"It is not true. You misjudge Mr. Dale cruelly. To show you, father, how
free our love is from the base and paltry motives you impute, and that
we do not need your help, see there!"

I rushed through the open window which led to the piazza, and before
either my father or Roger divined my intention, hurled with all my might
the box of securities over the railing into the sea beneath. It opened
just before reaching the water, and the contents were submerged by the
seething surf.

I re-entered the parlor with a triumphant air. Roger's face wore a
half-scared look as he began to realize what I had done.

"Mad girl!" cried my father with a sneer. "Mr. Dale will not thank you
for that, I fancy. You have, however, done me an infinite service." He
turned and left the room.

When he was gone, exhausted and unnerved I buried my face on Roger's
shoulder and sobbed bitterly. He tried to soothe me, and finally induced
me to sit down. He sat beside me, holding my hand and urging me to calm
myself. At last I turned to him and said with a sudden transport of new
happiness, and smiling through my tears,--

"I promised to remain true to you, Roger, and I have."

"Yes, dear, I know. When you are a little more composed, we will talk
the matter over seriously."

There was something in his tone that chilled me; he was so calm, and I
so carried away by excitement.

"Do not think of my father's words," I said. "Forget them. I shall be
perfectly happy so long as you love me."

"He will never relent," he answered gloomily. "He is known down town as
a man who makes up his mind once for all time."

"I would rather disobey my father than be false to you," I responded
firmly.

"Yes. But how are we to live?" he asked, rising from the sofa and
promenading the room nervously, with his hands in his pockets.

"Live?" I echoed.

"Unfortunately we should have to eat and drink, like everybody else. It
was a pity," he continued reflectively, "that you flung that money
overboard; we might have been very comfortable with that."

"Yes," I replied in a dazed sort of way.

"Was it the whole?" He stood looking at me with his head on one side.

"The whole of what?"

"Was all the property your father gave you in that box?"

"Certainly: I wonder you ask, Roger."

He walked up and down a few times and then took a seat beside me.

"Let us look at this matter in a common-sense way, Virginia. Heaven
knows I love you, and that I am as romantic in my feelings as any one
could desire. But suppose we were to marry without your father's
consent, what would be the result? We should starve. To speak frankly, I
find it difficult enough to make both ends meet as a single man. You are
used to every luxury and comfort, and have not been accustomed to
economize. Do not misunderstand me, Virginia," he continued, speaking
quickly, struck perhaps by my expression, which if my emotions were
adequately reflected therein must have made him uneasy. "I know that you
are capable of any sacrifice; it is I who am unwilling to permit you to
give up your fortune and your family for my sake. If there were any
chance of your father's relenting, if I thought there was a possibility
that time would make a difference in his views, I would not speak so.
But as it is, I see no alternative for us but an unsuccessful struggle
with poverty, that would end in unhappiness. It breaks my heart to come
to this conclusion, but justice to you, as well as common-sense, will
not let me suffer you to commit a folly which after the glamour of the
moment was over, you would regret."

It was the manner even more than the matter of his speech that stabbed
me to the heart. Had he spoken less calmly and deliberately, I might
have believed that he shrank from accepting my self-sacrifice, and have
regarded his dampening words as a mere cloak for his own generosity. But
his unconcerned and dispassionate air left no doubt in my mind that
it was he who was unwilling to face the romantic but desperate
circumstances in which my father's decree had placed us. Instinct told
me that he in whose constancy and in whose devotion to ideality I had
believed with all the ardor and trust of which I was capable, was false,
and ready to subordinate a love like ours to temporal considerations.

Yet with the persistence of one who clutches at any semblance of hope
however slender, I refused to believe the truth without further
evidence.

"I should not be a burden to you, Roger. People can live on much less
than they suppose. We could both work, I as well as you."

He shrugged his shoulders, and taking both my hands in his looked into
my face with a trivial smile, so little in accord with the intensity of
my feelings that I almost shrieked with pain.

"Do you think I would allow my dear girl to demean herself in any such
way as that? No, no! Love in a cottage is a delightful theory, but put
into practice it becomes terribly disappointing."

I drew away my hands from him and sat for some moments in silence.

"I think it is best that our engagement should come to an end," I said
presently.

He made a sigh of resignation. "That is for you to decide. It rests with
you, of course."

"I agree with you that it would be very foolish of us to marry without
my father's consent, Mr. Dale."

He drew himself up a little, and looked at me as if hurt. "Are you angry
with me, Virginia?"

"Angry? Why should I be angry?"

"Then why call me Mr. Dale?"

"Because," I answered quietly and firmly, though I felt my anger rising,
"unless you are to be my husband, you must be Mr. Dale."

"Can we not be friends?" he asked in a dejected tone.

"We can never be anything else," I answered with some ambiguity; and I
rose and rang the bell.

The servant entered. "Tell Mr. Harlan, please, that I would like to
speak to him."

"I think we are acting for the best," he said, after an awkward pause.

"I am sure we are, Mr. Dale." It was undignified, it may be, to betray
my feelings, but my love was too strong to die without a murmur.

My father looked inquiringly at us as he entered. His face seemed to me
almost haggard.

I said at once, "Father, we have made up our minds that you are right.
It would be madness in us to marry without your consent. The credit of
our decision belongs to Mr. Dale. He has proved to me that our
engagement should come to an end."

My father turned toward him with a scornful smile, appreciating, I
think, the gentle sarcasm of my words. But I doubt if Roger did, for he
added immediately,--

"Yes, sir; I cannot consent to the sacrifice your daughter is prepared
to make."

"I am glad that she as well as you have come to your senses, and I thank
you for making the only amends possible for having endeavored to enter
my family contrary to my desire, by teaching my daughter her duty. I
have no doubt that we shall both be very grateful to you in the future."

This time Roger perceived that he was being laughed at, for his cheeks
flushed. But he recovered his composure, and looking at me, said,--

"I trust I may continue to come to see you as usual."

I trembled all over at his words, but I controlled myself, and
answered,--

"If you wish."

After a few moments of awkward hesitancy he left us.

When I knew that he was really gone, I could restrain myself no longer.
Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands and burst into a
flood of tears. "Oh, father, he has deceived me! He has broken my
heart!"




BOOK II.

SOPHISTICATION.


I.

In the bitterness of my humiliation and distress at the perfidy of Roger
Dale I came near running away from home. My youthful imaginations, as I
have already mentioned, were of a realistic order, and it had been a
favorite scheme with me to become a shop-girl. So when this sorrow
overwhelmed me, I thought seriously of going out into the world to seek
my fortune in some such capacity. It was only my father's kindness
during those dreadful first days that deterred me from carrying out some
romantic plan of escape. I felt sore and mortified, and ready to take
any steps that would separate me from my old surroundings.

Aunt Helen did her best to comfort me, but I was in no frame of mind to
talk it all over, which was, I knew, her main idea of solace,--that and
frequent offers of tempting food. On the other hand, my father made no
allusion to the wretched incident during the fortnight he remained at
Tinker's Reach. He treated me exactly as if nothing had happened,
except that every morning after breakfast he proposed a walk through the
woods or up the mountain. Indifferent to everything as I was at the
moment, I had a consciousness that this exercise was beneficial to me,
and I was grateful at heart. Anything was better than harping over and
over again on the same string the story of my wrongs. Walking
interrupted this in a measure, though during the long tramps which I had
with my father we rarely talked, and I usually in monosyllables. In this
manner we explored the outlying country within a radius of twenty miles,
and when night came I was so fatigued that I was apt to sleep, and
consequently was spared the pale cheeks and dull eyes that for the most
part afflict those who have undergone an experience similar to mine.

One of the reasons why I did not run away from home was my lack of
funds. I was penniless, for all my money was with the securities I threw
into the sea. I was inclined, however, to congratulate myself upon this
extravagant proceeding, for the reason that had I acted less impulsively
I might not have detected Roger's selfishness until it was too late. But
when just before my father went away he handed me a roll of bank-bills,
the color rose to my cheeks, and I began to reflect upon the enormity of
my offence. He told me that he had ordered a saddle-horse to be sent to
me from town, which he hoped I would use regularly, and that in the
autumn he proposed to take me with him on a journey to California.

I listened in silence; but I rode the horse, and found him just the
companion I required. He could not talk, and yet was sufficiently
spirited to prevent me from self-absorption. My father also sent me a
box of books, which embraced a variety of literature. Although there
were some light and amusing sketches among them, novels of sentiment and
poetry had been excluded. On the other hand he had picked out the latest
and most authoritative publications relating to history, science,
biography, and travel, by which I soon found myself engrossed and
diverted. I read voluminously, and when this supply was exhausted I
wrote home for more.

This was my interest during the remainder of the summer, and when autumn
came I was conscious of having undergone a mental change. Whereas I was
formerly trusting, credulous, and optimistic, at least toward all except
myself, I was become suspicious even of the seal of sincerity, weighed
words, and applied the scalpel of analysis to others' motives as well as
to my own.

But this cynical phase did not last long, and gave way in turn to a much
more serious view of life than I had hitherto taken. The trip which I
made to California with my father did much to promote this. We were
absent from home eight weeks, and we visited all the principal cities
and saw the chief sights of the West. My father was assiduous in his
kindness. He took pains to explain to me the immense value and
importance of the wool and the wheat and the cattle and the ore which
were the staple products of the States and Territories through which we
passed. He showed me on the map the immense net-work of railways by
means of which these industries, if not consumed at home, were carried
to the seaboard either of the Atlantic or the Pacific, and made
profitable to the producer by exportation to foreign lands. He tried to
interest me in such commercial and economic questions, so that, as he
said, I need not like most women remain in entire ignorance regarding
the vital interests of the world. Although I was still stolid and
indifferent in manner, I listened attentively to his instructions and
appreciated the service he was doing me.

One evening shortly after our return, Aunt Helen said to me, with a
prefatory cough which was apt to be a sign that she regarded the topic
to be broached as delicate,--

"Virginia, it is time for you to be thinking about your party dresses.
Of course it is too late now to send to Paris; but I fancy it is
possible to get tolerable things here, if one is ready to pay a little
more."

"I shall not require party dresses. I am not going anywhere this
winter," I answered quietly.

As I have just intimated, Aunt Helen was somewhat apprehensive regarding
my plans, owing to a few hints which I had let fall at Tinker's Reach.
She had suggested my sending an order to Paris about a fortnight
subsequent to my last interview with Mr. Dale, but I declined
emphatically to do so. It was evident, however, from her expression that
my resolve was a source of surprise and dismay to her.

"Not go anywhere? Why, people will think you are ill."

"My looks will belie that, Aunt Helen."

"It will seem so odd and peculiar. A girl always enjoys her second
winter more than the first. Just when you have come to know everybody
too! I hope you will reconsider this, dear. You had better order the
dresses at any rate," she continued; "you might want to go when the time
comes, and then it would be too late."

I shook my head decisively: "I am sorry to disappoint you, but my mind
is made up."

Aunt Helen coughed again. "You are not disappointing _me_; it is only on
your own account that I feel badly. You will make a great mistake,
Virginia. Of course, dear, you have passed through a very unpleasant
experience, which I am all the more able to appreciate from having had,
as you are aware, sorrows of a similar kind. But painful as such
experiences are for those called upon to undergo them, they are, I
regret to say, far from uncommon; and if a young person who has suffered
a disappointment were to turn his or her back on all entertainments,
what, pray, would become of society?"

"Society will get along very well without me," I answered.

Aunt Helen knitted rapidly in silence, and the color mounted to her
cheeks.

"You will make a great mistake, Virginia," she repeated,--"a great
mistake. No young lady of your age can afford to make herself
conspicuous by acting differently from other people. Do you wish to be
called eccentric and peculiar?"

"I don't much care," said I with a spice of wickedness. "It might be
rather attractive, I should think, to be different from everybody else."

"I can imagine who has been putting such ideas into your head. In my
opinion one strong-minded woman in the family is quite enough," she said
with a toss of her head.

I knew that she referred to Aunt Agnes, who had returned from Europe a
few weeks before; therefore I said,--

"I have not exchanged a word with anybody on the subject."

"What _is_ the reason, then, that you persist in being so contrary?" she
exclaimed in a thoroughly worried tone, laying down her work on her lap.

"Because I have awakened to the fact that the little circle in which we
move does not constitute the world," I answered, rather nettled by her
solicitude. "I live as completely hedged about by conventions as the
sleeping Beauty by the growth of a hundred years."

She opened her eyes in amazement. "All women in every circle except the
very lowest are hedged about by conventions," she replied severely.
"What is it you wish to do?"

"I don't know that I wish to do anything. I am waiting for something to
suggest itself."

"Does your father know of this?" she asked.

"Of what?"

"Of your intention to give up society."

"I have not thought it important enough to mention it to him."

"Important enough? I shall feel it my duty to inform him. We shall hear
next that you have gone on the stage, or done something equally
extraordinary."

"What do you mean?" I inquired with a wondering laugh.

"I have merely taken you at your own words. You have expressed
dissatisfaction with the circle in which you live, and wish to try
another. The only place where people are thoroughly unconventional is on
the stage."

It was useless to discuss the matter further. Aunt Helen was not to be
brought to look at it from my point of view, and I was resolute in my
determination. I wished to meet and know a different set of people from
those of the fashionable world. My ideas on the subject were vague. I
had spoken the truth in saying that I was waiting for something to
suggest itself.

There were of course plenty of earnest and interesting people, if one
knew how to discover them. Naturally I often thought of Aunt Agnes, but
pride interdicted me from applying to her. I felt that she had, to quote
her own words, once for all made overtures to me, which I had declined,
and that I could not bear the humiliation of going to her and confessing
my ingratitude. When she came to spend the evening with us just after
her return from Europe, her first remark to me had been: "Well, a pretty
mess you and your Aunt Helen have made of it!" Beyond this she made no
allusion to what had occurred, but she answered all my questions
regarding her travels with the curtness of one who mistrusts the
interest of the questioner.

However, as we had not met since, I felt in duty bound to pay my
respects to her, and accordingly dropped in one day about luncheon time.
She was not alone; and her visitor, who was a young woman some five
years my senior, stopped short in her animated conversation as I
entered, and swept down upon me with a wealth of facial expression in
response to my Aunt's guttural--

"My niece!"

"This is too pleasant, Miss Harlan. I have heard about you so often, and
wished to meet you. Now that we are acquainted, I do hope we shall be
friends."

"This is Miss Kingsley, Virginia. You will not do amiss to follow in her
footsteps," said Aunt Agnes, by way of setting me down where she
considered I belonged, for I had not so far mortified the flesh as to
alter my street costumes. As a consequence I was the pink of neatness in
a new bonnet which contrasted itself already in my mind with the
over-trimmed attire of my aunt's guest. I noticed that Miss Kingsley
looked me over from head to foot with a sweeping glance as she spoke.

But I felt humble-minded, and disposed to seize any straw that might
help me to realize my desire for new acquaintances. So I smiled sweetly,
as though undisturbed by my aunt's severity, and greeted Miss Kingsley
with more effusion than it was my wont to display toward strangers.

"I have heard that Miss Virginia Harlan is very clever," she said,
opening and shutting her eyes in rapid succession, which I soon found
was usual with her when she wished to be gracious, and which had much
the effect of heat lightning on the beholder. "Weren't you at Tinker's
Reach last summer?" she continued.

"She was," answered Aunt Agnes in a stern tone.

"Then you will be able to tell me if it is Mr. Dobbs or Dobson of
Philadelphia, who is engaged to our Miss Bentley. I wrote it Dobbs, as
seeming rather more distinguished. I agree with Mr. Spence that
monosyllables are the most sympathetic."

"I am very sorry to say his name is Dobson," I answered.

Miss Kingsley sighed. "What a pity! Mere accuracy and art come so often
into collision that it is difficult at times for us artists to do
justice to both. I expended much thought on that item."

I felt greatly puzzled. It was evident she took it for granted that I
knew who she was. But Aunt Agnes in attempting to enlighten me made my
confusion all the greater.

"I presume, Virginia, that you are aware that Miss Kingsley is 'Alpha'?"

"'Alpha'?" I faltered.

"You must certainly have often read her column in the 'Sunday
Mercury'?"

I looked embarrassed, for I never had. But the source of the item which
had appeared about me in that newspaper was now apparent.

Miss Kingsley blushed, and giggled convulsively. "No offence. Quite
natural, I'm sure. You have much better things to do than to read my
articles, Miss Virginia. I only thought you might have happened to read
Mr. Spence's 'Sonnet to Alpha' in our last issue."

I was obliged to admit that I had not; and feeling that it was as well
to make a clean breast of my ignorance, I acknowledged that I had never
heard of Mr. Spence.

Miss Kingsley gave a little gasp, and looked amused.

"Virginia! I am astonished," exclaimed Aunt Agnes. "Your father gave me
to understand that you had been spending a portion of the summer in
self-improvement. Mr. Spence is one of the most original thinkers in the
community. I cannot believe it possible that you have never heard of
him."

"Perhaps Miss Virginia may have read some of his poems or philosophy
without knowing the author," suggested Miss Kingsley. "You must surely
have heard of his 'Essay on the Economy of Speech,' which in my opinion
is the most sympathetic thing he has done."

"One of the most valuable contributions to the literature of pure
thought that we have had in many years," said Aunt Agnes.

I shook my head.

"Permit me," said Miss Kingsley, fumbling in a little reticule on her
lap and taking therefrom one of several cards, which she handed to me.

"This is a schedule of his new course of lectures on Moderation. He
regards moderation as the most valuable virtue of our civilization, and
is devoting his life to the promulgation of its importance."

The printed card read as follows:--

    LECTURES.

    HAWTHORNE ROOMS.

    SIX SUCCESSIVE SATURDAYS,

    BEGINNING DECEMBER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH.

    _BY CHARLES LIVERSAGE SPENCE._

       *       *       *       *       *

    MODERATION.

  December 28. General View of the Subject.
  January   4. Tension and Torpor of the Nerves.
     "     11. The Economy of Speech.
     "     18. The Use and Abuse of Raiment.
     "     25. Overeating and Undereating.
  February  1. Exuberance and Poverty in the Soul.

"They must be very interesting," said I. It was something at any rate to
get a peep into the charmed circle, even if I were too illiterate
to share its membership; and I was eager to know more of the
poet-philosopher, as I rightly judged him to be from Miss Kingsley's
words.

"They are eminently suggestive," said she.

"You know him well I suppose."

"Mr. Spence? Yes. If I may say so," she simpered, with a rapid movement
of her eyes, "your aunt and I were among the first to find him out."

"Is he young?"

"Just thirty. He celebrated his birthday only a fortnight ago. It was on
that occasion that his 'Sonnet to Alpha' first saw the light."

"Is he good-looking?" I inquired somewhat ill advisedly, for Aunt Agnes
made a gesture of impatience.

"His face is intellectual rather than handsome," answered Miss Kingsley.
"Its expression is very striking and versatile. Fine, piercing eyes and
waving hair, which he wears long. An intense individuality. But I should
scarcely call him beautiful; interesting and highly sympathetic in
appearance seems to me a more accurate description."

"If you mean by 'good-looking' to inquire if he is a fop, Virginia, you
had better be undeceived on that score at once," said Aunt Agnes, with a
toss of her head. "I don't suppose Mr. Spence has ever danced the German
in his life."

"He is very particular about late hours," said Miss Kingsley; "that is a
part of his system. He believes in moderation in all things, sleep as
well as the contrary. He almost invariably retires before eleven, but he
rises after eight hours of rest. He considers either more or less as
deleterious to health. I am inclined to think though, if Miss Harlan
will excuse my correcting her," she continued turning to Aunt Agnes,
"that he has once or twice in his life danced the German; for he has
told me that in order to develop his theory intelligently he has been
obliged to study extremes. The happy mean cannot of course be estimated
so intelligently by one who is without personal experience of the
overmuch or undermuch he reprobates. Those are his own phrases for
expressing excess or undue limitation, and to me they seem exquisite
specimens of nomenclature. But as I was saying, Mr. Spence has in the
course of his investigations sampled, if I may so speak, almost every
sensation or series of sensations to which human nature is susceptible.
For instance, he once spent the night in a tomb, so as to experience
what he has so exquisitely styled in a poem on the subject 'the
extremity of doleful comprehension.' You were alluding to the lines only
yesterday, Miss Harlan."

"They are Miltonic in their grim power," said Aunt Agnes.

"Then again, he lived upon dog and horse during the time of the Commune
at Paris. He says it was worth the experience of an ordinary lifetime as
illustrating the crucial test of discomfort. So in like manner he has
experienced the extremes of luxury and pleasure. I have been given to
understand that he even felt it his duty to intoxicate himself upon one
occasion, in order to be able to demolish more conclusively the
arguments of either form of intemperance; for he considers total
abstinence as almost, if not quite, on a level with over indulgence.
One's instinct of course shrinks at first from the idea of a deliberate
clouding of the senses being ever pardonable, but the more one examines
the matter the more innocent does it appear; and I freely admit that I
have come to regard an offence against morals committed in the interest
of science as not only excusable, but in some cases a positive duty."

"But," said Aunt Agnes, taking up the thread of her previous remark for
my further edification, "however Mr. Spence may have conducted himself
in the past for the sake of discipline, his habits to-day are
essentially sober and serious."

"Oh, dear, yes!" exclaimed Miss Kingsley; "he is intensely in earnest,
and discountenances all mere vanities of life. And yet, withal, it is
his aim to pursue the happy mean. He believes in rational amusements,
and is very sympathetic in congenial society. If you have no pleasanter
engagement for next Wednesday evening, Miss Virginia, I shall be charmed
to have you take tea with me at my rooms in the Studio Building. I
expect Mr. Spence and one or two other friends to be present."

"With great pleasure," I answered; and I felt quite elated by the
invitation. My ambition to form new associations was about to be
realized apparently.

"I have hopes that Mr. Spence will consent to illustrate his theory of
the Economy of Speech on that evening," continued Miss Kingsley. "As yet
the science is in embryo, and naturally but a very small number of
people are sufficiently familiar with the practical details of the
theory to make it advisable to adopt it in general conversation. But
with sympathetic friends he may feel disposed to make the experiment."

"You are extremely fortunate, Virginia," said Aunt Agnes, with emphasis.

"I should try in vain to be worthy of such an opportunity; but I am very
much obliged to you, Miss Kingsley," I answered humbly.

"You will soon learn," she said, rising to go. "I am so glad to have had
the pleasure of meeting you at last. I have alluded to you in my column
on one or two occasions, but this is the first time I have had the
gratification of seeing you in person. Perhaps you can tell me," she
continued, still holding my hand, "whether there is any truth in the
reported engagement of our Miss Leonard to Mr. Clarence Butterfield. And
if you happen to know who are to be the bridesmaids at the wedding of
Miss Newton, of Philadelphia, to our Mr. Lester, I shall consider it
very friendly of you to tell me."

This made me feel very uncomfortable, for I could not decide on the spur
of the moment whether it would be more charitable to my friends to tell
the truth, or to remain silent and let their affairs be garbled.

"I want to put in something," she urged, noticing my hesitation. "I
shall either contradict or confirm the report of the engagement in our
next issue. Of course, artistically it makes little difference to me
which; but it is much more satisfactory to the immediate friends to have
an item correct,--just as the friends of a person who sits for a
portrait prefer to have the likeness speaking, whereas to the painter it
is much more important whether the _tout ensemble_ is a work of art. To
obtain a portrait one can always have recourse to the photographer; and
so to insure mere accuracy in a social jotting, it is easy to pay for it
as an advertisement. But artists stand upon a different footing. Am I
clear? And I trust that you agree with me. It will do just as well on
Wednesday; and if you should hear any other items of interest in my
line, please note them. You have no idea of the competition I have to
encounter. Some artists go so far as to invent their material, but it is
not considered strictly professional. Well, I must run along. Don't
forget, Wednesday at eight," and Miss Kingsley whisked out of the room,
leaving me in a dazed condition.

The collection of social gossip was apparently her regular business,
which she not only was ready to acknowledge, but gloried in,--just as a
merchant might take pride in his bargains, or a lawyer in his arguments.
There was a certain savor of self-reliance and proprietorship in her use
of the word "our," by which it was evident to me, though I was sadly
puzzled at first, that she distinguished Bostonians from those who lived
elsewhere. But horrified as I was by the general idea of such a calling,
I could not help feeling amused, and even rather admired Miss Kingsley's
independence and enterprising spirit. She was a shade vulgar to be sure,
but in my present frame of mind I was disposed to rank intellectual
superiority above mere refinement of manner. I believed that Miss
Kingsley, although but a few years older than myself, could put me to
the blush in the matter of literary attainments and general information.

Aunt Agnes was plainly of that opinion, for she aroused me from my
reflections by the remark,--

"A rare opportunity is afforded you, Virginia, for mental discipline. I
can see that Miss Kingsley has taken a fancy to you. She is not a person
who goes off at a tangent. She must have discerned capabilities for
culture in you, or she would never have invited you to one of her
entertainments. To you, who are accustomed to society fine speeches that
mean nothing, it will probably occur that she is asking you on my
account. Nothing of the sort. There is not an ounce of affectation in
her. She has asked you because she wants you; and I can only add that if
you neglect after this to seek improvement, you will be guilty of a
deliberate sacrifice of talents for which there can be no excuse. Yes,
talents. There is no use in mincing matters; you have talents. I have
always thought so, which is the reason why I have taken so much trouble
to keep you from evil courses. Your father has given me to understand
that you have begun to listen to the voice of experience. I tried to
save you from experience by counsel, but you scoffed at my words. You
have providentially had your eyes opened before it was too late. You
have suffered, and I do not wish to add to your mortification by
reproach. Let by-gones be by-gones, and I trust to hear no more of Mr.
Gale and his associates."

"Dale, Aunt Agnes," I said firmly.

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "What difference does it make
whether it is Dale or Gale? You heard what Miss Kingsley said just now
about the unimportance of accuracy in trivial matters. You knew
perfectly well whom I meant. Let me caution you again, Virginia, against
an undue estimate of ceremony and form. It is the spirit that is of
value, not the mere letter. Especially should you bear this in mind in
the society of such people as you will meet on Wednesday evening. The
world is a large place, and only in the circle in which you have been
brought up is excessive regard paid to insignificant details. Sensible
people have other things to think about."

"Does Mr. Spence belong to Boston?" I asked, anxious to find out all I
could about the celebrity.

But this remark was not more happy than the last Aunt Agnes pursed up
her lips and said,--

"If you mean, was he born in Beacon Street, no, he was not. Dreadful as
it may seem to you, I know nothing of either his father or his mother.
But you will learn when you are a little wiser, that genius in order to
be recognized and admired is not obliged to produce parents."

"You misunderstood me, Aunt Agnes. I merely wished to know if he were a
foreigner or not."

"He has lived everywhere I believe, and is cosmopolitan, as all great
men are. He is one of the few characters really worth knowing in our
community. His philosophic and hygienic thoughts surpass his poetry in
worth, in the opinion of the best judges."

"And Miss Kingsley,--does she write at all?"

"Certainly. Did she not tell you that she is the compiler of the weekly
column of fashionable items in the 'Sunday Mercury'?"

"Yes," said I, "but that is scarcely literature."

Aunt Agnes did not answer for a moment. "You have judged hastily,
and consequently have misjudged. If you were to ask me whether I
think Miss Kingsley's present occupation is proportionate to her
abilities, I should answer 'no.' She would herself admit that it was
hack-work,--though, mind you, even hack-work can be redeemed by an
artistic spirit, as she has so adequately explained to you. All young
women have not independent fortunes, and such as are without means are
obliged to take whatever they can find to do in the line of their
professions. I agree with your implication that society items do not
constitute literature, but they are stepping stones to higher things.
Which is the more creditable, pray, to collect and chronicle the social
customs of the age in which you live, foolish as they may be, or to be
one of the giddy and frivolous creatures whose doings are thus compiled
as a warning to posterity, or to excite its jeers? The one is work,
earnest though humble; the other, a sheer dissipation of the energies of
life."

I felt that this was aimed at me; but as I made no response, Aunt Agnes
continued:--

"Do not mistake my meaning now, and say that I wish you to become a
collector of fashionable information. On the contrary, I should much
regret to see you anything of the kind. By the very circumstance that
Providence has given you the means to pick and choose, you are marked
out for work of a less superficial order. But you must not under-value
others who are less able to consult their own preferences. Miss Kingsley
is a young woman of decided capabilities for original composition. Mr.
Spence has spoken to me of her in terms of the highest praise. Because
she is obliged for her support to cater to the popular taste for social
intelligence, it by no means follows that she does not employ her spare
hours to better advantage. I shall not violate any confidences I may
have received, in saying that Miss Kingsley is capable of literary
production of a high order."

"But," said I after a moment's silence, "you cannot approve of the
custom of putting the private affairs of people into print, Aunt Agnes?"

"It is preferable at least to wasting the best years of one's life in
fashionable folly," she replied with some asperity.

As I saw it would be hopeless to pursue the conversation on this head
without danger of further disagreement, I rose to take my leave. But
when I stooped to kiss her, she took me by the hand and said with much
seriousness, but with a purpose to be kindly,--

"I have much greater hopes, Virginia, I frankly confess, regarding the
stability of your character than when I last conversed with you. You may
depend on whatever assistance lies in my power; but let me impress upon
you that the cultivation which your talents befit you to attain, cannot
be reached without strenuous exertions on your own part."

"I shall do all I can to make the most of my advantages, Aunt Agnes, you
may depend upon it; and I thank you heartily for your offer of help. I
hope I have done with frivolity forever."

"My niece marry a whipper-snapper like that Mr. Gale, indeed! Tell me!"

I had not the hardihood to correct her again, and so we parted.


II.

Wednesday was only the day after to-morrow, but in the interim I bought
a copy of Mr. Spence's Poems and also his volume of Essays, which
contained "The Economy of Speech," "The Overmuch and the Undermuch," and
"The Equipoise of Passion," the last-named being an exposition of the
selfishness of unlimited love. His poems, which were for the most part
written in early youth, were in striking contrast to the essays in tone.
Indeed, in the extracts from the newspaper criticisms prefixed to the
volume of verse he was in several instances spoken of as the Baudelaire
of America. They were alternately morbid and convivial in style, and
were concerned largely with death, the rapture of the wine-cup, or the
bitterness of unreciprocated attachment. I was inclined to be shocked at
the outset, for I had never read anything of the sort before, as
Baudelaire was then merely a name to me. I even took the book to my own
room from an unwillingness to leave it lying on the parlor table. But
after the first surprise and qualms I found myself rather fascinated by
the unusual nature of the man. At one moment he appeared to be flushed
with ecstasy, and the next in the depths,--an alternative so opposed to
the tenor of his later philosophy that I was fairly puzzled, until I
reflected that these poems had undoubtedly been composed during his
novitiate, while he was testing the extremes of life. It was obvious, if
his verse was any criterion, that he had been very thorough in his
investigations, and that Miss Kingsley's estimate of his offences
against morality was not an over-statement, to say the least. But my
curiosity was aroused to meet a person whose ideas and experiences were
so signally unlike my own, especially in view of the seeming total
transition of his sentiments as portrayed in his subsequent prose
writings. I thought them a little vague, but extremely interesting. The
skeleton of his system was unfolded in the essay on the "Overmuch and
the Undermuch." Therein he sought to show in a general way the
advantages of moderation. Nothing overmuch was the key-note of his
theory,--an aphorism which found an analogy in the old Greek motto
~ouden agan~, which he adduced to prove the antiquity of the
virtue, little as it had been practised. He represented moderation as
the great principle upon which the future progress of civilization
depended. Without heed to the restrictions which it imposed, human
nature must despair of perfection. He ventured to predict that rigorous
self-restraint, continued through successive generations, would
appreciably lengthen the average duration of life, and although without
more sufficient data it would be incautious to make extravagant claims,
it seemed to him by no means improbable that death might in the end be
conquered, or at least indefinitely postponed. The science was as yet
embryonic, and until the general interest of the world in its
development had been awakened, investigation in order to be trustworthy
must needs be slow.

Treating the subject in detail, he applied his theory to various
departments of life. His own investigations he alleged to be still very
incomplete, and in this first volume he had only touched upon two
subdivisions,--conversation and love, the presentation of his ideas
regarding which were contained in the essays already spoken of, "The
Economy of Speech," and "The Equipoise of Passion." In the first named
of these he laid down as a broad general statement that some people talk
too much and others too little. Here, as in other functions, either
extreme was disastrous. Prolixity of speech produced avoidance of the
offender, and silence tended to syncope of the language. The causes of
either fault were in his opinion far to seek, and lay less in the nature
of the individual than in the essence of orthography and diction.
Tautology was the blemish of written and vocal speech. Too many symbols
were used to express an idea, and nothing was left to the imagination of
the reader or hearer. Redundancy of expression was the _vade mecum_ of
the bore, and on the other hand there was no reason to believe that the
sound of their own words was the cause why many people were so silent.
It was common to hear that a man was afraid to hear himself talk. By
reducing therefore the signs of speech, a stimulus would be given to the
reserved and a curb imposed upon the verbose.

The primary principle employed to effect this was ellipsis, but an
accurate understanding of the intelligence of the hearer was requisite
in order to become proficient. The alphabet was not disturbed or
abbreviated. The radical change was in the dismemberment of sentences.
And here it was obvious that a greater number of words could be omitted
without destroying the sense with a clever listener than with a dull
person. His statistics showed that two individuals thoroughly conversant
with the system could discourse rationally upon intricate topics by the
use of single words and even single monosyllables in place of entire
sentences; and this led him to believe that as the race grew in
intelligence, speech would finally become a rudimentary organ and cease
to be. Nor was this inconsistent with his general theory; for in his
opinion the gradual tendency of all mere physical attributes was to
coalesce with mind. In an analogous way the time would come when mankind
instead of eating too much or too little would not eat at all. But the
first stage in this gradual evolution must be a repression of extremes
resulting in moderation. It was to effect a recognition of this that his
labors were directed.

I expected to be even more interested in the essay on "The Equipoise of
Passion," remembering the intense character of his amatory verse. But
the philosophical terms were so numerous that I found myself at a loss
as to his meaning at times. His treatment of the subject was quite
different; for whereas (he explained) speech was a physical attribute
and destined to give place to some other method of affinity, love was
psychical in its essence, and hence immortal. But he maintained that
moderation should control spirit no less than matter, and that either
undue exaltation or a lack of sentiment were inconsistent with the
noblest type of altruism.

Love in order to be perfect must be rational and cognizant, as he
expressed it. The beloved object should be enthroned, but without
exaggeration, and yet with ecstasy. The defect of love as it at present
existed was that it was either an hallucination or a bargain. This
should not be; but on the other hand the equipoise of passion like the
equipoise of religion,--of which it was in his opinion the peer, and
with which it was in a certain sense blended,--was attainable only by
exceptional souls. The equipoise of speech or of raiment or of appetite
was within the grasp of an average human being, but only a few spirits
in a generation enjoyed the perfection of love. This was the crown of
his philosophy; but it was here that he felt the need of further
investigation before endeavoring to demonstrate the remedy by means of
which this number might be increased, so as finally to include all
earnest souls. An immature statement would impair the authority of the
more elemental truth he had sought to establish; but he hoped in a
subsequent volume to complete the exposition of this last step in his
system.


III.

I rapped at Miss Kingsley's door on Wednesday evening with some
trepidation, but with a sense of pleasurable excitement. I felt that her
entertainment was sure to be very unlike those to which I was
accustomed. In the first place, the idea of combining home and business
quarters in one apartment was new to me, and seemed slightly
incongruous. The Studio Building was large, and she had doubtless a host
of neighbors who lived in the same manner; but they were a class with
whom I was wholly unacquainted. Miss Kingsley's rooms were in the top
story where, as I reflected, she could enjoy fresh air and escape the
everlasting tinkling of the horse-cars and rattle of vehicles in the
street below.

She opened the door herself, and her face assumed its most radiant
expression as she recognized me.

"This is too delightful, Miss Harlan!"

I found myself face to face with several people whom she hastened to
introduce. The only familiar name was that of Mr. Paul Barr, which I
instantly recollected to have seen on the dedicatory page of Mr.
Spence's volume of poems. The inscription read, "To my soul's brother,
Paul Barr," and hence I gazed at the stranger with interest.

From Mr. Barr I got the impression of a handsome but dishevelled looking
man of large stature, with a coal-black beard and dark piercing eyes,
which he bent upon me ardently as he bowed his figure in what might well
be styled a profound and lavish obeisance. He wore a velveteen coat and
a large cherry neck-tie, the flowing ends of which added to his general
air of disorder. The other names--to which I gave slight heed, for their
owners were not especially significant in appearance--were Mr. Fleisch,
a short, small German with eye-glasses, and Mrs. Marsh, a fat, genial
matron of five-and-forty.

All this I took in at a glance, for Miss Kingsley conducted me
immediately into her boudoir (as she called it), to lay aside my wraps.

"Has he not soulful eyes?" she asked.

"Who?" said I, though I knew to whom she must refer.

"Mr. Barr."

"What is he?" said I.

"A Bohemian, dear," she replied in a tone of satisfaction.

"Really?"

I had long wished to meet a member of that mysterious brotherhood, of
which of course I had heard and read.

"Yes. He is a poet-painter, and a great friend of Mr. Spence. Have you
never seen his pictures? Even Mr. Spence admits that they possess the
_abandon_ of genius, although he disapproves of _abandon_. Their views
to-day are totally dissimilar, but yet their friendship is sympathetic
as ever. Is it not inspiring?"

"Mr. Spence is coming, I hope?"

"Oh, yes. I expect him every moment, and I have made Mr. Barr promise to
get him to give us an exposition. Not knowing how you might feel,
Virginia (may I call you Virginia? It seems so much more natural after
having heard your aunt always speak of you in that way. Thank you, dear.
And if you will call me Lucretia, I shall feel much flattered),--not
knowing how you might feel about coming where there was no matron, I
asked Mrs. Marsh to join us. We do not regard it of importance, and you
will not a little later; but just at first it is perhaps as well. Do
you know Mr. Fleisch by reputation? He plays with an artistic charm,
rare even in this musical epoch. He is a follower of Mr. Spence, and is
seeking to apply his principles of moderation to music with striking
success. Ah! you must excuse me, dear, it is his knock."

I understood that she referred to Mr. Spence, and I waited an instant to
put a finishing touch to my toilet before following her into the other
room. For I had still something of the old Adam, or rather of the old
Eve, left in me; so that I must confess my eagerness for culture was not
without a spice of coquetry, half unconscious though it were.

Mr. Spence from his appearance was fairly entitled to be called a
moderationist. He had nothing of the splendid savagery of Mr. Paul Barr,
whose luxuriant and matted head of hair now struck my attention, nor the
student-like insignificance of Mr. Fleisch. He was neither tall nor
short, stout nor inadequately spare; and he was in evening dress like
anybody else. Had I met him without knowing who he was, I should never
have imagined him a celebrity. This was my first impression, but a
second look at his face revealed firm though thin lips, and small
nervous eyes that were full of fire when in movement. It was not
however until I heard him speak that I recovered from my disappointment.
"Be it so," was all he said in reply to some remark addressed to him;
but the enunciation of the words was so musical, so soft and winning,
yet so clear and authoritative, that I was spell-bound for an instant
and quite lost my composure as Miss Kingsley, becoming aware of my
presence, proceeded to make us acquainted.

The backs of all the company except Mr. Spence had been turned to me,
for Mr. Barr was fulfilling his promise of persuading his friend to
introduce his system of speech as the order of the evening. The ecstatic
expression of Miss Kingsley's face, as well as the few words I had heard
him utter, were sufficient to show that he had been successful; but
winking her eyes more rapidly than ever she whispered in my ear with an
imitation as I thought of her master's style,--

"It is to be."

Almost immediately Mr. Spence, whose bow I had thought rather formal and
like that of the rest of the world, came up to me and said:--

"Welcome, Miss Harlan, to our circle. I know your aunt,--a massive woman
intellectually, and my benefactor. As I think our hostess has already
intimated to you, it is the wish of some of the company that I should
give a practical illustration of certain views regarding the essence of
speech peculiar to me, of which it may be you have heard from your
kinswoman or others, and which are a corollary of the general truth or
virtue known to the outside world as moderation. I have, however, some
delicacy in inflicting so great an incubus--for it must seem such to the
uninitiated--upon one who like you is of the _beau monde_ and used to
its smooth ways. I speak knowingly, for I too in my day belonged to the
_beau monde_, and am familiar with the easy, however volatile, flow of
speech incident thereto."

"Do not mind me, I pray," said I. "Indeed, I have read your essays as
well as your poems, Mr. Spence, and am very anxious to understand your
system practically."

"Be it so," he replied. "I did not wish to inflict myself unduly. Art
should be sensitive. Do you not agree with me, Miss Harlan?"

"How exquisite!" I heard Miss Kingsley whisper to Mr. Fleisch, with whom
she was standing a few feet distant gazing at the master.

It was Mr. Paul Barr who answered the question for me:--

"No, Miss Harlan, Art should be aggressive; Art should be ardent. I do
not agree with Mr. Spence. In fact, we never agree upon any subject. But
we are friends, life-long, bosom friends. Shake, Charles, shake! we have
not given the grip and pressure of amity to-night."

He spoke in a deep, sonorous base, and extended to his friend a hirsute
hand.

"It is true we belong to different schools, Mr. Barr and I, Miss
Harlan," said Mr. Spence. "He believes in the supremacy of the
untrammelled, as his poems and pictures show; I, on the contrary, give
my voice to equipoise. But, as he has well said, we are devoted
friends."

"You shall judge between us," continued Paul Barr addressing me. "Which
is better, the free undulation of self, or eternal tension?"

"A fine antithesis," murmured Miss Kingsley.

"_Mein Gott!_ but it is not true, that free undulation of self. It
deceives, it deludes: it is a--what word is it I am seeking?--a--eh--I
have it,--boomerang,--a boomerang that plagues the inventor," said Mr.
Fleisch.

"Refuted, well refuted!" said Mr. Spence. "Fleisch has hit the mark. The
overmuch is indeed a boomerang. Thanks, Bernard, for the epigram," he
added, turning to the little German.

Everybody clapped their hands except myself and Mr. Barr. I preferred to
remain neutral. As for the artist, he stood stroking his beard fiercely
with his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

At this moment the door opened, and a maidservant announced tea.

Mr. Spence looked at Miss Kingsley interrogatively. "From this moment,
please," said she.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed; and as we walked in to tea
together Miss Kingsley whispered that he was about to practise his
theory.

"Of course, Virginia dear, every one will understand that you are a
novice, and you will be at liberty to talk in your natural manner. The
rest of us are expected to assist Mr. Spence as far as possible. I am
all in a flutter; I know I shall break down."

The room in which we took tea was a veritable snuggery. The servant
found it difficult to get round the table, and there was a strong smell
of the frying-pan owing to the vicinity of the tiny kitchen. But these
inconveniences, if they were so to be called, merely added to my zest
and enjoyment. Here, indeed, was agreeable and talented society! Aunt
Agnes was right,--my associates hitherto had been frivolous and
volatile. The world of fashion was a sham. What a contrast,--I could not
help making it,--between the insipid speeches of my former friends and
the clever talk of this purely literary circle, where ideas and
scholarship were recognized and crowned.

Mr. Spence and Mr Barr sat on either side of Miss Kingsley, and I
glanced from the one to the other, debating with myself whether I
preferred the bold strong beauty of the artist, or the subtile and more
delicate traits of feature of the philosopher. For though I had begun by
regarding Mr. Spence almost as commonplace in appearance, the
earnestness of his manner and the serious fervor of his eyes gave him an
expression of having a deep and genuine belief in his own theories,
which when compared with the impetuous but more volatile air of Paul
Barr commended him to my respect and admiration even while I was
flattered by the gallantries of his rival.

It was Mr. Barr who first broke the silence after we sat down to table,
by asking me if I had not passed the summer at Tinker's Reach. As he
spoke in the ordinary guise, I was surprised until it occurred to me
that as a member of another school he could hardly be expected, even
from courtesy or friendship, to practise doctrines to which he could not
subscribe.

"Yes," said I.

"Malaria," began Mr. Spence.

There was a little murmur of expectation, and Mr. Fleisch brimming over
with excitement said, "Bad drainage."

"No excuse. Sea near. Inhabitants should agitate question," continued
Mr. Spence.

"Everybody appearance of health notwithstanding," exclaimed Miss
Kingsley.

"Overmuch ozone," said Mr. Spence.

"Unhealthy stimulus. Reaction later," added the little German.

"Are we clear? Air of Tinker's Reach you know; so clever," whispered
Miss Kingsley leaning toward me behind Mr. Spence's chair. "Sure I shall
break down."

I nodded to give her encouragement. All this was somewhat bewildering,
but I was able to follow the conversation. I was conscious too of Mr.
Barr's eyes fixed upon me with intensity. He would eat hurriedly for a
moment, and then fold his arms and listen with his brow almost buried
in his black bristly beard, and his glance centred on me.

The talk went on briskly. Mrs. Marsh presently joined in; and after the
discussion of the atmospheric conditions of Tinker's Reach was
exhausted, a criticism of a recent volume of poetry followed, in which
Mr. Fleisch and Mrs. Marsh took sides against the other two. At times I
lost the thread of the argument, but for the most part I understood them
perfectly. Mr. Spence was by far the most proficient. It was wonderful
how he was able to express frequently in a single word the idea of an
entire sentence. I listened with eager and increasing interest. Every
now and then Mr. Barr interrupted the conversation with a torrent of
words, sometimes by way of soliloquizing comment on the views expressed,
and occasionally addressed to me. In the latter case I always put my
fingers on my lips and smiled, a course which had the effect of
silencing him for the time being. Meanwhile everybody ate with appetite
of the good things provided; and the artist-poet, as though to show his
contempt for the doctrines of moderation, helped himself again and again
from a crystal pitcher of claret-cup that was at his elbow.

Of a sudden, to my great consternation, Mr. Spence looked directly at me
and said,--

"Paris?"

All my ideas seemed to desert me on the spot. But by a rapid inspiration
I shook my head and said,--

"Never."

"There. During Commune," continued my interrogator, and I saw from Miss
Kingsley's radiant and encouraging smile and nod that I had been right
in my assumption that he wished to know if I had ever been there.

"Really!" I said, emboldened.

"Grisly," said he.

"Cat!" almost hissed Mr. Fleisch in his excitement.

"Dog!" said Mrs. Marsh.

"Horse!" exclaimed Miss Kingsley.

Fortunately I recalled what Miss Kingsley had told me regarding Mr.
Spence's early experiences in search of extremes, so that I was not as
nonplussed as might perhaps have been expected by these ejaculations.

"Gruesome!" I said, with a determination to acquit myself creditably.

"Unsympathetic!" added Miss Kingsley, rather unnecessarily as I
thought.

"Not so bad. Lived on them for days," said Mr. Spence, still addressing
me. "Time of my novitiate."

"Where self undulates freely there is no novitiate, for all is
allowable," exclaimed Paul Barr fiercely; and he filled another goblet.
I almost felt afraid of his gaze, it had become so intense and ardent. I
tried not to look in his direction, though there was an originality and
fascination about him that made it next to impossible not to steal an
occasional glance across the table.

Mr. Spence held up his hand deprecatingly in answer to his friend's
tirade, while little Fleisch like a trusty retainer exclaimed once more
with fierceness,--

"Boomerang!"

Mr. Spence again turned to me, "Worse; night in tomb!"

"Beside corpse!" explained Mr. Fleisch.

The ladies shivered.

"Trifle," murmured Mr. Spence.

"Extremity of doleful comprehension!" said Miss Kingsley.

I felt that my opportunity had come. Carried away as I was by the
interest and excitement of the proceedings, I repeated from memory,
without embarrassment, the first five lines of Mr. Spence's poem
entitled "A Fragment (written after a night passed in the grave)."

    "I lay a living soul within the tomb,--
    A ghastly cabin damp with church-yard loam,
    Where worms are rampant and where night enthrones
    Darkness and horror, dust, decay, and bones;
    Extremity of doleful comprehension."

There was a murmur of applause.

"Exquisitely apposite!" cried Mr. Fleisch, and for the first time he
surveyed me through his eye-glass with evident interest.

Mr. Spence bent forward in acknowledgement of the quotation. Mrs. Marsh
repeated after her neighbor,--

"Exquisitely apposite!"

"A fine passage and finely rendered," said Paul Barr; and he sighed
(though it was not obvious why), and emptied his glass.

I glanced at my hostess. To my surprise she was examining a tea-cup, and
as she looked up I saw that her face was no longer radiant. Our eyes
met, and in an instant the truth flashed upon me. She was jealous!
Without design I had too much absorbed the attention of the lion of the
evening. Or was it Paul Barr's glances that I had estranged?

For a moment I was both confounded and regretful, but in the next I had
decided that her resentment, if it were real, was unjustifiable. Any
success I had won was unpremeditated, and there was no reason why I
should be otherwise than natural, or decline to use to the best
advantage the talents which Heaven had given me. It was Mr. Spence
undoubtedly whom my hostess considered her especial property. She would
have earlier indicated her disapproval had the artist-poet been the
offender, for his glances had been unmistakable in their direction from
the first. I felt in no wise to blame. It was not my intention or
ambition to captivate either of these literary gentry; but if in my
endeavors to appreciate and sympathize with their thoughts and theories
I had been able to win their regard, was it for me to heed the envy of
one who grudged me this trifling tribute to my enthusiasm? Assuredly
not. Therefore I resolved to act exactly as if I were unconscious of
Miss Kingsley's disapprobation.

I was aroused from these reflections by hearing Mr. Fleisch call me by
name. He informed me in the curtailed speech we were using that he had
set to music the words of the poem from which I had quoted, and that
after tea he would, with the permission of the company, play it to us.
From him and Mr. Spence conjointly I then learned that he had followed
out the principles of moderation in a number of original productions.
Most musical scores were too long, he said,--just as many people talked
too much,--and he was seeking to popularize even classical works by
abbreviating them, after the fashion adopted by Mr. Spence in regard to
conversation. In this manner formidable pieces, like oratorios and
symphonies, could be made congenial and instructive to those who usually
found them tedious. In music as in literature the idea was the main
consideration, and in Mr. Fleisch's opinion the vehicle by which it was
conveyed should be as little cumbersome as possible. Acting on this
principle, he had in one instance reduced an entire symphony to eight
chords without destroying the charm. In music compression was possible
to a greater extent, he believed, than in any other art.

While Mr. Fleisch and Mr. Spence were devoting their attention to making
this new offshoot of the system clear to me, I was occasionally
distracted by the behavior of Miss Kingsley, who was audibly using my
name in the course of a whispered colloquy with Mr. Barr. The artist's
eyes still never strayed from my face, but his ear was open to his
neighbor's confidences; and I could gather--for it is difficult to avoid
listening where one is the subject of conversation--that she was
representing me as belonging to the world of fashion, and present merely
upon sufferance. I noticed too that, curiously enough, Mr. Spence seemed
attracted by the sound of my name, and would now and then secretly lend
an ear to what was being said upon his other side. In fact I soon made
up my mind that it was for his benefit Miss Kingsley was talking. She
hoped to undermine my influence by an unflattering description of my
doings in society. It was doubtless her cue to make her guests regard me
as a frivolous character.

Naturally I was indignant, and my pride was aroused. To be sure I was in
her debt for the opportunity she had given me of meeting these literary
friends, but that gave her no license to misrepresent me, in a light
which in my present humor was the most distasteful she could have
selected. Under the spur of pique I redoubled my graciousness toward Mr.
Spence and Mr. Fleisch, and likewise watched my opportunity to court the
artist with a smile, whereupon he sighed again and reached out his hand
for the crystal pitcher; but it was empty.

Miss Kingsley, however, was not one to quit the field without a
struggle. So successful were my efforts that she was forced to sit
silent and with a smile on her lip, from her obligations as a hostess;
but I knew she was preparing a revenge.

It came sooner than I expected. Taking advantage of a pause in the
conversation, caused by Mr. Spence leaning forward to explain to me on
paper the rudiments of an attempt he had been making to apply the
principles of the Economy of Speech to arithmetical problems, she
whispered in an aside to Paul Barr, but so loud as to be audible to
every one at table,--

"Three millions at least."

Impertinent as this reference to my worldly prospects was, I should not
have regarded it as of importance but for the strange behavior of Mr.
Spence, whose hand at the announcement shook in writing like an aspen
leaf. He looked up at me with an expression of mingled pain and inquiry,
which was so completely earnest that my own eyes drooped on meeting his.
An embarrassing silence ensued for an instant, and then with a bound
Paul Barr rose from his chair, and flinging himself down before the
piano began to dash off a wild, exuberant production that suggested the
lawless but triumphant paean of some heathen divinity.

As we returned to the other room I felt instinctively that my prestige
with Mr. Spence had been impaired by the whisper of Miss Kingsley. His
attentions ceased, and as a consequence Mr. Fleisch also neglected me. I
took a seat on the sofa by the side of Mrs. Marsh. In an opposite corner
my rival and the two moderationists were examining a manuscript without
apparent consciousness of my existence. The sudden transposition of
affairs made me sensitive. Paul Barr still sat at the piano executing
his delirious fantasy, and ever and anon looking back over his shoulder
at me. He at least was faithful. But it was not admiration I sought. I
wished for respect for my intelligence, and to be considered a promising
proselyte of culture. I seemed a few moments ago to have won this
recognition from the entire company, and now I was an outcast.

As fortune would have it, the mystery was explained a few minutes later
through the efficacy of Mrs. Marsh. We entered into conversation, and
almost immediately she volunteered certain details regarding Miss
Kingsley, brought about primarily by my inquiring her age.

"How old? Lucretia Kingsley will never see thirty again, no matter how
hard she tries to look younger. She's a fine-appearing girl though, and
a stylish dresser. She makes a pretty penny, I understand, out of the
work she does for the newspapers. Folks say,"--here she lowered
her voice; and let it be added at the same time that I felt some
compunctions at her not continuing to use the economic system, but in my
interest to learn her secret I was weak enough to let her go on,--"folks
say that she and Mr. Spence will hit it off together some day. I guess
she's thrifty, too, when she's not at her books. Did you notice how
worked up he was when your three millions were spoken of? I could see
he'd taken a fancy to you, but when that came out he had to drop you
like a hot cake."

"What do you mean?" I asked, too much astonished to be upset by her
colloquial style.

"It's the only part of his philosophy that I don't altogether take to,
for it doesn't seem quite natural to me to turn one's back on what
Heaven sends in the way of income. I'm an out-and-out convert to his
doctrines into the bargain. I used to believe in having a good time, and
all that sort of nonsense; but I've come to see that what he calls
equipoise is the true road to happiness, and that it's best to leave off
a bit hungry if you want to live to a green old age. I suppose you've
heard his lecture on 'Overeating and Undereating'? If you haven't, don't
fail to go the next time he delivers it. There's more good sound
medicine in two sentences of that than in all the apothecary shops in
creation. I went to hear him by accident too, for I'm not partial to
lectures as a rule. I had the dyspepsia bad, and had spent more money on
physic and the doctors than it would take to support Mr. Spence for the
rest of his born days. They all wanted one of two things,--either that I
should stuff myself or starve myself. One was for having me eat every
five minutes, and the next made me weigh everything that went into my
stomach. But Mr. Spence took the bull by the horns when he said, 'Some
people eat too much, and some eat too little. Preserve a happy medium!'
And that's what I've been doing ever since, and the consequence is I
could eat nails if I was pressed hard."

"But eating is quite a different thing from income," she continued,
relieving at last my impatience; "and I can't see the sense of his idea
that people shouldn't keep more than just enough money to live on. It's
a part of his system, as he calls it, I know; and if he says that human
nature would be better with less, I am not the one to gainsay him, for
there's no young man of his years in the city smarter than Mr. Spence,
and he may be right. I can say, though, that before this it has stood in
the way of his marrying. Only two years ago there was a young lady from
New York just crazy to get him. She was real elegant too, and folks say
he fancied her. But she was very rich, just as you are; and she wasn't
willing--and I don't blame her either--to give up every blessed cent
because he wanted her to. But he is bent on carrying his principles of
moderation into daily practice, and there's no use in resisting him.
It's rare he takes a liking so strong as he took to you to-night, and
perhaps it was best for both of you that the truth came out when it
did."

"Very much," I answered in a dazed tone.

Mrs. Marsh's confidences had mystified me more than ever. Of course I
could no longer doubt Miss Kingsley's jealousy; but it was not equally
apparent to me why Mr. Spence should have felt obliged to change his
behavior so precipitately because of my wealth. Surely he could tolerate
even if he did not advocate the possession of riches. I was young, and
had much to learn. It was possible that when I came to hear his
arguments, I might be convinced and ready to sacrifice my prospects of a
large income to the demands of a noble philosophy. If it were a question
of marriage, I could readily understand his insisting that his bride
should comply with his views in this respect. But I was merely a guest
of Miss Kingsley, an acquaintance whom he might never see again. His
conduct seemed to me irrational and strange. I could not believe that he
had cast me off because of an unwillingness to offend his hostess, for
he had appeared wholly absorbed in my presence until her impertinent
speech in regard to my property had put an abrupt end to his
complaisance.

Meanwhile Mr. Barr had finished his paean and seated himself near me.
There was no mistaking the glances he cast, and out of respect to
myself I chose to exhibit some coldness of manner in response to his
remarks, which were an ardent defence of passion and what he called
_verve_ in music, literature, and art. Keen enjoyment, he said, was
never to be found in restraint; and if extremes tended to shorten human
life, a short existence crowned with pleasure was preferable to
four-score and ten years of dull uniformity. The giant trees of the
forest, the reddest roses of the garden, and the fairest faces in
Christendom must be frowned on as noxious if the doctrine of moderation
was to prevail. For were not they extremes? Yet rob the world of them,
and where would a recompense be found for their loss? In ordinary
growths, in the every-day rose, in commonplace beauty? Heaven forbid!
and he pulled at his beard, and his fine eyes flashed in the fulness of
his excitement.

Mrs. Marsh looked shocked, and took up the cudgels against him in
defence of the opposite principles, so that I was able to keep silent
and wonder. He would fain deify passion, he said; and there were two
passions which no human agency could stem or curb,--the passion for
wealth, and the passion of love. Thereat he looked at me again, with so
much eloquence of expression that I had to blush and turn my head away.

Then the little German, Mr. Fleisch, sat down at the piano and performed
a series of pieces in illustration of what he had explained to me,
including a sonata in four bars, a symphony in three chords, and a song
without words, in paraphrase of Mr. Spence's "fragment" in celebration
of a night passed in the tomb. I was so thrilled and delighted by these
selections that I quite forgot my perplexities, and revelled in the
enjoyment of these new-found theories. Presently too Miss Kingsley came
over to sit by me, radiant and expressive as before. The coolness on her
part had completely vanished, and needless to say my heart felt lighter.

Resolving to be natural and to obtain as much benefit as possible from
an opportunity that I might never have again, I moved about the room and
managed to renew my conversation with Mr. Fleisch, who after a momentary
coldness seemed gratified at my expressions of interest in his musical
ideas. We recommenced the Economic system of speech, and presently were
joined by Miss Kingsley. I rapidly grew proficient; and so absorbed did
I become in an attempt made by us three to carry on connectedly an
entire conversation in single words, that I was startled at hearing a
voice just behind me say,--

"Carriage."

I turned, and found myself face to face with Mr. Spence. I understood
that he had come to announce to me the arrival of my coupe.

"Servant," he added.

This told me that my maid was waiting at the door.

Mr. Spence's face was courteous but grave, and his lips were firmly set.
During the time of my conversation with Mr. Fleisch and Miss Kingsley he
had been sitting apart with Mrs. Marsh, while Paul Barr had returned to
the piano and played a series of passionate and ardent music, the words
of which he sung in a deep bass. But at the knock of my maid he paused,
and now sat looking back over his shoulder at me with pathetic eyes.

"Home," I said to my hostess.

"Early."

"Horses."

"Sorry."

Her face expressed the regret at my departure which it seemed to me any
extra words would have impaired the artistic value of, so much of a
convert to the views regarding moderation had I become.

Miss Kingsley produced my wraps from her boudoir, which Paul Barr with a
brace of sighs assisted me to put on. I bade good evening to them all.
Mr. Spence made me a low but formal bow. I could see his lip tremble.
The instant after, as with Paul Barr at my side I began to descend the
stairs, a hurried step behind told me that the master was coming also. I
went down to my carriage with one on either hand, the artist-poet
pouring out a flood of words which I scarcely heeded, while Mr. Spence
in an occasional monosyllable endeavored to express the hope that he
might meet me again.

Just as I reached the threshold a superb rose, which had been the only
ornament of my costume, chanced to fall from my corsage on the marble
floor. It lay nearest to Mr. Spence, who started to pick it up. But he
hesitated, and the consequent delay was taken advantage of by his rival,
who had darted forward at the same moment. Mr. Barr lifted the rose and
pressed it to his lips eagerly, twice and thrice. Then, without asking
my leave, he put it in his button-hole. It was he too who helped me
into my carriage. He bent low over the hand I gave him, while Mr.
Spence, still irresolute, bowed from the shadow of the door-way.

"May I have the honor of calling upon you?" asked Paul Barr.

"Certainly, if you wish. And, Mr. Spence, I shall be very glad to see
you also," I cried from the carriage window.


IV.

I felt next morning a little as if my experience of the previous night
were a dream. But as I thought over all that had occurred, what may be
called the romantic features seemed to dwindle in distinctness and
importance, and I dwelt chiefly on the mental profit I had derived from
these new associations. Once more I deplored the existence of the vain
and coquettish notions that had led me to construe as devotion the
enthusiasm of the clever men who had honored me with an explanation of
their original and interesting conceptions. It was clear that I was
still not wholly free from flippancy and nonsense.

I did not attempt to decide between the merits of the diametrically
opposed schools of thought represented by Mr. Spence and Mr. Barr. I was
sensible enough to understand that long study and reflection would be
requisite to qualify me to take sides intelligently. But yet I had
already a distinct preference. I felt that whatever the value of his
system, Mr. Spence was thoroughly and grandly in earnest. His whole soul
was in the spread and development of his peculiar doctrines. To obtain
their recognition he was willing to sacrifice luxury, comfort, and all
the pleasures of life. Everything else was a secondary consideration.
Already in the course of his thorough investigations he had endured
horrors and committed extravagances from which a nature so palpably
refined as his must have shrunk with loathing. It was novel and
delightful to me to meet a man so completely absorbed in a pursuit which
promised no reward beyond the amelioration of society,--a result of
which he could hope to live to see only the beginnings. For mere dollars
and cents he cared nothing. He had no ambition to grow rich; indeed, it
was one of his tenets that no one should retain more than a certain
amount of property,--doubtless enough to keep the wolf from the door,
and to permit the continuation of scholarship. How much more unselfish
and ennobling a life than that of the feverish money-getter, with all
his appliances of forge and factory, and export and import! I had found
an answer to my yearnings and my unrest in this untiring devotion to
abstract truth.

A part of this was true undoubtedly of Paul Barr as well. Ardor and zeal
were the very essence of his philosophy; but it was easy to divine by
looking at him--at least it appeared so to me--that he lacked the spirit
of persistent, unselfish scholarship which distinguished his rival. I
felt that he was superficial, and that he would rather sacrifice his
principles than his own interests.

All the more did I have faith in this instinctive preference for Mr.
Spence, from the fact that from the standpoint of the picturesque and
romantic everything was on the side of the artist-poet. Tall, dashing,
handsome, and brilliant, he was adapted and doubtless accustomed to
carry hearts by storm. No woman could receive his admiring glances
without that slight thrill and flutter of the heart which proves the
presence of a fascinating man. On the other hand the master--I liked to
think of him as such--was, as I have already intimated, commonplace in
appearance at the first glance, and save for his marvellous voice
distinguished for none of those graces which attract my sex. Perhaps it
would be more just to say that he sought to repress them rather than
that they did not exist, for when under the influence of enthusiasm for
his science his face was inspiring to look upon.

Such were the conclusions at which I arrived after sifting my
impressions. But never did my incapacity and dearth of knowledge appear
to me in a less complimentary light than at this time. I vowed again and
again to give myself up unreservedly to study, and first of all to
choose some special branch that would prevent my efforts from resulting
in merely desultory work. If so, what better field could I choose than
that in which there were fellow-workers already whom I knew, and with
whom I could sympathize? The more I thought about the subject the
stronger did the argument in favor of this selection appear. At last one
morning in an access of enthusiasm I sat down and wrote a note to Mr.
Spence, asking if he would be kind enough to call on me at his
leisure,--"on a matter of business," I added, so as to preclude any
possible misinterpretation on his part.

This was about a week after Miss Kingsley's tea. In the mean time I had
been to see Aunt Agnes twice, but had not found her at home. I was
curious to hear what Miss Kingsley would say concerning me, for I felt
by no means sure that her remarks would be wholly complimentary. Freely
as I blamed myself for my conceited notions at the time, regarding the
attentions of the two philosophers, I was not ready to absolve her from
the imputation of jealousy. It was difficult to explain her conduct on
any other ground, and I remembered what Mrs. Marsh had said as to tender
relations between her and Mr. Spence. Indeed, I felt some irritation
against her and a conviction that she was not likely to be altogether my
friend when we were not face to face. However, she had chosen to insert
my name in the next issue of the "Mercury" as having been present at a
small gathering at her "parlors" to meet "the distinguished scientist
and poet, Charles Liversage Spence,"--a notice which she doubtless
considered "sympathetic."

I stayed at home the whole of the day following that on which I wrote to
Mr. Spence, and was rewarded by receiving a visit from him in the
afternoon. He seemed little at his ease when he entered the room, and I
observed a number of details of dress and manner which showed that he
was not versed in the usages of fashionable life despite his early
experiences. These lapses, or rather differences, did not affect me
disagreeably,--indeed, I was well content that he should be as unlike as
possible the flippant youths of so-called society,--but they were much
more noticeable than when he was in the midst of such artistic
surroundings as he found at Miss Kingsley's.

I judged it best to enter at once on the matter I had at heart.

"You will pardon me I am sure, Mr. Spence, for taking up your valuable
time, when I tell you my reason for asking you to call upon me. I will
be frank, and say that I have been for some time anxious to find an
interest to which I could devote myself thoroughly and systematically,
and one that was wholly in sympathy with what I feel to be my tastes and
aspirations. I have a great deal of time at my disposal, and have become
weary of the amusements of society and of the merely superficial
character of my studies hitherto. The exercises to which I had the good
fortune to listen at Miss Kingsley's the other evening were almost a
revelation to me. They confirmed at least the opinion I had begun to
have, that outside of what the world calls fashionable circles there is
a class of people who like yourself find their happiness in intellectual
aims and pleasures. So much interested was I by what I heard then, that
I have decided, after some hesitation on the score of troubling you, to
offer myself as a student of your system of Moderation. It may be," I
added, speaking hurriedly in my desire to put the matter clearly before
him, and yet not to be prolix, "you do not care for the co-operation of
persons so little advanced as I; for I tell you honestly that though
tolerably proficient in what are known as accomplishments, I am ignorant
of all that appertains to serious knowledge. But believe me when I say
that I am thoroughly in earnest, and will devote myself to the cause
with all my heart, in case you think me able to be of assistance."

Mr. Spence heard me to the end without interruption. I had looked
straight before me, intent alone upon presenting my case in such a light
that while he knew the worst, he would not reject my request to become
one of his pupils. Nor did he reply at once. I glanced at him, and saw
that he was blushing; but he mastered his confusion, and said quietly:--

"Miss Harlan, I have received few compliments in my life more acceptable
than that comprised in what you have just said to me. It is precisely to
such alert and reflective minds as yours that I wish to make my theories
interesting. I am devoting the sum of my energies to the propagation of
what I regard as a truth vital to the well-being of humanity. You know
the leading features of my system already. I will not disguise from you
that an advocacy of them will expose you to publicity, it may be to
ridicule. Our converts are as yet few; and in order to be of service,
those who devote themselves to the work must be enthusiastic. I do not
say this because I doubt your sincerity or steadfastness; probably you
have considered these things already. But it is right that you should be
fully informed regarding the character of the cause you propose to
adopt."

"But I may decide not to adopt it in the end, Mr. Spence," I said, not
wishing to commit myself irrevocably. "I am very much interested in your
ideas, but I should prefer to be accepted merely as a student until I am
more familiar with them. As I have said, I am very ignorant of all such
matters, and need instruction. I have spoken to you rather to ask your
advice as to whom to select as a teacher, than to offer myself as an
active convert. The rest will come in time, I have no doubt, for I am
greatly attracted by what I have heard already."

"I see. You are right," said he. "Precipitation is directly opposed to
the spirit of my theories. I should have said you were already qualified
to become an active worker, but you are the best judge: and, as you
have mentioned, you will be able to become familiar with the system at
your leisure."

He paused, and seemed to be absorbed in thought, as though he were
debating with himself.

"Do you know of any good teacher?" I inquired.

"I am reflecting."

"I should expect to pay any competent person liberally."

He flushed a little, and after an instant said:

"I thought at first that I might see my way to offering myself as an
instructor, but on reflection I find it would be difficult for me to
find time. I know of no better persons to suggest than one of our
friends of the other evening,--Mr. Fleisch or Miss Kingsley. Either of
them is admirably well informed and intelligent."

"Oh, but if you could arrange it so, I should much prefer you, Mr.
Spence," I exclaimed with genuine eagerness. "I did not dare to imagine
that such an arrangement was possible. But now that you have suggested
it yourself, I cannot give up the idea without remonstrance."

I looked at him beseechingly, and he blushed again in a manner to cause
me self-consciousness. He hesitated, and then in a decided tone, as if
he were resisting a temptation, said:--

"It is out of the question, Miss Harlan. I have not time. Mr. Fleisch is
an excellent instructor."

"Very well; Mr. Fleisch then," I answered, a little upset by his
confusion. "Will you speak to him about it and arrange the terms?"

He assented, and the awkward pause that followed was relieved by the
entrance, at the same moment, of Aunt Helen and Mr. Barr, though not in
company it need scarcely be added.

Aunt Helen was in one of her richest and most imposing street costumes,
whereas the artist-poet wore black velveteen instead of brown, and a
flowing yellow tie instead of a cherry one. She regarded him, I could
see, with a mixture of horror and wonder, which led me at once to
perform the duties of a general introduction, preliminary to taking
possession of Mr. Barr, and relegating to Aunt Helen the less
unconventional philosopher. Paul Barr however bowed to her in so superb
and deferential a manner that I thought she looked rather flattered than
otherwise, which relieved my worst apprehensions, and I found myself
straightway chatting with him in a somewhat spirited vein. Heard, in my
own drawing-room, Mr. Barr's compliments and ardent speeches moved me to
badinage, and I saw no harm in accepting them as the ordinary
give-and-take of the would-be lady-killer, more original and therefore
more entertaining than those of a fashionable flirt, but still of the
same general character. I affected to be alternately irate and pleased
at what he said. Meanwhile his eyes looked unutterable things, and he
interspersed his flatteries with a tissue of abnormal but poetic
fancies. He was undeniably fascinating, and all the more so because I
felt in his society somewhat as if I were walking through a gunpowder
vault, with a lighted candle. But there was this difference, that in his
case the character of the possible explosion was wrapped in mysterious
uncertainty, which added an agreeable element of curiosity to my
sensations.

Presently he drew from his breast pocket a small volume in white vellum
and gold, which he presented to me. It was a copy of his poems,--"The
Paradise of Passion, and other Rhythms." I glanced at the fly-leaf, and
to my astonishment and confusion perceived that underneath the
inscription, "Miss Harlan, with the respectful homage of him who did
these verses," was a sonnet "To Virginia," which began,--

    The happy rose which lately from thy hands
    I took with kisses, dry and withered lies--

I did not attempt to read farther at the moment. Indeed, I felt inclined
to draw myself up austerely at first, but on second thought acknowledged
his presumption with the same laughing coquetry I had hitherto
displayed. After all, it was not worth while to become angry. His
extravagance was not to be taken too seriously. It was rather refreshing
for a change. I wondered how he would behave if he ever really were in
love.

Meanwhile I had endeavored to listen at the same time to the
conversation between Aunt Helen and Mr. Spence. I was relieved to find
that he saw fit to avoid any allusion to his theories, and pursued the
highway of indifferent subjects, such as the weather, the stage, and
foreign travel. Still, I could tell from Aunt Helen's superior and as it
seemed to me disdainful tone that she by no means approved of my new
acquaintances, though I detected her casting an occasional glance of
puzzled curiosity at Mr. Barr, whose eccentricities were, I suppose,
more amusing than the calm of her companion.

"I don't suppose you find the differences very marked between this
country and Europe, Mr. Spence?" I heard her inquire after learning that
he had passed much of his life abroad.

"On the contrary, very slight."

"Nice people are very much the same everywhere," she observed haughtily.

"To tell the truth," said Mr. Spence, "I have been rather disappointed
at finding the people, as well as the manners and customs, of this
country so similar to those across the water. I had been led to expect
originality and independence. That was what I was taught to believe as a
child. But after an absence from my country of six years I came back to
find nearly the same manners and customs, and the same virtues and
vices, as I left behind me in Europe."

"Vices?" echoed Aunt Helen. "I should say there was much less vice in
this country than in Europe."

"Not if we judge by the newspapers."

"Ah, but one can't believe all one reads in the newspapers," she said
with an air of triumph.

Mr. Spence had, unluckily for the impression he was likely to create,
the courage of his convictions as I well knew, and as he began to reply
I felt less secure that he would not trench upon dangerous ground.

"There is a general tendency to ape foreign ideas, which is fast
destroying our originality as a nation," he continued.

"Foreign ideas are often the best," said my aunt.

"We are beginning to talk and dress, and dine and give in marriage, just
like all the rest of the world," he explained, without regarding her
comment.

Aunt Helen looked a little blank. Then with her most stately air she
said:--

"Surely you wouldn't have marriages performed before a Justice of the
Peace? It destroys all their sentiment. I know a great many persons who
wouldn't consider themselves married so. As to living differently, I
don't know what you mean. There are people here who advocate cremation,
co-operation, and that sort of thing, but one doesn't meet them in
society."

"I am no judge," said Mr. Spence coolly, "for I never go into society."

"Indeed!" Aunt Helen surveyed him through her eye-glass as if he were a
curious animal, and her haughtiness perceptibly increased. "Are
you--eh--in business in Boston?"

"No, madam. I am a Bohemian," replied Mr. Spence, in whose eye I
perceived a twinkle.

"A what? Ah, yes, of course. I understood you to say you were born in
this country. And the other gentleman--eh--is he a foreigner too?"

For an instant Mr. Spence looked bewildered; and as for me I was
inwardly convulsed, so much so that I betrayed my feelings in a smile at
the moment when Paul Barr was reciting a bloodcurdling piece of poetry
of his own composing,--an indiscretion which offended the artist-poet to
such an extent that in my efforts to mollify him I failed to catch Mr.
Spence's reply. He rose to take his leave at this point; but it chanced
that just then my father entered the room, and I was obliged to repeat
the introductions. While I was saying a few last words to Mr. Spence in
regard to the sort of instruction I was to receive from Mr. Fleisch,
Paul Barr conversed with my father, laying down the law in his most
superb fashion regarding the immense fortune in store for any one who
would start what he called a fig farm in this country. Although I had
never heard him broach a business matter before, he seemed entirely
familiar with his subject, and fairly bristled with statistics and
calculations to prove the soundness of his theory, gardeners to the
contrary notwithstanding. My father listened to him patiently, and
seemed to be amused. Aunt Helen sat apart with a reserved, patrician
air.

My two callers took their leave together; and when the front door
closed, my father said jocosely,--

"Who are your friends, Virginia? I hope they have not been persuading
you to invest in a fig farm."

I blushed, remembering my former design of speculating with Mr.
Dale,--of which, however, my father had no knowledge.

"Both are literary men of high reputation," I answered quietly, though I
had an instinctive feeling that my father would make sport of this
assertion. But experience had taught me that with him it was best to
call a spade a spade.

"That accounts for it. I thought the gentleman in velveteen had a screw
loose somewhere," he said as he passed out of the room.

"Well, Virginia," exclaimed Aunt Helen when we were alone, "whom _have_
you picked up now?"

"I don't understand you," said I.

"Who are those young men who were here just now? They are foreigners, on
their own admission,--Bohemians. My own belief is that they have gypsy
blood in their veins, for what can one know of the antecedents of
persons who come from a small German principality? They don't even claim
to be counts, and any one with the smallest pretext to respectability in
that part of the world is a count, at least. They look to me as if they
had been on the stage, especially the one to whom you were talking. I
will do him the justice to say he is a handsome wretch, but like all
those foreign adventurers he has a dissipated air. As for the other, he
is simply commonplace and vulgar, with little upstart radical notions."

I waited for her to finish before replying. "I have already said that
Mr. Spence and Mr. Barr are both literary men of high standing. They are
neither of them foreigners, but were born in this State. By 'Bohemian'
Mr. Spence meant the literary and artistic fraternity in general, Aunt
Helen. He is a philosopher as well as a poet; and Mr. Barr paints
pictures in addition to his other work."

"But who are they? Where do they come from? It is all very well to say
they were born in this country. But who and what are their parents?
Spence--Spence--I never heard the name in my life. There were some Barrs
who used to live in the next street to us when your mother and I were
young; but they were all girls, and, as I remember them, ordinary."

"When men have acquired fame, it is hardly necessary to inquire if they
belong to the best families," I rejoined, borrowing a leaf from Aunt
Agnes's book.

"It is one thing to admire the works of genius, and another to have it
trampoosing over your house. Your acquaintances are, I dare say, well
enough as poets and philosophers, but I don't see what that has to do
with you. You are neither a poet nor a philosopher, and you will flatter
them much more by buying their books than by asking them to five o'clock
tea. I must say that, philosopher or no philosopher, the young man who
was talking with me has very strange ideas. Just think of his advocating
co-operative house-keeping, and marriages before a Justice of the Peace.
I fancy too that he is lax in his religious opinions. If he is your idea
of a desirable acquaintance to invite to your house, I am sorry for it.
You never got any such notions from my side of the family."

"It is useless to talk with you if you go off at a tangent, Aunt Helen,"
said I. "I am proud to call both those young men my friends, and they
are vastly superior in every way to nine tenths of those one meets in
society. Mr. Spence, whose ideas you think so peculiar, is one of the
ablest scientists in the country, and I am going to take lessons in his
philosophy from one of his assistants. As I told you the other day, I am
tired of frittering away my time in nonsense."

"And as I told _you_ the other day, Virginia, go on as you have begun,
and we shall hear of you presently on the stage. That Mr. Barr might
pass in a drawing-room on account of his picturesqueness, if he were to
brush his hair; but the other one is simply a gawk, to be plain. Science
indeed! Don't come in a few weeks to ask me to believe that we are all
descended from monkeys, or any other stuff, for I sha'n't do it. That's
what I call nonsense; and you will discover some day that most people
who have any self-respect are of my way of thinking."

I had never known Aunt Helen to be so excited, but there was nothing to
be done. Society and etiquette were her household gods; and by ceasing
to worship the same divinities I had drawn upon myself the full energy
of her displeasure. Nothing could have offended her so much. To be odd
or different from other people was in her estimation a cardinal sin;
whereas I parted from her with a still firmer conviction that I had
chosen wisely. The calm unselfish wisdom and steadfastness of Mr. Spence
seemed more indisputable to me than ever; and in the way of
companionship, Paul Barr's gallantries and sallies were vastly
preferable to any drawing-room flirtation.

It was only when I thought of my father that I felt any concern or
doubt. I knew that he had set his heart upon my devoting myself to the
study of practical matters. He wished me to become cultivated, but
scarcely in the direction I had chosen. What would he say if he knew of
my determination; and was it filial and just to let him remain in
ignorance of it? Yet I reasoned that after all I had made no final
decision. I was attracted, it is true, by what might be called a
visionary theory; but when I had given the principles of moderation
further thought, I might conclude not to devote myself to them. It would
be time enough later to speak of the subject. At present I was only too
poorly prepared to present the ideas of Mr. Spence in an intelligent
manner, and should probably prejudice my father against the whole
system.

However, I could not refrain from a few reflections on the apparent
hostility of practical men to pure theory, which must after all be the
basis of all intelligent action. How much nobler to help to establish
principles serviceable to humanity than to make later unconscious use of
those same principles to advance one's own selfish interests! Why must
there needs be mutual disdain and coolness between those who thought and
those who acted? It had been easy for me to perceive at a glance that
there was likely to be but little mutual sympathy between my father and
Mr. Spence, and the consciousness grieved me.

But I did not falter in my purpose. Mr. Fleisch called to see me the
following day and laid out an elaborate course of study. He was to come
twice a week to examine me and give me suggestions, but he said that my
progress was mainly dependent on my own exertions. I bought a number of
books of his selection, and tried to devote five hours each day to
systematic work. My tasks were largely of a philosophical character,
but poetry and music of a restrained sort were also included in Mr.
Fleisch's instruction; and he said that after the foundations were laid,
I should be taught the dangers of extremes by studying examples of the
overmuch and the undermuch.

At last I was successful one day in finding Aunt Agnes at home, and
alone. It was about a week after my visit from Mr. Spence. I was
disturbed at seeing her brow contract at sight of me, but my worst fears
were realized when she said:--

"I do not wonder that you have preferred to keep away from me."

"On the contrary, Aunt Agnes, I have called twice before, this week."

"When you knew I was out, I dare say."

There was no answering such logic as this.

"I seem never to be able to satisfy you," I said bravely. "I had come to
tell you that I am studying hard under the direction of Mr. Fleisch, a
favorite pupil of Mr. Spence, and am doing all I can to improve myself."

"Fiddlesticks! Tell _me_!"

"But, Aunt Agnes, it is so."

"I have heard all about you. You can't tell me anything about the
matter I don't know already. We shall hear next of your carrying your
habit of flirting into the sanctuary itself. You might almost as well
coquet with a minister of the holy Gospel as with him you have selected
to try your fascinations on. I might have guessed what would be the
result of introducing you to sober-minded people. It was none of my
work, thank Heaven! Lucretia Kingsley has herself to blame, for I heard
her give you the invitation from her own lips. But I blush for you as my
niece. No amount of proficiency or cleverness can be a palliation of
your behavior."

"I have been maligned, Aunt Agnes," I cried with flashing eyes. "Some
one has told you a pack of falsehoods. It is not true that I have been
flirting with anybody. I have given up everything of the kind, as I said
I should. Who has been accusing me? I insist on knowing who told you."

"No matter who told me. My authority is of the best."

"I suppose it was your friend Miss Kingsley. I half suspected that she
would misrepresent me in private."

"You admit, then, that you are guilty?"

"I admit nothing. If, as your words seem to imply, Miss Kingsley says I
acted unbecomingly at her house, she does not speak the truth. She is
jealous. The long and short of it is, Mr. Spence was polite to me, and
that made her angry. I believe she wishes to marry him herself," I said
in the fulness of my anger.

"Virginia! I am astonished at you. It will not mend matters to insult
your benefactors. What motive had Miss Kingsley, pray, in asking you to
her house but kindness?"

"Pshaw!" I cried, now thoroughly roused. "She asked me because she
thought I was fashionable, and because it would read well in the
newspaper that I had been at one of her tea-parties. She imagined I was
so silly and brainless that her friends would take no notice of me; and
when it turned out that they did she lost her temper."

"You have lost yours, Virginia. I presume you will tell me presently
that Mr. Spence flirted with you. I never heard such nonsense in my
life, and wicked nonsense too; for you are doing your best to injure the
character of a young woman who is in every way your superior, and has
had none of your advantages. As I just said, I presume you will claim
that Mr. Spence flirted with you, and that he wrote to you first."

"Wrote to me? He has never written to me; nor I to him, except to ask
his advice about a teacher."

"You admit so much?"

"Why shouldn't I? I was interested in his theories, and I applied to him
as the most natural person to consult."

"It is very easy to explain it away in that manner, but unfortunately
for you my informant adopted--"

"Why don't you say Miss Kingsley, and have done with it, Aunt Agnes?"

"Very well then, if you prefer, Miss Kingsley adopted a very different
style in speaking of you than you employ in speaking of her. She tried
to spare you as much as possible, and said what she did only with great
reluctance. I could see that she was holding back, and was resolved not
to tell the whole. 'Of course,' she said, 'I know Miss Virginia did not
mean to offend, and very likely in general society her little
indiscretions would have been quite proper; but at a purely intellectual
gathering like ours, from which as you know all vanities are rigorously
excluded, it did seem to me unsympathetic of a new-comer to introduce
an element of coquetry. When I say that since then she has written notes
to Mr. Spence, whose time is precious as gold, asking him to call upon
her in a social way, you will I am sure, my dear Miss Harlan, excuse my
speaking. It is for her own good that I have ventured to do so, as a
word from you would convince her of her thoughtlessness.'"

"The hypocrite!" I murmured, too indignant to restrain myself.

"There you go again, vilifying her with abusive epithets when she has
simply done her duty as a friend. Contrast for instance your various
expressions with hers. 'Jealous;' 'invited you to her house because you
were fashionable' (a most unwarranted assumption); 'a hypocrite;' and,
worst of all, you accuse her of trying to win the affections of a man
whom she venerates as a master, and who though he has never taken the
vow of celibacy is too much absorbed in the life-work he is pursuing to
give a thought to marriage. And what does she say of you? She merely
calls it 'unsympathetic' of a new-comer to disturb the harmony of
sober-minded people by the introduction of coquetry. 'Unsympathetic'! If
I were to stigmatize such behavior, I should call it disgraceful. I was
mortified, Virginia, thoroughly mortified; and especially as Mr. Spence
had been here the day before, and spoken of you in terms that made me
feel really proud. As Miss Kingsley said, however, he is the last man in
the world to notice such a thing as coquetry."

I made a mental interrogation point, but I did not dare to give
utterance to the heresy lest I should seem to be carrying out Aunt
Agnes's insinuation that I would next accuse Mr. Spence of flirting with
me. I replied with as much quietness as I could at the moment command,--

"I can only repeat what I have already said. Miss Kingsley has slandered
me, whether intentionally or not I do not know. But her charge of
coquetry is utterly without foundation."

"Did you not make eyes at Mr. Barr, and give him a rose?" she
interrupted. "You see I know all."

"No, I did not," I answered, flushing. "On the contrary, Mr. Barr made
me feel excessively uncomfortable during most of the evening by the
absurd compliments he paid me, and by the way in which he stared at me.
As for the rose, I dropped it accidentally as I was getting into my
carriage, and I believe he picked it up."

"Accidentally!" said Aunt Agnes with a sniff. "As my informant said,
'when a young woman flings herself at the head of a hot-souled poet,
what is she to expect?' Human nature is human nature, and there are not
many men with the self-control of Mr. Spence."

"Miss Kingsley seems to have given you a great deal of information, Aunt
Agnes."

"You are mistaken again, as usual. The person who told me this is a
sober-minded woman of middle age, who could not have been influenced by
jealousy."

"Mrs. Marsh, I suppose. I might have known it, from her choice
vocabulary. Talk of gossips, Aunt Agnes, I never heard a worse one in
any drawing-room in the city. Who _is_ Mrs. Marsh?"

I was glowing with indignation again, and justly so as it seemed to me.
I had been cruelly misconstrued, and my self-control on the occasion of
Miss Kingsley's tea had been wholly unappreciated.

"Who is Mrs. Marsh? You may well ask who is Mrs. Marsh, after what you
have said about her. Gossip or no gossip, vocabulary or no vocabulary,
Mrs. Marsh is a very deserving woman, who by her own unaided efforts has
risen to the position she now occupies. How often shall I be obliged to
impress upon you that it is the spirit, not the letter, that is of
importance? As secretary of the Society for the Practice of Moderation,
Mrs. Marsh can afford to disregard the ill-natured sneers of those who
may have enjoyed greater advantages in early life than she. It is not by
wholesale abuse of others, Virginia, that you will persuade me of your
innocence. On your own showing, you have written to Mr. Spence, and
misconstrued Mr. Barr's poetic impetuosity as an attempt to flirt with
you. I do not desire to discuss the matter further. We shall soon know
whether you are sincere or not in your professions of study. As I have
told you before, your future is in your own hands; but first and
foremost you must rid yourself of this propensity to behave in a trivial
manner."

I felt that silence would be the best palliative for my wounds; and so
discouraged was I of being able to change Aunt Agnes's opinion, I
thought it a waste of breath at the moment even to mention Mrs. Marsh as
my authority for the statement that Miss Kingsley had a tender feeling
for Mr. Spence.


V.

A year passed without special incident, and yet certain things require
to be told so that the sequel may seem consistent. Contrary to Aunt
Agnes's insinuation, I proved sincere in my devotion to study. Mr.
Fleisch came regularly twice a week, and during the summer months
when I was away from home his instruction was continued by means of
correspondence. I found him, as Mr. Spence had predicted, an admirable
teacher. His work was everything to him, and he imbued me with his
ability to look at our relations as strictly impersonal. He might have
been a machine, so little was he susceptible to any mood of mine,--a
characteristic which I deemed more and more indispensable each day to a
proper understanding between pupil and master.

As a result of his teaching and my own industry, I acquired before many
months an intimate knowledge of the views shared by those who called
themselves Moderationists, and moreover without the slightest diminution
of my enthusiasm. I was able to converse intelligently with the most
proficient of the school, and there was little of the system that failed
to commend itself to me as entitled to faith and support. I attended
meetings and lectures in advocacy of its theories, and occasionally took
part in debates on questions relating to the management of the Society
for the Practice of Moderation, of which I was elected treasurer. Thus
it happened that my name appeared in the newspapers as one of the
leading spirits of the movement, and among my former acquaintances there
was a general impression that I had become very peculiar. My old
ball-room rivals, who were for the most part waltzing as hard as ever,
would stop me in the street and say, "Virginia dear, is it true you are
going into a convent?" or, "What is this that I hear, Virginia, about
you being in favor of female suffrage? Do you really think women ought
to vote?" Once in a while some friend, who was either more accurate by
nature or who really felt an interest in me, would hit closer to the
mark, and perhaps with a sigh express regret at not having the courage
to become literary too. "But it does separate one so from other
people,--that is, people one knows; don't you think so dear?"

It certainly did. I was completely estranged from my old associations,
and spent my time, when not employed in study, largely at the rooms of
our Society, where Mrs. Marsh presided as secretary. There were
countless circulars and pamphlets to be mailed, setting forth our
purposes and needs. Mrs. Marsh, despite an inaccurate acquaintance with
and an overweening curiosity regarding the doings of fashionable people,
was a model of executive ability. With some one at hand to correct her
grammar and spelling, she could transact a greater amount of business
than half-a-dozen ordinary women. In my zeal to see things properly
done, I constituted myself her assistant; and we managed together the
whole work of the Bureau, as Miss Kingsley liked to call our humble
quarters.

My relations with Miss Kingsley were outwardly very friendly. I had
thought it best upon reflection not to appear offended when we met
again, and she on her part greeted me with effusive warmth and a little
deprecatory look, as if to say, "You will excuse me, I am sure, for what
I said to your aunt. It was for your good, or I should never have
spoken." Subsequently, in our relations at the Bureau, she liked to
patronize me slightly. She would come whisking into the rooms where
Mrs. Marsh and I were hard at work, and putter about for a few moments,
asking questions and giving us advice, and then whisk out again with an
encouraging nod. She was apt to time her visits so as to meet Mr.
Spence, who came regularly sometime during every forenoon, to
superintend our labors. He stayed usually about half an hour; and from
the first day I became connected with the Bureau I made a point to avoid
him as much as possible,--a course which seemed acceptable to him, for
he always addressed his business suggestions to Mrs. Marsh, and did not
encourage me to converse with him. Once in a while, however, he would
approach me in a constrained fashion, and express satisfaction with the
reports Mr. Fleisch made of my progress. It was through his silent
agency also, I had no question, that I was appointed treasurer, and was
regarded as a prominent worker in the cause. With Miss Kingsley, on the
other hand, he was easy and familiar. It was evident that he liked her,
and he listened to her opinions; but I could never detect what seemed to
me any signs of sentiment on his part in her regard. Miss Kingsley must
have thought differently, for on one or two occasions she was unable to
resist the temptation, as they went out of the door together, of
looking back at me with an air of triumph. The more Mr. Spence seemed to
avoid me, the kinder and more patronizing was her manner; and she so far
evinced her friendship presently as to show me the manuscript of a novel
which she had written, entitled "Moderation," and which was dedicated
"To him to whom I owe all that in me is of worth,--Charles Liversage
Spence." It was an attempt, as she explained to me, to return to the
rational style and improving tone of Jane Austen, whose novels were
sound educators as well as sources of amusement. From Miss Kingsley's
natural fluency and sprightliness I expected something "racy," to quote
Paul Barr, and I was disappointed to find "Moderation" dull and
didactic. It was however heralded and published with a great flourish of
trumpets; and Mr. Spence wrote a review of it in one of the leading
newspapers under the symbol XXX (a signature of his known only to the
initiated), in which he called attention to its exquisite moral tone,
which had no counterpart in fiction since the writings of Miss Edgeworth
were on every parlor table. In conclusion he said: "Whatever the too
captious critic may say of the dramatic interest of the story, it is
indeed a triumph for a young writer, and that writer a woman, to embody
in her first novel opinions that will make the book of value to the
student of psychology long after the craving of human nature for
fictitious narrative has ceased to exist."

My own opinion of the novel was reinforced by that of Paul Barr, which
prevented me from thinking, as I might otherwise have done, that I was
actuated by ill-nature in judging Miss Kingsley's book. After the first
phase of curiosity its popularity waned, and the author adopted the
fashion of calling it an artistic success. But the complimentary
criticism of Mr. Spence gave me food for thought, and for the first time
suggested the idea of a possible feeling on his part for Miss Kingsley
stronger than friendship. It interested me, and at the same time annoyed
me a little. Why the latter I hardly knew, unless it were a conviction
that she was not good enough for him. But when I thought over their
daily relations as constantly exhibited in my presence, my former
opinion that he had merely a brotherly affection for her returned. If he
had been misled to praise her book unduly, it was by his excessive
enthusiasm for his own doctrines presented therein, and not by the blind
force of love,--which conclusion was directly at variance with the
theory of Mrs. Marsh on the subject, who was perpetually referring to
the match between them as a foregone conclusion.

Discreet as was my conduct in general during these twelve months, and
earnestly as I sought to avoid in its mildest form what Aunt Agnes
called coquetry, I was not able to escape the importunities of Mr. Barr.
Absorbed as I was in my work, and determined to consider all attentions
from my literary friends as mere meaningless gallantries, it was very
difficult to disregard the artist-poet's protestations of devotion: they
had become little short of that. He was a constant visitor at the rooms
of our Society, although his own principles were hostile to those we
professed; and he would spend as much time as I would permit, lolling
about my desk and whispering all sorts of nonsense. He brought me
flowers and fruit, and now and then some new publication,--not in
sufficient quantity to permit me to refuse them, but a single rose or a
peach, or a tiny volume of verses. He sent me sonnets and madrigals
through the post without signature, though in his own handwriting, and
denied with asseverations their authorship when questioned. Besides
his black and his brown, he had a green velveteen coat, and a
different-colored flowing tie for every day in the week. His habits were
in complete conformity with his philosophy of extremes. He was apt to
tell me when he had been sitting up all night, whether in study or what
he called wassail; but I could always guess the fact from his
appearance. His method of work was equally irregular, and he lived from
hand to mouth. He would be idle as a forced peach on a hot-house wall
(to use a simile of his own) for weeks at a time; and yet when he was
seized with a desire to work, it was no uncommon thing for him to paint
or compose twenty-four hours at a sitting, and come to the Bureau or my
house, almost before I was out of bed, with dishevelled raiment and
bloodshot eyes, to exhibit or read to me the result of his industry.

I had by this time ceased to regard him with any seriousness as a
philosopher. Indeed, it was difficult not to consider his vagaries
self-indulgence; and from the veneration I conceived for him at the
start, I came to be his mentor in the end. I dared to remonstrate with
him on the irresponsible life he was leading, and sought to inculcate in
him the doctrine of moderation. I felt that I had an influence over him;
and it was the consciousness of this that prompted me not to be too
severe in the matter of his attentions and little gifts. When I talked
to him, as I often did, on the error of his ways and the waste of his
talents, he would listen to me with tears in his eyes, and promise
better things for the future. He would become systematic and serious in
his habits and work. Without becoming a convert to moderation, he would
develop his own scheme of philosophy in an artistic spirit. There was a
limit even to extremes, he said; and that limit scientifically
determined would induce a perfect happiness. When he talked thus, I felt
I could afford to be indifferent to the insinuations and playful sallies
of Miss Kingsley and Mrs. Marsh. They might think what they chose of our
relations. If by the exercise of sympathy and counsel I could regenerate
a man of strong individuality and striking natural gifts from the thrall
of self-indulgence, a fig for the idle voice of gossip!

Meanwhile, I grieve to say that my intimacy with Aunt Helen was
strained. Many were the tears she shed over my degeneracy, and no words
of mine could make her see other than a foolish waste of golden
opportunities in the course I was pursuing. This disturbed me greatly,
for my attachment to her was very strong, and I knew she would have cut
off her right hand to serve me. Our interviews were largely lachrymose
on her part and morose on mine, after argument proved futile. She had
none of Aunt Agnes's downrightness, but a no less degree of persistence.
After many efforts, I succeeded in convincing her that my friends had no
connection with the stage, and I persuaded her to accompany me to one of
Mr. Spence's lectures. It was the one on Overeating and Undereating, and
the most likely to be fully intelligible, I thought. But I caught her
napping before the end; and as an all-embracing condemnatory criticism,
she cautioned me to beware of homeopathy!

With Aunt Agnes, on the other hand, my relations were more friendly than
they had ever been before. Experience had taught me that long
conversations with her were not advisable, but I was able to test the
thermometer of her feelings toward me in other ways. She had begun to
send me books and pamphlets, relating to various abstract theories in
which she was interested; and once or twice she read to me articles in
manuscript of her own composition, and asked my opinion of their merit.
Occasionally, too, she paid a visit to the rooms of the Society; and I
shall never forget the expression of satisfaction that flickered over
her severe face at seeing me, for the first time, at my desk. From that
day, a general softening of her attitude toward me began.

But happy and absorbed as I was in this great interest, I was never
quite without a feeling that my father might not be pleased, did he know
of my fast-growing intention to devote the energies of my life to it. He
was more busy than ever down town, and for weeks at a time would seem
scarcely aware of my existence. His questions at dinner regarding my
doings were rarely more definite than to ask how I had spent the day, to
which any reply seemed to be satisfactory. I usually said that I had
been studying; and had it not been for his quiet habit of observation,
with which I was now acquainted, I should have imagined that it went in
at one ear and out at the other. I never volunteered to tell him the
character of my studies; but though he never made inquiries, I had a
secret impression that he knew far more than was apparent of the use I
made of my time. Nevertheless, the year passed without his showing any
signs of disapproval. I was so bold even as to invite Paul Barr once or
twice to dinner, when I felt that he needed the moral tonic of a
glimpse of home life to fortify his good resolutions. So, too, I did not
hesitate to practise in my daily mode of living some of the doctrines to
which I held most firmly,--such as early hours of rising and going to
bed, temperate diet and simplicity of raiment; but as it was just as
incumbent upon me to avoid the other extreme, the changes were not
sufficiently marked to excite attention.

The traveller who looks back at night upon a highway sees a long trail
of shadow, broken at recurring intervals by the blaze of lamps. Such is
the effect of life in retrospect. Much of that which we remember
concerning the past is vague and dim, yet here and there along the road
some incident stands out which explains and illumines what follows and
precedes.

It is difficult for me to analyze more closely than I have done my
feelings and thoughts during the period in which I studied the
principles of moderation. But the events of three days at its close are
indelibly impressed upon my memory. For several weeks during the autumn,
Paul Barr had been hard at work upon a picture in regard to which he had
seen fit to be mysterious, although he became enthusiastic as to its
merits before it was nearly finished. No piece of painting that he had
ever attempted was so satisfactory to him, he said, both in the way of
conception and performance. So confident was he of its excellence, that
I began at last to share his excitement, and expressed a wish to see the
masterpiece. But he was resolute in his determination that no one should
see it until its completion, and least of all I.

Curious as I felt concerning it,--for one could never be sure that Paul
Barr was not a genius,--I was in no haste to have the picture finished,
for the artist's own sake. So deep and breathless was his interest, that
he had become regular in his hours and habits. He seemed to realize that
the best work required a steady hand and an unwearied eye. If I took
some slight credit to myself for this change in his methods, it was not
unnatural; and yet I was not so far elated as to feel wholly confident
it would last. When he had put the finishing touch to his wonderful
creation, would he abstain from the dissipation and self-indulgent
idleness that was apt to follow any concentration on his part? I liked
to believe that this would be the case; and as I cherished the idea, it
grew almost into absolute faith.

I have said that Aunt Agnes and I were on pleasant terms; but there was
one speck on the mirror of her serenity which threatened at times to
mar the whole. It was my intimacy with Mr. Barr. Some one had informed
her,--I have no doubt it was Miss Kingsley,--that he was much in my
society, and that we behaved like lovers. I had learned by this time not
to allow my awe for Aunt Agnes to prevent me from defending myself; but
I found exculpation a difficult matter in this instance, on account
of the character of the other offender. She styled my attitude
hypocritical, because I parleyed with the enemy. Even assuming that
there was no flirtation between us,--of which she was by no means
convinced,--what right, she asked, had I, as a neophyte of recent
standing, to be on terms of intimacy with the arch advocate of the
school of thought most opposed to that which I professed?

I mention this in order to explain why I had of late been more chary of
my sympathy in my interviews with the artist, and had given him strict
orders that he was not to send me any more fruit and flowers. However
much I might desire his welfare, self-respect required that I should not
let our friendship become so conspicuous as to attract general
attention. It was shortly after I issued this mandate that he began the
picture to which I have referred; but the immediate result of my words
was a fit of angry despondency.

Two days before Christmas he came to me and said the picture would be
finished and ready for exhibition on Christmas Eve, and that he wished
me to see it first of all. Would I come to his rooms on that afternoon?
As he saw me hesitate, he clasped his hands with so piteous an
expression that I chose not to say no. Why not, after all, thought I. It
was unconventional to be sure. But matrons were out of date and
superfluous in the artistic world. Did not Miss Kingsley go about freely
to studios and wherever the needs of her profession called her? If she
were safe from familiarity, why should not I be? I had a strong belief
in the magic circle of respect which surrounds a thoroughly refined
woman. If I refused the artist's request, I was certain to disappoint
him sorely. It was a small enough favor, I argued, to grant to one who
had been striving bravely to overcome his evil nature at my instigation.

Mr. Barr's studio was up seven flights of stairs in the French roof of a
building which had no elevator, and had doubtless been chosen by him on
account of cheapness and light. Breathless, I paused on the last
landing on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, and in response to
my knock was greeted by the black beard and large eyes of the artist
appearing round the edge of the door. As he threw it wide open he gave a
cry of pleasure, singing the while at the top of his lungs the air he
played that evening at Miss Kingsley's when he flung himself down before
the piano after tea.

"At last, at last, my goddess! I have prayed for this hour," he said,
bowing low.

I stopped short in the middle of the room. "If you do not wish me to
leave you instantly, you must cease all such language and unseemly
conduct. I have come to see your picture, Mr. Barr."

"I will. Believe me, I will. I will be quiet as a lamb, though I am so
happy I could dance a minuet with Satan and not tire. But I will obey
you. Do not be uneasy. Sit here. No, here. The light is better. There it
is. Look, finished! My masterpiece, my ideal! It is only to lift that
curtain, and I shall be famous."

Despite his words he was jumping about with nervous, excited gestures. I
sat in the armchair he had indicated, and looked from him to the picture
on the easel over which a drapery was flung, and back again to him. For
an indefinable feeling of dread was coming over me, as I noted the
disordered dress and the bloodshot eyes of my strange host. He had
failed, then, to keep his pledges; had yielded to temptation. My
hoped-for regeneration was a failure, and all was as it used to be with
him. But yet it might be overwork and the strain of a night without
sleep that gave him such a dissipated aspect. I tried to think it was
so. Meanwhile he had seated himself at an old worn-out piano, and
looking across to me was pounding out bar after bar of passionate music.

"Really, this is too much! I cannot stay and endure this absurdity," I
cried, and I walked to the door.

But he darted at me and seized my hand with fierceness and the grip of a
vice, so that I shook with fear.

"You shall not go, not until you have seen her,--her I adore. Sit
there!" he thundered; and then, with an apparent sense of his own
harshness, he fell on his knees before me and kissed my fingers with
feverish frenzy. "My queen! my own!" he cried.

I was so frightened I could not speak. What was I to do? To scream would
not have availed me in that attic,--and yet I wonder now I did not try
to scream. I tore my hands away from him and sprang from my seat, he not
seeking to restrain me, but still kneeling and gazing up at me with wild
but penitent eyes.

"Open the door, sir, and let me go! That is the least return you can
make for your rudeness," I said.

"No, no, no!" he cried with a wail of grief. "I have insulted my
goddess. I have broken her heart. She will not speak to me. But look,
look!" he said, darting again toward the canvas and throwing aside the
drapery. "She is here! I have her here forever. No one can rob me of her
now."

Fancy my emotions. It was a portrait of myself!

I shall never forget the tipsy cunning of Paul Barr's expression, as he
watched the effect of his legerdemain. The portrait was excellent; it
was, indeed, a masterpiece. I was sufficiently in my senses to
appreciate that, though my absorbing thought was how to get out of the
room. For some moments we each kept our pose,--I standing surveying the
picture, and he with his eyes bent upon me, leaning against the easel
which was in the pathway to the door.

Suddenly, and to my intense surprise, he pronounced my name,--

"Virginia!"

It was a whisper almost, and spoken as one might breathe the name of a
saint.

"Virginia!"

Then with a low cry he stepped forward a pace or two and dropped on his
knees again.

"I love you, I adore you. I have broken your heart, my angel, but it was
love that forced me to it. Forgive me, and tell me if you can that there
is hope,--a shadow is enough. Hope that I may some day press you to this
bosom and call you mine,--mine for eternity! Virginia, hear me!--do not
look so cold and cruel; you are a stone, while I am burning! I have
loved you since the first moment I saw you. I wish my heart were dust
for you to trample on, if it may not beat forever close to yours. With
you as my bride I could conquer worlds. I could become an Angelo, a
Rubens. Without you I shall die!"

He seized my hands again and covered them with kisses.

"Mr. Barr, Mr. Barr! I cannot listen to you further. Let me go,--you are
mad."

"Yes, I am mad,--mad with love for you, sweet Virginia."

I tried to speak calmly, yet decisively, though from fear and pity I was
trembling like a leaf. I told him that I could not grant what he asked.
I loved him as a friend, as a brother almost, and would do anything to
serve him but consent to become his wife. His studio was no place for
such a conversation, I said. Let him come to my house, after he had
thought it over. He would agree then that he had been carried away by
the impulse of the moment, by the tension of his overstrained nerves,
and that a marriage between us would be an absurdity. Were not our
tastes and habits totally unlike?

Perhaps these were no words to address to an overwrought soul, mastered
by passion. But, as I have said, I was terrified and bewildered. The
strong desire I felt to treat him with all the gentleness and tender
consideration I could muster, must have been to some extent neutralized
by my anxiety to put an end to the interview. As I spoke, his eyes
seemed to grow darker and to glow with fire, and the cunning, satyr-like
expression I had noticed before to intensify.

"Pardon me," I said, "for the pain I cause you. My presence can only
increase your suffering. I will leave you, and if you wish, we will
talk of this to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he answered; "there may be no to-morrow. It is still
to-day! still to-day!" he repeated with a sort of chuckle. "I will live
to-day, though I may die to-morrow. My goddess, my queen is here, and
love--love--love!" With a bound he folded me in his huge arms and
pressed my face against his lips three times in a mad embrace.

"Coward! wretch!" I screamed; but I was powerless as a babe.

He let me go.

"I will not hurt you, my own true love. A kiss can do no harm. Once
more!" and he threw his arms wide open for a fresh embrace.

But another voice interrupted his purpose. "Coward! you shall not touch
a hair of her head."

It was Mr. Spence who spoke; we had not noticed the door open. He strode
forward and placed himself between me and the artist. On the threshold
stood Miss Kingsley, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as our eyes
met. I would gladly have given half my fortune to blot out the past few
minutes.

"Is this the courtesy of Bohemia?" asked Mr. Spence, breaking the
silence that followed. He was pale, and his lips were set, and there had
never seemed to me so little difference in stature between him and Mr.
Barr.

"It is love," was the answer. "The rapture of those kisses will be on my
lips to my dying day." The artist began to troll the words of a mad song
of his own composition I had heard before.

"Paul Barr, though we have long differed on many subjects, we have been
friends. But after what I have heard and seen to-day, we must meet
henceforth as strangers," said Mr. Spence, with a fire I had never known
him display before.

"I adore her, and I am human. See there!" he pointed to the portrait,
which hitherto had escaped their attention. "I would give even that for
another kiss."

At the sight of the picture Mr. Spence gave a start, for the likeness
was marvellous. As for Miss Kingsley, she whispered in my ear,--

"Did you sit for it, dear?"

"No, I did not," I answered.

"Detestable philosophy!" continued Mr. Spence, looking from the canvas
to the artist. "There was the making of a man in you,--this portrait
shows it. But it is too late. The brute is rampant, and genius is no
more."

"She could have moulded me in her hands like clay," said Paul Barr. I
could not help feeling touched by the despair in his voice.

"How distinctly piteous!" murmured Miss Kingsley.

"I have no more to say. You have heard my decision, Paul Barr."

Mr. Spence seemed greatly moved and excited. I could see him tremble. It
was very bitter to me to feel that on my account friends of a lifetime
were to be separated. The big artist pulled at his beard, and with
another of his faun-like looks, exclaimed,--

"I understand. You want her for yourself. But you cannot rob me of those
kisses, ha! ha! They shall lie in the grave with me, and I shall still
smile."

Mr. Spence grew paler yet. He seemed about to speak, but controlling
himself by an effort turned to leave the room, motioning us to precede
him.

"How distinctly piteous!" repeated Miss Kingsley, as we went downstairs.
"He acted shamefully, of course, and there is no excuse for his conduct.
But though it is impossible to justify him, I can pity him, can't you?
His nature is so impressionable; and when he is interested in anything
there is no half way with him: he wants the whole or nothing. If you
will excuse my saying so, several of us have been afraid of something of
this sort. I wanted to warn you; but I said to myself, 'It may be
Virginia really likes him,' so I decided not to speak. If I had done so,
all this might have been prevented, for it was very evident to the rest
of us that he was desperately in love with you. And by such a man, of
course the very smallest marks of favor are construed as more
significant than open encouragement would be by a less poetic
temperament. I have no doubt the poor fellow wears over his heart every
rose-bud you ever gave him, and knows by rote every word of sympathy you
ever said to him. And then that portrait,--what volumes it tells of
itself! Fancy that ardent soul toiling over the canvas to reproduce from
memory your image (you tell me you did not sit to him), and when the
masterpiece of his life was finished, inviting you to his studio (as I
suppose he did), and then in a moment of deep and passionate love
casting himself at your feet--and--and forgetting himself! Oh, Virginia,
there is something exquisitely pathetic in the thought! But how
fortunate too for you that we arrived when we did! In his sober senses
Paul Barr would rather die than injure a hair of your head; but none of
us, however self-reliant, is free from dread in the presence of a man
who has been over-indulging in stimulants, even though sure of his
affection. My poor dear, how you must have suffered! What will your Aunt
Agnes say? It was only two days ago she said to me she hoped the affair
was at an end. I told her then that one can never be sure of a
thoroughly Bohemian nature; it is liable to burst into flame at the
moment one least expects it. The result shows the correctness of my
prediction. Poor Mr. Barr! what will become of him I wonder? I only hope
he will not attempt his own life,--that would be worse than anything."

Neither Mr. Spence nor I had spoken as she rattled on in this manner,
going down the long flights of stairs to the street. There was just
enough of truth in her remarks to make my frame

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