"But I never sang with Alvary," she added.
"Where is the voice?"
"It is dead," she replied; "but it was only a skeletonwhen it lived. I learned that afterwards. I had the artistic temperament without the art."
Nevins and Ardly, watching the mobility of her face, saw the old half-disdainful weariness steal back.
"So you have learned that," said Nevins. "It is the greater wisdom—to learn what one has not."
"I don't idealize any longer," answered Mariana, playing with the glove in her lap. "I have lopped off an ideal every hour since I saw you."
"Sensible woman," returned Ardly. "We don't lop off our ideals—we distort them. Life is a continuous adjustment of the things that should be to the things that are."
"And middle-age shows the adjustment to be a misfit," added Nevins, his boyish face growing almost sad. "We grow tired of burnishing up the facts of life, and we leave the tarnish to mix with the triple-plate."
"Are you middle-aged?" asked Mariana.
"Not since you entered."
She smiled, pleased with the flattery. "So I am a restorer of youth. Do I look young?"
"There is a glass."
She turned towards it, catching the reflection of her face shadowed by the plume against her hair.
"Your eyes are older," said Nevins. "They look as if they had seen things, but your mouth is young. It could never hold an expression long enough for it to impress a line. Heavens! It is a mouth that would madden one to model, because of the impossibility! It is twenty mouths in one!"
"You never liked my nose," said Mariana, her eyes still on the glass. "Do you remember how you straightened it in the poster?"
"I have the poster still."
"And I have the nose."
Then she laughed. "It is so delightful to be here," she said.
Ardly and Nevins talked rapidly, running over the years one by one, giving glimpses of the changes in their lives, meeting Mariana's gay reserve with fuller confidence. They had both grown boyish and more buoyant, and as they spoke they felt like an incoming tide the warmth of Mariana's manner. She seemed more lovable to them, more generous, more utterly to be desired. Her nature had ripened amid the luxury of her life, which, instead of rendering her self-centred, as poverty had done, had left her more responsive to the needs of others. She threw herself into the records of their lives with an impulsive fervor, stopping them at intervals to question as to details, and covering the past eight years with sympathetic search-lights.
And yet beneath the superficial animation in her voice there was a restless thrill, and the eagerness with which she turned to trivial interests was but the nervous veil that hid the weariness in her heart. It was as if she plunged into the thoughts of others that she might put away the memory of herself.
"So you have become a politician?" she said to Ardly. "I am so interested!"
"You wouldn't be if you knew as much of it as I do," remarked Nevins. "You'd be ashamed. It makes me blush every time I see his name on a ticket. I consider it an offence against the paths of our fathers."
"Why, Mr. Ryder told me you were working for him," Mariana returned; "but he did say that he couldn't reconcile it with your common-sense. He's for the other side, you know."
"So am I!" groaned Nevins; "but what has a man's convictions to do with his vote?"
"Or with his election?" laughed Ardly. "But Nevins is an unwilling accomplice of my aspirations."
"I wouldn't call them aspirations," remonstrated Nevins.
Mariana buttoned her glove and rose. "I am going to work for you," she said, "and my influence is not to be scorned. I have not one vote, but dozens. I shall elect you."
"Don't," pleaded Nevins; "it will soil your hands!"
"Oh, I can wash them!" she laughed; "and it is worth a few smuts. I shall tell Mr. Ryder to canvass for you," she added.
Ardly shouted, "Good heavens! He is one of the best fighters the Republicans have!"
Mariana smiled inscrutably.
"But that was before I had a candidate," she answered.
They followed her to the sidewalk and tucked her carriage furs about her while the footman looked on.
"And you are coming to see me soon?" she insisted—"very soon?"
"We swear it!" they protested.
"And you will tell me all the news of the elections?"
"On our manly faith."
"That I will trust. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye!"
The carriage started, when suddenly she lowered the window and looked out, the plume in her hat waving black against the wind.
"I forgot to tell you," she said; "my name is Gore—Mrs. Cecil Gore."
With the light of audacity in his face, Nevins laid his hand upon the window.
"And where is the Honorable Cecil?" he asked.
A flash of irritation darkened Mariana's eyes. She laughed with a ring of recklessness.
"The Lord forbid that I should know!" she replied.
She motioned to the coachman, and the carriage rolled rapidly away. Nevins stood looking after it until it turned the corner. When the last wheel vanished, he spoke slowly:
"Well, I'll be blessed!" he said.
Ardly stooped and picked up a violet that lay upon the curbing.
"And so will I," he responded.
"Have a whiskey?"
"All right."
They entered the building and mounted the stairs in silence.
The Reverend Anthony Algarcife had inspired his congregation with an almost romantic fervor.
When he had first appeared before them as assistant to Father Speares in his Bowery Mission, and a little later as server in the celebrations, they regarded him as a thoughtful-eyed young priest, whose appearance fitted into the general scheme of color in the chancel. When he read the lessons they noticed the richness of his voice, and when at last he came to the altar-step to deliver his first sermon they thrilled into the knowledge of his power.
But he turned from their adulations almost impatiently to throw himself into the mission in the slums. His eloquence had passed from the rich to the poor, and beyond an occasional sermon he became only a harmonious figure in the setting of the church. For the honors they meted out to him he had no glance, for their favors he had only indifference. He seemed as insensible to praise as to censure, and to the calls of ambition his ears were closed. He lived in the fevered haste of a man who has but one end remaining—to have life over.
But his indifference redounded to his honor. Because he shunned popularity, it fell upon him; because he put aside personal gains, he found them in the reverence of his people. His apathy was construed into humility, his compassion into loving-kindness, his endeavors to stifle memory into the fires of faith. At the end of six years his determination to remain acipher in religion had made him the leader of his church, and the means which he had taken to annihilate self had drawn on him the wondering eyes of his world. Almost unconsciously he bowed his head to receive the yoke.
When, at the death of Father Speares, he was called to the charge, he accepted it without a struggle and without emotion. He saw in it but an opening to heavier labor and an opportunity to hasten the progress of his slow suicide.
So he took the work from the failing hands and devoted to it the fulness of his own frenzied vigor. The ritual which his predecessor loved became sacred to him, and the most trivial ceremonials grew mighty with memory of the dead. Each candle upon the altar, each silken thread in the embroidered vestments he wore, was a tribute to a sincerity which was not his.
He lent a sudden fervor to the decoration of the church and to the training of his choristers, passionately reviving lost and languishing rites of religion, and silencing the faint protests of his more conservative parishioners by an arrogant appeal to the "Ornaments Rubric" of the Prayer-book. In defiance of the possible opposition of the bishop, he transposed the "Gloria" to its old place in the Catholic Mass, hurling, like an avenging thunderbolt, at a priestly objector to the good old rule of St. Vincent, "Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus."
"My dear father," his senior warden had once said to him, "I doubt if most priests put as much work into their whole lives as you do into one celebration."
"I know," replied Father Algarcife slowly. "If I have left anything undone it has been from oversight, not fear of labor."
The warden smiled.
"Your life is a proof of your industry as well asyour faith," he responded. "Only a man who loves his religion better than his life would risk himself daily. It is your great hold upon your people. They believe in you."
"Yes, yes," said the other.
"But I have wanted to warn you," continued the warden. "It cannot last. Give yourself rest."
Father Algarcife shook his head.
"I rest only when I am working," he answered, and he added, a little wistfully, "The parish bears witness that I have done my best by the charge."
The warden, touched by the wistfulness, lowered his eyes. "That you have done any man's best," he returned.
"Thank you," said Father Algarcife. Then he passed into the sacristy to listen to the confession of a parishioner.
It was a tedious complaint, and he followed it abstractedly—winding through the sick imaginings of a nervous woman and administering well-worn advice in his rich voice, which lent a charm to the truisms. When it was over, he advised physical exercise, and, closing the door, seated himself to await the next comer.
It was Miss Vernish, and as she entered, with her impatient limp, the bitterness of her mouth relaxed. She was supervising the embroidering of the vestments to be worn at Easter, and in a spirit of devotion she had sacrificed her diamonds to their ornamentation. Her eyes grew bright as she talked, and a religious warmth softened her manner.
"It has made me so happy," she said, "to feel that I can give something beautiful to the service. It is the sincerest pleasure I have known for years."
She left, and her place was taken by a young divinity student who had been drawn from law to theology by the eloquence of Father Algarcife. He had come toobtain the priest's advice upon a matter of principle, and departed with a quickening of his religious tendencies.
Then came several women, entering with a great deal of rustling and no evident object in view. Then a vestryman to talk over a point in business; then the wife of a well-known politician, to ask if she should consent to her husband's accepting a foreign appointment; then a man who wished to be confirmed in his church; and, after all, Mrs. Ryder, large and warm and white, to say that since the last communion she had felt herself stronger to contend with disappointment.
When it was over and he came out into the evening light, he drew himself together with a quick movement, as if he had knelt in a strained position for hours. Vaguely he wondered how his nerves had sustained it, and he smiled half bitterly as he admitted that eight years ago he would have succumbed.
"It is because my nerves are dead," he said; "as dead as my emotions."
He knew that since the pressure of feeling had been lifted the things which would have overwhelmed him in the past had lost the power to thrill his supine sensations, that from a mere jangled structure of nerve wires he had become a physical being—a creature who ate and drank and slept, but did not feel.
He went about his daily life as methodically as if it were mapped out for him by a larger hand. His very sermons came to him with no effort of will or of memory, but as thoughts long thought out and forgotten sometimes obtrude themselves upon the mind that has passed into other channels. They were but twisted and matured phrases germinating since his college days. The old fatal facility for words remained with him, though the words had ceased to be symbols of honest thought. He could still speak, it was only the ability to think that the fever had drained—it was onlythe power to plod with mental patience in the pursuit of a single fact. Otherwise he was unchanged. But as every sensation is succeeded by a partial incapacity, so the strain of years had been followed by years of stagnation.
He went home to dinner with a physical zest.
"I believe I have one sentiment remaining," he said, "the last a man loses—the sentiment for food."
The next evening, which chanced to be that of Election Day, Dr. Salvers came to dine with him, and when dinner was over they went out to ascertain the returns. Salvers had entered the fight with an enthusiastic support of what he called "good government," and the other watched it with the interest of a man who looks on.
"Shall we cross to Broadway?" he asked; "the people are more interesting, after all, than the politicians."
"The politicians," responded Salvers, "are only interesting viewed through the eyes of the people. No, let's keep to the avenue for a while. I prefer scenting the battle from afar."
The sounds grew louder as they walked on, becoming, as they neared Madison Square, a tumultuous medley issuing from tin horns and human throats. Over the ever-moving throngs in the square a shower of sky-rockets shot upward at the overhanging clouds and descended in a rain of orange sparks. The streets were filled with a stream of crushed humanity, which struggled and pushed and panted, presenting to a distant view the effect of a writhing mass of dark-bodied insects. From the tower of the Garden a slender search-light pointed southward, a pale, still finger remaining motionless, while the crowd clamored below and the fireworks exploded in the blackness above.
Occasionally, as the white light fell on the moving throng, it exaggerated in distinctness a face here andthere, which assumed the look of a grotesque mask, illuminated by an instantaneous flash and fading quickly into the half-light of surrounding shadows. Then another took its place, and the illumination played variations upon the changing features.
Suddenly a shrill cheer went up from the streets.
"That means Vaden," said Salvers. "Let's move on."
They left the square, making their way up Broadway. At the first corner a man offered them papier-maché tigers, at the second roosters, at the third chrysanthemums.
"Look at this," said Salvers, drawing aside. "Odd for women, isn't it? Half these girls don't know what they are shrieking about."
In the throng jostling past them there were a dozen school-girls, wearing yellow chrysanthemums in their button-holes and carrying small flags in their hands. The light from the windows fell upon their pretty faces, rosy from excitement. Behind them a gang of college students blew deafening blasts on tin trumpets, and on the other side a newsboy was yelling—
"Eve-ning Wor-ld!Vaden elected!—Va-den—!"
His voice was drowned in the rising cheers of men politically mad.
"I'll go to the club," said Salvers, presently; "this is too deuced democratic. Will you come?"
Father Algarcife shook his head.
"Not now," he replied. "I'll keep on to Herald Square, then I'll turn in. The fight is over."
And he passed on.
Upon a white sheet stretched along the side of theHeraldbuilding a stereopticon portrait of a candidate appeared, followed by a second, and then by the figures of the latest returns from the election boroughs. Here the crowd had stagnated, and he found difficulty in forcing his way. Then, as the mass swayed back, awoman fainted at his side and was carried into the nearest drug-store.
In the endeavor to reach Fifth Avenue he stepped into the centre of the street, where a cable car, a carriage, and a couple of hansom cabs were blocked. As he left the sidewalk the crowd divided, and the carriage started, while a horse attached to a cab shied suddenly. A woman stumbled beneath the carriage and he drew her away. As he did so the wheel of the cab struck him, stunning him for the moment.
"Look out, man!" called Nevins, who was seated beside the coachman upon the carriage-box; "that was an escape. Are you hurt? Here, hold on!"
At the same moment the door opened and a hand reached out.
"Come inside," said a woman's voice.
He shook his head, dizzy from the shock. Red lights flashed before his eyes, and he staggered.
Then the crowd pressed together, some one pushed him into the carriage, and the door closed.
"To Father Algarcife's house," said the voice. A moment more and the horses started. Consciousness escaped him, and he lay against the cushions with closed eyes. When he came to himself, it was to hear the breathing of the woman beside him—a faint insistence of sound that seemed a vital element in the surrounding atmosphere. For an instant it lulled him, and then, as reason returned, the sound brought in its train the pale survivals of old associations. Half stunned as he was, it was by feeling rather than conception that he became aware that the woman was Mariana. He was conscious of neither surprise nor emotion. There was merely a troublous sense of broken repose and a slight bitterness always connected with the thought of her—a bitterness that was but an after-taste of his portion of gall and wormwood.
He turned his head upon the cushions and looked ather as she sat beside him. She had not spoken, and she sat quite motionless, her fitful breathing alone betraying the animation of flesh. Her head was in the shadow, but a single ray of light fell across her lap, showing her folded hands in their long gloves. He smelled the fragrance of the violets she wore, but the darkness hid them.
Surging beneath that rising bitterness, the depths of his memory stirred in its sleep. He remembered the day that he had stood at the window of that Fourth Street tenement, watching the black-robed figure enter the carriage below. He saw the door close, the wheels turn, and the last upward glance she gave. Then he saw the long street flecked with sunshine stretching onward into the aridity of endless to-morrows.
Strange that he remembered it after these eight years. The woman beside him stirred, and he recalled in that same slow bitterness the last kiss he had put upon her mouth. Bah! It meant nothing.
But his apathy was rended by a sudden fury—an instinct of hate—of cruelty insatiable. An impulse to turn and strike her through the darkness—to strike her until he had appeased his thirst for blood.
The impulse passed as quickly as it came, fleeing like a phantom of delirium, and in its place the old unutterable bitterness welled back. His apathy reclosed upon him.
The carriage turned a corner, and a blaze of light fell upon the shadow of the seat. It swept the white profile and dark figure of Mariana, and he saw the wistfulness in her eyes and the maddening tremor of her mouth. But it did not move him. He was done with such things forever.
All at once she turned towards him.
"You are not hurt?"
"It was nothing."
She flinched at the sound of his voice, and the dusk of the cross-street shrouded them again. The hands in her lap fluttered nervously, running along the folds of her dress.
Suddenly the carriage stopped, and Nevins jumped down from the box and swung the door open.
"Are you all right?" he asked, and his voice was unsteady.
"All right," responded Father Algarcife, cheerfully. He stepped upon the sidewalk, staggered slightly, and caught Nevins's arm. Then he turned to the woman within the carriage. "I thank you," he said.
He entered the rectory, and Nevins came back and got inside the carriage.
"Will you go home?" he asked, with attempted lightness. "The returns from the Assembly districts won't be in till morning, but Ardly is sure."
Mariana smiled at him.
"Tell him to drive home," she answered. "I am very tired."
The morning papers reported that the Reverend Anthony Algarcife had been struck by a cab while crossing Broadway, and as he left the breakfast-table Mrs. Ryder's carriage appeared at his door, quickly followed by that of Miss Vernish.
By ten o'clock the rectory was besieged and bunches of flowers, with cards attached, were scattered about the hall. Dr. Salvers, coming in a little later, stumbled over a pile of roses, and recovered himself, laughing.
"Looks as if they mean to bury you," he remarked. "But how are you feeling? Of course, I knew it was nothing serious or I should have heard."
Father Algarcife rose impatiently from his chair.
"Of course," he returned. "But all this fuss is sufficient to drive a man mad. Yes, Agnes," to the maid who entered with a tray of carnations and a solicitous inquiry as to his health. "Say I am perfectly well—and please have all these flowers sent to the hospital at once. No, I don't care for any on my desk. I dislike the perfume." Then he turned to Salvers. "I am going out to escape it," he said. "Will you walk with me to the church?"
"With pleasure," responded the doctor, cheerfully; and he added: "You will find the church a poor protection, I fancy."
As they left the rectory they met Claude Nevins upon the sidewalk.
"I wanted to assure myself that it was not a serious accident," he said. "Glad to see you out."
Father Algarcife frowned.
"If I hear another word of this affair," he replied, irritably, "I shall feel tempted to regret that there is not some cause for the alarm."
"And you are quite well?"
"Perfectly."
"By the way, I didn't know that you felt enough interest in the elections to induce you to parade the streets on their account."
"Oh, it was the doctor's fault. He got me into the medley, and then deserted because he found it too democratic."
"It is democracy turned upsidedown that I object to," remarked Salvers. "There seems a lack of decency about it—as if we were to awake some morning to find the statue of Liberty on its head, with its legs in the air. I believe in the old conservative goddess of our fathers—Freedom shackled by the chains of respectability."
"So did Father Algarcife once," said Nevins. "He had an oration entitled 'The Jeffersonian Principles' which he used to deliver before the mirror when he thought I was asleep."
"I believe in it still," interrupted Father Algarcife, "but I no longer deliver orations. Greater wisdom has made me silent. Well, I suppose the result of last night was hardly a surprise."
"Hardly," responded Nevins. "What can one expect when everybody who knows the value of an office is running for it, and everybody who doesn't is blowing horns about the runners. But I won't keep you. Good-day."
"Good-day."
Nevins turned back.
"By the way," he said to Father Algarcife, "I wish you would drop in and look at that portrait the first chance you have. I am waiting for your criticism."
"Very well. Congratulate Ardly for me."
And they separated, Salvers motioning to his coachman to follow him to the church.
Upon going inside, Father Algarcife found his principal assistant, a young fellow with a fair, fresh face, like a girl's, and a high forehead, surmounted by waves of flaxen hair. His name was Ellerslie, and his devotional sincerity was covered by a shy and nervous manner.
He greeted the elder priest with a furtive deprecation, the result of an innate humility of character.
"I went by the rectory as soon as I had seen the morning papers," he said. "Thank God you escaped unhurt!"
The irritation with which Father Algarcife had replied to Nevins's solicitude did not appear now.
"I hope you were not troubled by the report," he answered. "There was absolutely nothing in it except that I was struck by a vehicle and stunned slightly. But the exaggerated accounts have caused me a great deal of annoyance. By the way, John," and his face softened, "I have not told you how much I liked your last sermon."
The other flushed and shook his head. "They fall so far short," he returned, and his voice trembled. "I know now that I shall never be able to speak. When I face the people there is so much that I want to say that I grow dumb. My feeling is so strong that my words are weak."
"Time may change that."
"No," said Ellerslie; "but if I may listen to you I am content. I will serve God in humble ways. It is the service that I love, after all, and not the glory."
"Yes, yes," responded Father Algarcife, gently.
He went into the sacristy, where he sat for a few moments in reverie, his head resting upon his hand. Then he rose and shook himself free of the thought which haunted him.
For several weeks after this he paid no calls except among his poor. The houses of his richer parishioners he appeared to shun, and his days were spent in active work in the mission districts. At all hours his calm black figure and virile face might be seen passing in and out of the grimy tenements or along the narrow streets. He had opened, in connection with his mission-house, a lodging for waifs, and it was his custom to spend several evenings of the week among its inmates. The house had been founded by funds which, until his call to the church, had been expended in Asiatic missions, but which, before his indomitable opposition, had been withdrawn. As the work went on it became of special interest to him, and a good half of his personal income went yearly to its support.
"It is not a charity," he had once said to Salvers. "I disapprove of such charities. It is merely a house where lodgings are let in as business-like a manner as they are around the corner, for five cents a spot; only our lodgings are better, and there is a bath thrown in."
"And a dinner as well," Salvers had answered, "to say nothing of breakfast and a bed to one's self. By the way, is your system of serving newsboys and boot-blacks on credit successful?"
Father Algarcife smiled.
"I have found it so," he replied; "but, you know, our terms are long, and we give good measure for the money."
It was in this work that he was absorbing himself, when, one day in early December, he received a note from Mrs. Ryder:
"I have secured a box at the opera for Thursday night," (she wrote), "that I might beg you to hear Madame Cambria, who sings Ortrude in 'Lohengrin.' Her contralto is superb, and I wish to engage her for our Christmas services, but Ihesitate to do so until I have had your verdict upon her voice. This is a new charitable appeal, and one which I trust you will not refuse."Believe me to be,"Always sincerely yours,"Florence van Horne Ryder."The De Reszkes sing also."
"I have secured a box at the opera for Thursday night," (she wrote), "that I might beg you to hear Madame Cambria, who sings Ortrude in 'Lohengrin.' Her contralto is superb, and I wish to engage her for our Christmas services, but Ihesitate to do so until I have had your verdict upon her voice. This is a new charitable appeal, and one which I trust you will not refuse.
"Believe me to be,"Always sincerely yours,"Florence van Horne Ryder.
"The De Reszkes sing also."
He sent an acceptance, and the following day received an urgent request that he should dine quietly with Mr. Ryder and herself on Thursday evening. To this he consented, after some hesitation; and when the evening came he presented himself, to find Mrs. Ryder awaiting him with the pretty, vivacious young woman of the dinner-party, who was a guest in the house.
Mrs. Ryder crossed the room, with her large white hand outstretched, her satin gown rustling as she moved, and the lamplight shimmering over her massive shoulders in their setting of old lace. The vivacious young woman, whose name was Darcy, greeted him with a smile which seemed to blend in a flash of brightness her black eyes and white teeth.
"Mr. Ryder is a little late," his wife explained, "but he will not delay us long." And she passed to the subject of the Christmas services and the contralto she wished to secure.
While she was speaking, Ryder came in with his usual cordial pleasantries. He was looking fresh and a little flushed, as if he had just left a Turkish bath, and was dressed with an immaculateness of detail which carried a suggestion of careful polish. His sensitive skin, beneath which the purplish flush rose, was as fine as a child's, and his round, smooth hands had a suffusion of pink in the palms.
In a moment dinner was served, and they went into the dining-room. Ryder was easy and affable. He talked pleasantly about the events of the past fewweeks, describing as if for the hundredth time the success of the Horse Show, and stating good-natured objections to the awards of the judges.
"It is a farce," he said—"a mere farce. They don't recognize the best horse-flesh when they see it." Then he smiled at his wife. "But who can blame them? It was really a puzzle to decide which were the most worth looking at, the horses or the women. It is hard to say where the blue ribbon belonged. Ah, father, you miss a great deal by being a saint."
Miss Darcy interrupted him with a pretty protest. "I am sure a saint may look at a horse," she said, "and a woman." And she added: "I have always forgotten to ask you who the lady in violet and silver-fox was who sat in Mr. Buisson's box? I did not recognize her."
Ryder's eyes narrowed slightly, but he answered easily, "Oh, that was Mrs. Gore, I believe."
Miss Darcy flashed a smile.
"The Englishwoman I have heard so much about? Why, I thought she was called a beauty!"
Ryder laughed.
"She is a beauty when you know her," he said, "or, rather, you get the idea that she is. But she isn't English, you know. She married an Englishman."
Then he changed the subject and drew Father Algarcife into a discussion of church decorations.
When dinner was over, Mrs. Ryder's maid appeared, bearing the opera-wraps, and the two women trailed down the steps and into the carriage. When Father Algarcife had stepped inside, Ryder closed the door and made his excuses.
"I'll look in a little later," he said; "but if Mr. Nevins finds you you won't need me, and a whole evening of it tires my nerves."
Then he lighted a cigar and strolled off leisurely, while the carriage started.
When they entered the opera-house the curtain had risen, and the tenor was singing his farewell to the swan.
As Father Algarcife seated himself in the shadow of the box and looked over Mrs. Ryder's superb shoulders at the stage and the glittering foot-lights, he felt a quick impulse to rush away from it all. He hated the noise and the heat and the glare. The heavy atmosphere seemed oppressive and unnatural, and the women, sparkling brilliantly in the tiers of boxes, looked like beautiful exotics, fragrant with the perishable bloom of a hot-house. It was with a sensation of relief that he recalled the dull mission in the slums, where he had spent the morning.
On the stage, Elsa had cast herself into the arms of Lohengrin, and the voice of love dominant was translated into song. The music filled the house with a throbbing ecstasy—an ecstasy that had captured in its notes the joys of all the senses—the light to the eye of a spring morning, the perfume to the nostrils of fresh meadows, the warmth to the touch of falling sunshine. It was the voice of love ethereal—of love triumphant over flesh, of love holding to its breast the phantom of its dreams. It was the old, ever-young voice of the human heart panting for the possession of its vision—the vision realized in the land of legends.
The curtain was rung down, and in a moment Nevins came in and they fell to talking. They spoke of the tenor, of the fact that the prima donna's voice had strengthened, and of Madame Cambria, the contralto, who was a little hoarse. Then they spoke of the people in the boxes and of the absence of several whose names they mentioned.
Father Algarcife was silent, and he only aroused himself to attention when Miss Darcy, lowering her opera-glass, turned to Nevins inquiringly.
"Do tell me if that is Mrs. Gore across from us—the one in green and violets?"
Nevins replied constrainedly. "Yes," he said; "I think so. The other is Miss Ramsey, I believe—a friend who lives with her."
Miss Darcy smiled.
"Why, I thought she lived alone," she returned; "but I have heard so many odd things about her that I may be mistaken in this one. She is evidently the kind of person that nobody possesses any positive information about."
"Perhaps it is as well," observed Mrs. Ryder, stiffly. "It is better to know too little on such subjects than too much."
Nevins was writhing in his chair, his mouth half open, when Father Algarcife spoke.
"In this case," he said, and his voice sounded cold and firm, "what is not known seems to be incorrectly surmised. I knew Mrs. Gore—before—before her marriage. She is a Southerner."
Mrs. Ryder looked up.
"Yes?" she interrogated, as he paused.
"And, although I cannot vouch for her discretion, I can for her innate purity of character."
Mrs. Ryder flushed, and spoke with a beautiful contrition in her eyes.
"I was wrong," she said, "to trust rumor. It makes me ashamed of myself—of my lack of generosity."
The curtain rose, and Father Algarcife turned to the stage. But he did not see it. The figures were blurred before his eyes and the glare tortured him. Across the circle of space he knew that Mariana was sitting, her head upraised, her cheek resting upon her hand, her face in the shadow. He could almost see her eyes growing rich and soft like green velvet.
Then, as the voice of the soprano rang out, he startedslightly. Beneath the song of love he heard the cry of ambition—a cry that said:
"I would give half my life for this—to sing with Alvary."
Whence the words came he did not know. He had no memory of them in time or place, but they struggled in the throat of the soprano and filled the air.
He turned and looked at her as she sat across from him, her cheek resting in her hand against a blaze of diamonds. She looked white, he thought, and wistful and unsatisfied. Then a fierce joy took possession of him—a joy akin to the gloating of a savage cruelty. She had failed. Yes, in spite of the brocade of her gown, in spite of the diamonds in her hair, in spite of the homage in the eyes of men that followed her—she had failed.
The blood rushed into his temples, and he felt it beating in his pulses. He was glad—glad that she was unsatisfied—glad of the struggle and of the failure—glad of the slow torture of famished aspirations.
And from the throat of the soprano the words rang heavy with throbs of unfulfilment:
"I would give half my life for this—to sing with Alvary."
Then as he looked at her she stirred restlessly, and their eyes met. It was a blank look, such as two strangers might have interchanged, but suddenly he remembered the night they came together and sat in the fifth gallery. A dozen details of that evening flickered in his memory and reddened into life. He remembered the splendors of her eyes, the thrill in her voice, the nervous tremor of her hands. He remembered the violets in her bonnet, created from nothing after a chapter of Mill—and the worn gloves with the stains inside, which benzine had not taken away. He remembered her faintness when the opera was over, and the grocery-shop across from The Gotham,where they had bought ale and crackers. He saw her figure as she sat on the hearth-rug in her white gown, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, her eyes drowsy with sleep. He saw her hands—bare then of jewels—as she unfastened the parcels, and heard her laugh as he drew the cork and the ale spilled upon the crackers. Good God! He had forgotten these things eight years ago.
Again he looked across at her and their eyes met. He turned to the stage and listened to the faltering of love as it struggled with doubt. The music had changed. It had deepened in color and a new note had throbbed into it—a note of flesh that weighed upon spirit—of disbelief that shadowed faith. The ideal was singing the old lesson of the real found wanting—of passion tarnished by the touch of clay. The ecstasy had fled. Love was not satisfied with itself. It craved knowledge, and the vision beautiful was fading before the eyes of earth. It was the song of the eternal vanquishment of love by distrust, of the eternal failure of faith.
When the curtain fell Ryder came into the box. He was looking depressed, and lines of irritation had gathered about his mouth. He pulled his fair mustache nervously. His wife rose and looked at him with a frank smile in her eyes.
"I have been watching Mrs. Gore," she said, "and she is very lovely. Will you take me to her box for a moment?"
Nevins looked up with quick gratitude, and Ryder grew radiant. He smiled on his wife in affectionate admiration.
"Of course I will," he answered, and as they left the box he added: "You are magnificent. There is not a woman in town with your neck and arms."
She smiled faintly, unmoved by his words. She hadlearned long since that he still admired though he no longer desired her—and desire was the loadstar of his life.
Father Algarcife, looking at the box across from him, saw Mariana start suddenly and rise with an impulsive welcome as Mrs. Ryder entered. He could see the light on her face, and the frank pleasure of her greeting. Then, as the two women stood together, he saw Ryder glance from one to the other with his pleasant smile and turn to speak to Miss Ramsey. He heard Nevins breathing behind him, and he was conscious of a strange feeling of irritation against him. Why should he, who was at enmity with no man, cherish that curious dislike for one who was his friend?
"Mrs. Ryder is a creature to be adored," said Nevins to Miss Darcy. "She is Isis incarnate."
Miss Darcy responded with her flashing smile. "And Mrs. Gore's divinity?"
Nevins gave an embarrassed laugh.
"Oh, I am not sure that she is a goddess at all," he answered. "She is merely a woman."
As Mariana entered her house after the opera was over she unwound the lace scarf from her head, letting it trail like a silvery serpent on the floor behind her. Then she unfastened her long cloak, and threw it on a chair in the drawing-room.
"The fire is out," she said, looking at the ashes in the grate, "and I am cold—cold."
"Shall I start it?" asked Miss Ramsey, a little timidly, as she tugged awkwardly at her gloves, embarrassed by their length.
Mariana laughed absently.
"Start it? Why should you?" she questioned. "There are servants—or there ought to be—but no, I'll go up-stairs."
She went into the hall, and Miss Ramsey followed her. On the second landing they entered a large room, the floor of which was spread with white fur rugs, warmed by the reddish lights and shadows from an open fire.
Mariana crossed to the fire, and, drawing off her gloves, held her hands to the flames. There was a strained look in her eyes, as if she had not awaked to her surroundings.
Miss Ramsey raised the wick of the lamp, yawned behind her hand, and came to where Mariana was standing.
"Are you tired?" she asked. "The opera was very long."
Mariana started and looked at her.
"You poor little thing," she said. "It half killed you. No, don't go. Sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you."
As she spoke she unfastened her gown, slipped it off, and threw it across a chair. Then she put on a wrapper of white flannel, and, seating herself on the rug before the fire, loosened her heavy hair.
"I want to talk," she repeated.
Miss Ramsey drew a chair beside her and sat down. She laid her hand on Mariana's hair.
"Shall I braid it?" she asked.
Mariana shook her head.
"I don't want you to wait on me," she replied, half pettishly. "Janet can do that. I want you to love me."
Miss Ramsey smiled.
"How shall I begin?" she inquired.
But Mariana was silent, staring moodily into the fire, where the ruddy coals assumed sharp and bizarre designs. As the light flickered over her face it brought out the changes in her eyes and the warmth of her mouth.
"Do you see that head in the fire?" she asked, suddenly. "It is the head of the Sphinx—and before it there is a burning desert—do you see?"
Then she laid her head in Miss Ramsey's lap, and her voice sounded faint and far off.
"I want to be told that I am good," she said; "that I have been good all my life—that I am a saint, like that splendid creature who came to speak to me to-night. Am I as good as she?"
"I do not know her," responded Miss Ramsey.
Mariana raised her eyes to her face.
"Am I like I used to be—at The Gotham?"
Miss Ramsey smiled.
"You are older."
"And wiser?"
"I don't think you will ever be wise, my dear."
"I am afraid not," said Mariana. "I am wedded to folly." Then she sighed softly. "Am I better?" she asked.
"You are very good to me."
"Am I better—to look at?"
Miss Ramsey shook her head gently.
"Dress makes a good deal of difference," she returned, presently.
Mariana rose and kissed her good-night.
"Sleep well," she said. "And don't make your bed in the morning—please don't. Yes, I am very sleepy."
But when the door had closed after Miss Ramsey she sat looking into the grate until the crimson coals had waned to livid ashes. The room grew cold and the shadows deepened in the folds of the curtains at the windows, which were stirred by a faint draught. From the street below an occasional noise rose, vague, unseizable—the roll of a wagon or the tramp of a passer-by upon the sidewalk. In a distant room a clock struck twice, with a soft whirring sound. From her gown, thrown across the back of a chair, the bruised violets diffused a fading sweetness. The embers waned one by one, and the visions in the fire grew spectral, like living faces which the warm blood forsakes. As the last one died she rose and went to bed.
When she awoke in the morning it was to find Miss Ramsey standing beside her, holding her breakfast-tray.
"You were sleeping very soundly," she said. "Did you have a good night?"
"Oh yes," Mariana responded. She yawned and turned upon the pillows, stretching her arms above her head. The lace on her sleeves fell away from her bare elbows.
"I slept very soundly, and I am sleepy still. The mere fact of getting up in the morning makes life afailure. Until I have had my bath I am always a pessimist."
She sat up drowsily, running her hands through her hair. Then she turned to her tea, which was placed on a table beside her.
"There are your violets also," remarked Miss Ramsey, pointing to a couple of florist's boxes; and, as an afterthought, she added: "Men are odd creatures."
Mariana laughed.
"Oh, they imagine that they are laying up treasures on earth," she answered, stirring her tea. "And they have overlooked the fact that moths corrupt. I shall advise them to transfer their attentions to Heaven. Who was it that called me 'unpropitious'?"
"I don't like it," said Miss Ramsey. "I may be old-fashioned, but I don't approve of married men living as if they had no responsibilities."
"Nor do I," agreed Mariana. "It bores one awfully."
"And it makes people say unkind things of you, my dear. It is so hard for them to draw the distinction between imprudence and infamy."
"Yes," admitted Mariana, pushing her cup aside. "I suppose it is—and I suppose I am imprudent."
"I wish you would try to be a little more careful."
Mariana caught her hand and pulled her down on the bed beside her.
"What a treasure you are!" she said. "Do you know you are the one woman I absolutely believe in? You might have made a fortune by reporting scandals about me, and you haven't done so."
The maid brought in several letters, and Mariana took them from her and broke the seals carelessly.
"Mr. Gore is coming forward again," she remarked, tossing an open sheet on the counterpane. "You knew he did not like that worshipful old uncle of his leaving me his property. He says it has made me tooindependent. Well, it has made me independent of him, for which Heaven be praised. When I heard of it I repeated the Thirty-nine Articles, fiftyHail Mary's, and as much of the Shorter Catechism as I could think of. I feelsothankful."
"I am sorry for that, Mariana."
"You wouldn't be if you knew him. You are too economical to squander emotions."
"But it does seem rather hard on him," said Miss Ramsey.
Mariana laughed.
"It would have been worse on me had I stayed with him," she responded. "And now, if Janet has my bath ready, I think I'll get up."
An hour later she came down-stairs in her hat and coat, and went for her morning walk in the park. When she returned she ordered the carriage, and went shopping, accompanied by Miss Ramsey.
"You are to have a heliotrope satin," Mariana declared, in a burst of generosity, "and I am to have one that is all amber and dull gold."
As she stood in the centre of the costumer's show-room, surveying the lustrous folds of heliotrope and amber, her eyes shone with pleasure. Miss Ramsey protested faintly.
"My dear Mariana, I beg of you," she said, "leave me the black silk. Colors confuse me."
But Mariana was obdurate.
"No," she replied, "I have selected it. We will go to the milliner's."
They drove to the milliner's, where they remained for a couple of hours—Mariana finding difficulty in deciding upon a bonnet. When the choice was made Miss Ramsey was threatened with hysteria, and they went home.
"I quite forgot," said Mariana, as they entered the house, a small brown-stone one on Fifty-seventh Street,which she had leased—"I quite forgot that I was to have sat for Mr. Nevins this morning. How provoking I am! But it is too late now, and, besides, I am looking a fright. My dear, good Miss Ramsey, I do wish you would express yourself more about the purchases I make."
"I did express myself," protested Miss Ramsey, looking jaded and harassed. "I expressed myself against that heliotrope satin, but it did no good."
"But that was absurd," responded Mariana. "I do hope luncheon is ready," and she went up-stairs to change her dress.
After luncheon Mrs. Ryder called, and Mariana went in to see her, a flush of pleasure suffusing her face.
"How very kind of you!" she said, taking the proffered hand, and there was a thrill of gratitude in her voice. They seated themselves near together and talked of mutual acquaintances, principally men, of the weather, and of the opera the evening before—all with the flippancy with which society veils the primordial network of veins coursing beneath its bloodless surface. Then, when Mrs. Ryder rose to go, she hesitated an instant, looking down at the smaller woman.
"I should like to be your friend," she said at last. "Will you let me?"
Mariana raised her eyes.
"I need them," she answered; and then she added, impulsively: "Do you know all that has been said of me—all?"
Mrs. Ryder drew herself up with a slow, gracious movement.
"But it is not true," she said.
"No, it is not true," repeated Mariana.
The other smiled and held out her hand.
"I want you to come to luncheon with me," she said. "I shall be alone to-morrow. Will you come?"
"Yes," Mariana responded, "to-morrow."
And after Mrs. Ryder had gone she sat down at her desk and wrote a note.
"You must not talk to me again as you did last evening," it said. "I have told you so before, but I may not have seemed in earnest. Now I am in earnest, and you must not—you shall not do it. I know it has been a great deal my fault, and I am sorry for it. Indeed, you must believe that I did not think of its coming to this."
Then she sealed it and gave it to the servant to mail, after which she went up-stairs and talked to Miss Ramsey until dinner.
The next day she went to Mrs. Ryder's, and they sat down to luncheon at a small round table and talked as women talk in whom feeling is predominant over thought, and to whom life represents a rhythmic series of emotions rather than waves of mental evolution.
They spoke in low, almost affectionate voices, conscious of one of those sudden outreaches of sympathy to which women are subject. When luncheon was over they went up to the nursery, and Mariana knelt upon the floor and romped with the child, who pulled her loosened hair, uttering shrill shrieks of delight. At last she rose hurriedly, and Mrs. Ryder saw that a tear trembled on her lashes.
The elder woman's heart expanded.
"You have had a child?" she asked, softly.
"Yes."
"And lost it?"
"Yes, I lost it."
Mrs. Ryder's eyes grew soft.
"I am so sorry for you," she said. The tear on Mariana's lashes fell upon her hand.
"It was eight years ago," she said. "That is a long time, but I suppose one never entirely forgets."
"No," answered the other, "one never forgets."
She stooped suddenly, and, lifting her child, kissed it passionately.
Several mornings after this Mariana's carriage stopped before Nevins's studio, and Mariana got out and ascended the long flight of stairs. In response to the fall of the brass knocker, the door was opened and Nevins greeted her reproachfully. "Are you aware," he demanded, gravely, "that there has been sufficient time for the appearance of a wrinkle since your last sitting?"
"Portraits don't have wrinkles," returned Mariana, cheerfully, entering and unfastening her coat; "nor do I."
She removed her hat and gave an impatient little fluff to her hair.
"Do I look well?" she asked.
"Were you ever otherwise to me?" rejoined Nevins, in impassioned protest.
Mariana turned from him with a slight shrug of her shoulders.
"For the last week," she said, "I have had a horrible cold. It made my eyes red and my nose also. That is why I stayed away."
"And plunged me into a seven days' despair—for a cold."
"Oh, but such a cold!"
She seated herself on a low chair between two large curtained easels. Then she rose to examine the portrait.
"I suppose the touching-up makes a great deal of difference," she remarked.
"A great deal," assented Nevins; "but don't you like it?"
She hesitated, her head first on one side, then on the other.
"Oh yes," she said, "but I should like it to be ideal, you know."
"Nonsense! You don't need to be idealized. To idealize means to wipe out character with turpentine and put in inanity with a paint-brush." Then he added: "Sit down just as you are, and turn your head towards the purple curtain on that easel. A little farther—there. I must have that expression."
He picked up his brush and worked steadily for twenty minutes. Then he frowned.
"You have suffered twelve changes of expression within the last sixty seconds," he said. "What are you thinking of?"
"Oh, lots of things."
"Keep to one, please."
She smiled.
"Which shall it be?"
His eyes lingered upon her in sudden brightness.
"Think of me," he responded.
"I do," returned Mariana, amiably; "but when I think of you I think of Mr. Ardly, and when I think of Mr. Ardly I think of The Gotham, and when I think of The Gotham I think of—Mr. Paul."
"Confound Mr. Paul!" retorted Nevins, crossly.
"Please don't," protested Mariana; and she added, "you know he disapproves of me very much."
"The scoundrel!"
"But a great many people do that."
"The scoundrels!"
"Oh no," said Mariana, plaintively; "it is only your kindness of heart that makes you say so."
He laid down his brush and looked at her.
"My God!—Mariana!" he exclaimed.
"Nevins," said a voice in the doorway.
He turned abruptly. Mariana, behind the curtained easel, paled suddenly.
"I knocked, my dear fellow," the voice went on, "and I thought you answered. So youarealone. I came to look at the portrait."
"I am not alone," returned Nevins, awkwardly; "but come in, a—a—Algarcife."
Mariana rose from behind the easel and came forward. Her face was white, but she was smiling.
"He is painting every one's portrait," she said, "and I am one of everybody." She held out her hand. He took it limply, and it fell from his grasp.
"I beg your pardon," he said; "I did not know."
"Oh, it doesn't matter," responded Mariana. "Please look at the portrait. I want to—to rest."
He turned from her coldly.
"Since Mrs. Gore is so kind," he said to Nevins, "I will look at it. It will only detain you a moment."
He crossed the room and drew aside the curtain from a large canvas, then he fell back from the light and examined it carefully for a few seconds, suggesting an alteration or two, and making a favorable comment.
Mariana followed him with her eyes, her hands clasped before her, her face pallid, and the red of her lips shining like a scarlet thread. "It—it is very like," she said, suddenly.
He bowed quietly, showing a slight surprise, as he might have done at the remark of a stranger. Then he turned to the door.
"I am sorry to have interrupted you," he said. "Good-morning."
When the door closed upon him Mariana stood for an instant with her head bent as if listening to his footsteps on the stairs. Then she turned to Nevins, a smile flashing across her face.
"We must go back to the portrait," she said. "It must be finished quickly—quickly. I am afraid of wrinkles."
Mariana was walking under the elms that skirt the park on Fifth Avenue. It was a mild December morning, and the sunshine fell in silvery waves through the bare branches of trees overhead and rippled lightly across the concrete sidewalk, while the slender shadows of the boughs assumed the effect of irregular lines drawn by crude fingers upon a slate. Far ahead, through the narrowing archway of naked elms, the perspective sloped in gradual incline, blending the changing shades of blue and gray into a vista of pale violet. On the low stone wall to her left the creepers showed occasional splashes of scarlet berries, glowing warm and vivid through the autumnal haze which tinted the atmosphere. December had reverted for a single day into the majesty of dead October.
Mariana walked slowly, the furs, which she found oppressive, open at the throat, and her muff hanging idly from her hand. There was a rapt expression upon her face, and her eyes were sombre. She had the strained and preoccupied air of one whose mind has winged back to long-past days, leaving the body adrift in its relation to present events. All at once a tiny child, rolling a toy along the sidewalk, stumbled and fell before her feet, uttering shrieks of dismay. The incident recalled her to herself, and, as she stooped to lift it, she smiled at the profuse apologies of the nurse. Then she glanced about her, as if uncertain of the number of blocks that she had walked.
Three aspens, standing together in the park, arrestedher gaze, and she looked at them with momentary intentness. Their slender bodies shone like leprous fingers, pointing heavenward, and on the topmost point of one a broken spray of frosted leaves shivered whitely. They recalled to her with a shudder the little graveyard on the old plantation, where she had spent her earliest childhood, and she was seized with a spasm of memory. She saw the forgotten and deserted graves, with the rank periwinkle corroding the marble slabs, and she saw the little brown lizards that crept out to bask upon them in the summer sunshine. With the recollection, death appeared to her hideous and loathsome, and she walked on quickly, her eyes on the pavement. A group of street-cleaners were seated against the stone wall, eating their mid-day meal, and she looked at the hunks of bread and ham with a feeling of sympathy for the consumers. Then, as she passed, her thoughts swung to the owner of the house across the way whom she knew, and who was descending the front steps. At Sixty-seventh Street she turned into the park, her eyes drawn by the clump of pines darkly defined against the gray rock beyond. For the second time her errant thoughts went back to her childhood and to the great pine forest where the wind played lullabies through the white heat of August days. She felt a swift desire to throw herself beneath the little alien growth of pine, to lie on the soft grass, which was still like emerald deepened by bluish shadows, and to let the spicy needles fall upon her upturned face.
As she moved onward, a man crossing the park in a rapid walk approached her. It was Father Algarcife, and in a moment their glances met.
He raised his hat, and would have passed on, but she stopped him by a gesture.
"Won't you speak to me?" she asked, and her voice wavered like a harp over which the player has lost control.
As she looked at him she saw that he had grown thinner since she had last seen him, and that his eyes shone with an unnatural lustre.
"What is there for me to say?" he returned, arresting her wavering glance.
Her lips quivered.
"I may go away," she said, "and this is the last chance. There is something I must tell you. Will you turn and walk back with me?"
He shook his head.
"What is the use?" he asked, impatiently. "There is nothing to be said that cannot better be left—unsaid."
"No! No!" she said. "You must not think worse of me than—than I deserve."
He was smiling bitterly.
"What I think of you," he returned, "matters very little." Then the smile passed, and he looked at her gravely. "I have little time," he said. "My days are not my own." And he added, slowly: "If you wish it, I will walk back with you for a short distance."
"Thank you," she replied, and they passed the clump of pines on their way in the park.
For a time they were silent, he was looking ahead, and her eyes followed their shadows as they flitted before her on the ground. The two shadows drew nearer, almost melted into one, and fell away.
Suddenly he turned to her.
"There was something you wished to say?" he asked, as he had asked his parishioners a hundred times; then he added: "Even though it were better left unsaid?"
Her eyes left the shadows, and were raised to his face. She thought suddenly that there was a line of cruelty about his mouth, and shrank from him. Had she really seen that face illuminated by passion, or was memory a lie? She spoke rapidly, her words tripping upon one another.
"I want you to know," she said, "how it happened—how I did it—how—"
He looked at her again, and the mocking smile flamed in his eyes.
"What does it matter how it happened," he questioned, "since it did happen? In these days we have become impressionists in all things—even in our experiences. Details are tiresome." Then, as she was silent, he went on. "And these things are done with. There is nothing between Mrs.—Gore and the Reverend Anthony Algarcife except a meeting in a studio and a morning walk in the park. The air is spring-like."
"Don't," she said, suddenly. "You are hard."
He laughed shortly.
"Hard things survive," he answered. "They aren't easy to smash."
She looked at the shadows and then into his face.
"Have you ever forgiven me?" she asked.
He did not answer.
"I should like to feel," she went on, "that you see it was not my fault—that I was not to blame—that you forgive me for what you suffered."
But he looked ahead into the blue-gray distance and was silent.
"Tell me that I was not to blame," she said, again.
He turned to her.
"It was as much your fault," he said, slowly, "as it is the fault of that feather that the wind is blowing it into the lake. What are you that you should conquer the wind?"
She smiled sadly.
"And you have forgiven me?"
His eyes grew hard and his voice cut like steel.
"No."
"And yet you see that I was not to blame."
He smiled again.
"It is the difference," he answered, "between logic and life. What have they in common?"
She spoke almost passionately. "Do you think that I have not suffered?" she asked. "Do you think that you have had all—all the pain?"
He shook his head.
"I do not suffer," he replied. "My life is calm."
She paid no heed to him.
"I have been tortured," she went on; "tortured night and day with memory—and remorse."
His voice was cold, but a sudden anger blazed in his eyes.
"There are drugs for both," he said.
She shivered.
"I have tried to buy happiness as I bought diamonds," she continued. "I have gone from place to place in pursuit of it. I have cheated myself with the belief that I might find it. I did not know that the lack lay in myself—always in myself."
She was silent, and he softened suddenly. "And you have never found it?" he asked. "Of all the things that you craved in youth there is lacking to you now—only your ambition."
She raised her head.
"And love," she finished.
His voice grew hard again.
"We are speaking of realities," he returned, and added, bitterly: "Who should have had love—if not you?"
They had passed the lake, and were walking through the Ramble. The dead leaves rustled beneath their feet.
"It is not true," she said, passionately. "It is false."
"What is false?" he demanded, quietly. "That you have had opportunities for love?"
She did not reply. Her lips were trembling, and her hand played nervously with the ribbon on her muff.
Suddenly she looked up.
"When I left you," she said, slowly, "I went with the opera troupe abroad. For several years I was very successful, and I believed it would end well. I was given a leading part. Then one winter, when we were in Paris, I was taken ill. It was pneumonia. I was very ill, and the pain was frightful. They thought it would go to my heart. But when I grew better the troupe went on. I was left at the hotel, ill and alone—except for one friend—an Englishman—"
He interrupted her harshly.
"You have made a mistake," he said, and his voice was dull and lifeless. "I have no right to know your story. You are not of my parish—nor am I your confessor."
She flinched, but went on steadily, though her tones drooped.
"He had followed me for a long time. He loved me—or thought he did. When I was deserted by the troupe he stayed with me. He paid my bills and brought me back to life. I grew strong again, but—my voice was gone."
She paused as if in pain.
"Sit down," he said.
And they sat down on a bench beneath the naked branches of an oak.
"I was penniless, alone, and very weak. He wanted me even then. At first he did not want to marry me, but when I would not yield, he begged me to come back with him and secure a divorce. I think he was mad with passion."
She hesitated and glanced at him, but he was looking away.
"At last the end came. There was nothing else to do—and I wrote to you."
He moistened his lips as if they were parched from fever.
"Did you get the letter?"
"Yes," he answered, "I got it."
"And you did not answer?"