The races were over, and the rays of the setting sun streamed through the western window of the little dining-room where Walter Sedger's party was seated. The glass and plate glistened in the fading sunlight, and cast many deep shadows on the white table cover, while the faces of the people sitting there were flushed with the first glow of the approaching twilight. The servants moved quietly from place to place, and the merry conversation of Sedger's friends mingled with the soft strains of a Viennese waltz coming through the open hallway door. The thousands who had crowded the course that day had rumbled back over the dusty roads to the city. The huge Grand Stand was silent and deserted, and only the few parties dining at the club remained of the great crowd that had cheered Belle of Newport in her Derby victory. The refreshing cool of the evening seemed to inspire the tired people with new spirits, and the addition to their number of Jack Elliot and his coaching party supplied the zest of variety, while the tales of a cleverraconteurproduced peals of merry laughter and called forth the utmost efforts of the staid French waiters to preserve their habitual immobility of countenance.
When the dinner was over and the party had removed to the veranda for coffee and cigars, each person there had forgotten, for the moment, all the cares of life, and was lost in the delightful joy of living. Exception must, however, be made of Marion, for, although the society of others usually enabled her to cast aside the depressing influences which often afflicted her, on this occasion she was unusually silent, and had been quite unresponsive to the loquacious efforts exerted by the grain broker on her right to arouse her interest. She now sat a little removed from the rest and gazed moodily out over the deserted race-course, thinking over the events of the past few months, and wondering, in a dazed sort of way, what the outcome would be. The men had gathered together and were discussing sport, while the women talked animatedly about a certain Mrs. Johnson whose actions had lately been disapproved of in certain quarters, so Marion was permitted to follow the current of her fancies undisturbed.
It was just dark enough for the freshly lighted cigars to glow in the fading light. With the setting of the sun had come the silence evening casts over a busy city, and except the occasional croaking of a frog in the Club House lake, or the distant whistle of a locomotive, there was no sound to break the evening quiet. Away over by the long row of red-roofed stables a pair of work-horses were slowly dragging a harrow over the deserted race-course, and they and the laborer trudging behind them were the only evidences of life which Marion could see. The last sun-gleam left the sky, but a fading tinge of light still rested upon the clouds. Marion watched it for a moment,—then it was gone. It seemed to her like a life which fades slowly into oblivion. She often thought of the unseen, and tried, occasionally, to form some life theory which seemed rational. To-night, in the stillness which came after the bustle of the day, she felt singularly alone. She looked up into the impenetrable darkness and to her fancy the world seemed a frightful pit of blackness with a mass of living creatures at the bottom,—writhing in misery and gasping for a breath of happiness. And God? An awful monster at the pit's mouth, baiting the distorted souls with pestilence or dangling hopes before their burning eyes, only to mock their struggles and let them sink down! down! down! Death comes to one sufferer, and then, with a gloating laugh, the monster drops another life into the pit to let it writhe in its awful misery. Marion shuddered at her fancy, and glanced up as if expecting to see the monster's eyes gleaming at the pit's mouth. The thought was horrible, and she covered her eyes with her hands to shut out her distorted imaginations, asking herself if there was no power strong enough to drive away the spirit of gloom which beset her, and make her pulses beat with joy. Deep in her heart she felt there was such a power, but it troubled her to think of it.
"Mrs. Sanderson." She looked up, startled, and saw Duncan by her side. "I thought you might like to walk on the other side of the veranda. It is delightfully cool there."
For a moment she hesitated. "What can be the harm?" she thought. "None," was the answer she gave her question, and then she followed Duncan to the northern side of the veranda where an arm of the building hid them from the others. The moon was rising and her soft light was shed upon the soughing trees, and the stretch of white roadway before them. It was one of those perfect nights of early summer when the vexatious spirits of the day seem lulled to sleep by the mild airs of heaven, and as Marion sat there looking out over the moonlit park, she wondered at the gruesome fancies which had filled her mind but a moment before.
"It is a joy to live on such a night as this," she said, after the moment of silence which followed their coming.
Duncan leaned toward her, and spoke in the deep, soft tones Marion remembered so well. "I feel," he said, "that heaven has sent us this peaceful night to show us that happiness can be a reality."
"It is fortunate that perfect happiness seldom comes," she replied; "the monotony of it would be unendurable."
"Do you think it would be monotonous always to love?" he asked.
"Not if it were possible," she answered after a moment of thought.
"I know it is possible," he said firmly.
"How?" she asked, looking up into his face.
His hand touched hers. "Because, when I look into your eyes, I feel a love which no power on earth could change." She let her hand remain in his, but she turned her face away. "How can I know this love is sincere?" she asked.
"By driving the cruel spirit out of your heart. You may send me away again as you did last winter, but I will come back, for, Marion, I love you, and I must have your love." Instinctively she started to her feet. Duncan was quickly by her side. His arm was about her, and she felt his lips against her cheek.
"I love you, my Marion," he whispered passionately; "you shall not leave me." For a moment she rested her head against his breast and felt the embrace of his strong arms.
"If it were not a sin, Duncan," she said, looking up into his eyes, "I might love you."
"No love like ours can be a sin. It is heaven sent."
"If it only were," she sighed; then he drew her closer to him.
"It is, dearest," he said. "If you will listen to me, you will believe it, too."
"I must not listen to you, Duncan."
"Must I go away?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then I was foolish to fancy I could read love in your eyes."
"Don't torture me."
"I, torture? It is you who send me from you."
"I know it, but think of the danger we are in. Leave me to-night, Duncan. To-morrow Florence will be with Mr. Wainwright's aunt, and Roswell goes to St. Louis. Dine with me at eight, perhaps I can tell you then, but not to-night. I must have time to think."
"I will go now," he said, "but I will come to you to-morrow." He kissed her.
"God help me," she sighed.
Duncan quietly released her and they walked silently back toward the place where they had left the others. At the corner of the building they met Sedger. It was too dark for him to notice that Marion was agitated, and any possible suspicions were averted by Duncan's saying quietly, "Here we are. We had just started to join you. Is the drag ready?"
"Yes. I have been collecting the party. You are the last to be found. It's a capital night for a drive and I intend to take you back through Jackson Park."
"Splendid," said Marion. "I adore driving in the moonlight."
The party had left the veranda, and Marion and her companions walked to where they were waiting. They were obliged to descend the stairs to the hallway below, and by the time they reached the rendezvous she felt perfectly calm and collected. They were compelled to wait a moment for a missing wrap. Marion stood next to Duncan, and a wild sense of pleasure was in her heart. The fear had gone, and her love made her defiant. She felt that she might give him his answer then.
The missing wrap was found, and the party moved toward the door. As they passed out they could see the dark outlines of the drag looming up in the moonlight. The great coach lamps cast a flickering light upon the roadway and the horses champed impatiently at the bits. Sedger mounted to the box and this time Mrs. Smith had the seat beside him. A couple of Sedger's friends had been picked up at the club, so Marion said she would take the back seat. Duncan joined her there, and she was astonished to find her husband next her also.
The drag rolled away from the Club House, and swayed and rocked as Sedger let the horses gallop through the gates and along the little stretch of road leading to the park. The evening breeze blew softly against the faces of the party, and the coach rumbled along past the park lake, with the moonlight glistening on its surface, and the slender trees standing out grim and shadowy like huge phantoms guarding its banks. Then the team settled down to a steady pace, and through the dim light the leaders could just be seen huddling together, with their ears pricked up for every sound. Horses seem to travel best at night, and the steady creaking of the harness, harmonizing with the rattle of the bars and the lively clatter of hoofs on the hard ground, came like sweet music through the night air. A leader shied at a shadow; the coach swayed for a moment, and the party crowded closer together. Some one started a college song; the refrain was caught up by the rest, and the chorus swelled forth a familiar glee. Along the tree-lined avenues or through winding roadways the great coach rolled. Now the leaders plunged into the dark shadows of the woods, or trotted merrily past some open meadow, while from the long coach-horn the notes of "Who'll buy a broom," sounded sharp and clear on the night air:
"For though the sound of the horn is dead,And the guards are turned to clay,There are those who remember the 'yard of tin,'And the mail of the olden day."
"For though the sound of the horn is dead,And the guards are turned to clay,There are those who remember the 'yard of tin,'And the mail of the olden day."
Then, for a while, they sped along the shores of the great lake, and mingling with the rumbling of wheels came the splash of the waves upon the sandy shore.
The songs grew less frequent, the laughter ceased, and the party gradually lapsed into silence. A reckless daring, such as she had never known before, possessed Marion. In her imagination she seemed to be rolling on toward some dazzling goal, and she laughed at the thought of danger. The moon passed under a cloud and she felt the strong grasp of Duncan's hand about her own. She looked toward her husband and there was a cold, stony feeling in her heart. She was glad to feel that she had the courage to break from the trammels of convention which had so long bound her, and she felt a delightful sense of freedom which told her that at last the depths of her nature had been fathomed, and that the love lying there had burst forth in all its strength.
The coach left the park and rolled into the sleeping city. Down the long avenue it went, past rows of darkened houses. The cool breezes of the lake seemed warmed by the heated pavements, and the freedom of the country was lost in the narrow lines of streetway. Marion sat watching the two converging rows of flickering street lamps stretching away as far as she could see, and down the street before her she saw the lamps of Jack Elliot's coach gleaming in the darkness. She remained lost in thought, and did not speak again until the brake rattled and the drag suddenly stopped.
Late that night Duncan sat in his room at the City Club. He was partly undressed and his clothes lay scattered about in heedless confusion. In his hand he held a glass of whiskey and soda, and between the occasional sips he passed over in his mind the events of the day. He thought also of the experiences of his life, and the women he had known came into his mind; women who had trusted and loved him while they formed the idle amusement of his hours; women who had felt his power for a while, only to see him turn away for some later fancy. He smiled as he thought of the words of love he had spoken to confiding hearts, but the smile brought a tinge of remorse for the harm he had done. He thought of Marion in a different light then, and a feeling of pity came into his heart which prompted him to curb his selfish nature and act in a generous way; but the echo of a cruel laugh came to him, and in fancy he saw two mocking black eyes gleaming before him. "A man's a fool," he said aloud, "not to take what fortune sends him."
The seemingly interminable hours of the Sunday following the races passed slowly by. Marion spent the afternoon in her own room trying to think over the possibilities of the near future. Her heedless conduct had now brought her to a position which demanded resolute decision, and, surrounded as she was by a maze of temptations, she required to exercise the calmest judgment. A strong nature is able, at such times, to penetrate the future and select the wisest course, but it is far easier, and perhaps more natural, to drift aimlessly along, trusting to no other guide than fatuity. At moments a faint sense of fear feebly urged Marion to hold back, but wild fancies burned so impetuously in her heart that she was carried on past the point where she might have calmly considered the probable result of her conduct.
At last she was a woman, she thought, and felt as other women did. After years passed in eking out a monotonous existence amid repellent surroundings she felt emancipated by the knowledge that she had found the love her nature craved. Now that Duncan had brought her this love should she refuse the gift and voluntarily return to the slavery in which she had lived so long? This was the question she asked herself. It would be transgressing the rules of society if she permitted herself to enjoy this love, but what difference did that make? For years she had been religiously obeying those rules, and her existence had been one of wretched discontent. Certainly the other course could not make her more unhappy, and, besides, she had seen women in other cities break loose from the bonds of convention and still maintain a standing in the world. In fact, they had been almost openly applauded for their action, and certainly had not suffered, socially, for their courage. After all, virtue was little else than fear, and it was only a weak nature that would permit itself to be coerced by the danger of discovery. In older places that danger had been modified by the liberality of an advanced society, and as she had only the restricted provincialism of Chicago to fear, she felt a secret delight in defying the prudish gossips of the Knox Presbyterian Church. After all, she felt that she was clever enough to elude discovery, and relying on her discretion she permitted herself to dismiss fear from her heart as unworthy of a superior nature. It was by such reasoning as this that she forced her judgment to approve the promptings of her heart.
Marion watched the moments roll by. As the hour approached when she was to meet Duncan alone she felt calmer than she had at any time since their parting. At six o'clock she heard the brougham drive up to the door to take her husband to the station, and when he came into her room to bid her good-by, she calmly kissed him, congratulating herself that she had not betrayed the slightest agitation. All love for him was dead, she felt, and when he lingered for another embrace, she wondered that he could not see her heart was cold and unmoved. She smiled as he left. "Foolish fellow," she thought, "he has never known the true warmth of my heart so he will be content with the cold effigy of love I give him." However, the words seemed very harsh, even to her, and she wondered if it really were she who had spoken them. Inspired by a curiosity to see if she had changed during the day, she looked at herself in the long mirror of her dressing-room and felt a secret pleasure in the thought that the image before her was that of a woman of the world to whom none of the experiences of life were strange. She thought her face showed more character, too, and she flattered herself that it would not be easy for anyone to read her thoughts in those deep, black eyes.
The little clock on her dressing-table struck half-past six, and she rang for her maid to dress her hair. After spending an hour-and-a-quarter at her toilet, she again arose and surveyed herself in the long mirror. Her pulses seemed, somehow, to be beating more rapidly now, and the calmness she had felt before was deserting her. The sense of fear came into her heart again, and even her conscience uttered a faint remonstrance at the step she was taking. She thought over all the chances of discovery and wondered whether there was danger from the servants. Her cook and her butler were both French and, as they could speak but a few words of English, would say nothing; the footman and housemaids she had permitted to go out, and she felt that she could trust the discretion of her own maid. As for her neighbors, the people living next door were not of her set, and she drew a breath of relief on looking out of the window and finding that, owing to a cloudy sky, it was already nearly dark. Still she was far from calm, and, thinking she looked pale, she pinched her cheeks to bring color into them.
It was time for Duncan to arrive. Should she feign illness and send him away? She felt that it was too late for her to turn back now, and the thought of Duncan brought back memories which, for the moment, drove fear completely from her heart, and aroused the reckless spirit which had already carried her so far. She took a hasty glance at herself in the glass, gave a final touch to her hair, and hurried down the stairway to the little French room where she had been with Duncan on the afternoon of Mrs. McSeeney's tea. No longer able to reason out excuses for her actions she abandoned herself to the contending fancies which filled her mind. She closed her eyes and fancied that she was being borne recklessly on toward a frightful precipice by some subtle force against whose power she was helpless. It seemed to her that she was being dashed down! down! Then she imagined that she saw the remains of her former self lying, bruised and shattered, at the bottom of the abyss before her. She grasped the chair-arms convulsively, then smiled at her childish fancies, yet deep down in her heart there was a feeling, growing stronger each moment, which urged her to turn back.
The door-bell rang. Marion could feel her heart beating with suppressed excitement, and it seemed an interminable time before the measured steps of François resounded on the hardwood floor. The door opened and Duncan entered. She could hear him taking off his coat in the hall, and she felt her brain whirling with the dizziness of confused emotions. The wheels of a carriage rumbled on the pavement outside and seemed to stop before the door. What did it mean? Marion trembled at the thought that it might be some one coming to the house. Duncan took a step on the hall floor and then a key rattled in the front door. Her husband had returned. She could feel her pulses stop, and her limbs grow numb with fright. Duncan in the house, the hour, the dinner for two. What excuse could she make? The door slammed, and she heard her husband's voice in the hall. "Hello, Grahame," he said, "are you here? Just going, eh? Nonsense, stop and take pot-luck with us. I know my wife will be glad to have you. She expected to be alone."
Marion was saved. She could scarcely believe her senses; yet a sincere feeling of gratefulness to her husband came into her heart, and she drew a deep, free breath which brought the color back to her cheeks, and calmed her excited nerves. All her disturbed thoughts seemed quickly to vanish, and she felt as though she could hardly restrain herself from uttering a shout of joy. An hour before she would have felt resentment toward her husband, but the specious arguments with which she had pardoned the wrong emotions of her heart seemed, somehow, to have fled, and she could realize the danger which had threatened her. Had she been left to meet Duncan alone, she might not have proved strong enough to resist his personality, but now she felt in her heart that the peril was passed.
Roswell and Duncan came into the room. "I missed my train," Roswell said, "so I thought I would come back and dine with you, my dear. I found Grahame in the hall and persuaded him to remain. I knew you would be glad to have him."
"Your husband is extremely kind, Mrs. Sanderson," said Duncan. "I expected to dine alone at the Club."
"Mr. Grahame is always welcome," smiled Marion, wondering what would be the outcome of this discordant dinner. She looked at her husband to see if his manner betrayed any excitement, but she could notice nothing unusual.
"You won't mind if I run away early, my dear, will you?" he said. "There is another train at half-past ten."
"I wish you wouldn't go to-night, dear," answered Marion.
"I must. The business is important."
Marion turned away thoughtfully, and found her eyes wandering toward Duncan. She noticed that his face wore an amused expression, as though the situation seemed laughable, and the matter were a huge joke. This carelessness provoked Marion, and she caught herself wondering why she felt unmoved in his presence. He was in evening dress, and she was amazed that her husband did not notice that, for an afternoon call, this was an anachronism.
After a few moments of desultory conversation, François appeared in the doorway. "Ze dinner ez served, Madame," he solemnly announced, and the little party moved silently toward the dining-room. As they crossed the hallway Marion could not help smiling at the strange turn affairs had taken. It seemed to her so like an amusing situation in some comedy, and she felt as though she were an actress going through with a part in a play which would, of course, end happily when the curtain was rung down on the last act.
The party filed slowly into the dining-room, and took their seats at the little, round table. A small candelabrum, placed in the centre of the cloth, supplied the only light, and the bright rays of the candles, falling on the white table-cover and shining plate, formed a cozy contrast to the oak-lined walls looming in the distance. Duncan sat on Marion's right, while her husband was placed on her left. During the silence which came as they took their places, Marion looked curiously at both men. Duncan took his seat with a satisfied air, and as he unfolded his napkin a careless smile came to his lips. In her husband's eyes she saw an expression of determination, and she thought it unusual and out of keeping with the genial manner in which he broke the silence by saying: "I consider it very lucky we trapped you into staying, Grahame. I have scarcely seen you since you arrived, and I would like to have a friendly chat before we come to that elevator business. I shall be back from St. Louis on Sunday and we can talk about the loan on Monday."
It was a surprise to Marion to learn that her husband and Duncan were evidently so intimate. She thought they were scarcely acquainted.
"Any time will do me, Sanderson," answered Duncan, and then the party began to take their soup in silence. François poured out the sherry; Duncan took up his glass and drained it at one draught. As he put it down, he looked at Marion with an amused expression of triumph, then, glancing toward her husband, he shrugged his shoulders in a manner which conveyed contempt. Marion felt a sense of resentment toward Duncan for assuming such an attitude. His entire manner seemed to give the impression that he felt quite as much at home as the master of the house, and as the dinner progressed he treated her husband with the easy familiarity of one who felt the superiority of his position. Marion noticed that Roswell had never once changed the friendly tone of his manner, yet she could not help feeling that this extreme affability was, in some measure, assumed. The conversation was confined mainly to the two men, and Roswell seemed to lead it into channels where it was difficult for Duncan to follow, while the familiarity her husband showed with the great questions of current interest was astonishing to Marion. She had spent so little time with him that she was unfamiliar with his tastes, and the keenness with which he argued, together with the delicate manner in which he seemed to lay bare Duncan's ignorance, surprised her greatly.
Marion was glad to be a listener, as it gave her time to think. She seemed to be seized now with a dispassionate calmness, which permitted her to view her actions in a way she had never done before. The subtle spell which had bound her to Duncan seemed fast breaking, and although scarce an hour before she had been ready to confess to him the full warmth of her love, she now appeared to be at a great distance from him and looking at the past as in the pages of some book. Again and again she glanced toward him and wondered why he seemed so changed. She observed that he was drinking too much wine, and when he occasionally raised his glass and cast an insinuating glance toward her, she felt the spirit of resentment grow stronger and stronger. She asked herself if his power of fascination had gone, and she confessed that in the society of others, at least, he was not the same as when alone with her. Then she thought over the words which he had spoken to her, and how in his presence she had felt the subtle inspiration of a love which, it seemed to her, must burn forever. She looked up to see if she could feel the power his grey eyes had so often exerted over her, and she saw an angry blush come to his cheek. Roswell had called forth a confession of ignorance on a delicate point of finance. Duncan was clever, but he was not a deep student, and he often found himself at a loss for facts with which to substantiate his theories. He spoke a resentful word or two, and Marion thought it was unmanly for him to lose his temper.
The dinner wore on, and Marion found herself becoming more and more critical of Duncan's actions. She wondered if he were the man for whom, two hours before, she had been willing to venture everything. She began to analyze her feelings of the past six months, and she asked herself if the feeling he inspired was, after all, the love that her nature craved. Perhaps her doubts were momentary and would vanish, leaving her again the prey of wild desires. Yet she felt that her nature could not be so vacillating. She looked at Duncan again to reassure herself. Was he her ideal? He leaned his elbows on the table and made a noise as he ate. She wondered why she had not noticed this before, for she abhorred carelessness of manners.
"So you think a leisure class is what we need in the West," Roswell was saying as François removed the plates after the game course. Marion had always felt this lack to be one of the evils of Western life, and she looked to Duncan for a defense of her theory.
"Yes," answered Duncan. "I favor a landed class who spend their money freely and devote their time to something beside grubbing for dollars."
"I quite agree with you," said Roswell. "We men in the West live at too rapid a pace. In the ceaseless toil after money we become callous to the finer sentiments of life." Marion looked up in astonishment. She had thought her husband irredeemably absorbed in business. "We devote too little time," he continued, "to the development of the æsthetic side of our natures. I think we should have more people of wealth whose time is spent in fostering the arts; but as for men of absolute leisure, I think we are better off without them."
"There I can't agree with you," answered Duncan, "if among men of leisure you include those whose lives are given to sport. Look at the sportsmen of England. We want more of that sort in this country. A hard riding set of men who stick at nothing. Such a life as they lead makes men of them."
Marion was too fond of literature and the arts to agree with Duncan. She had known some of these hunting men and she had a small opinion of their talents.
"In a degree I approve of your sentiments," said her husband. "If you will eliminate the taste for drink, cards, and vice from your sportsmen. Give him some brains and make him a useful member of society, who devotes much of his time to the improvement of his tenantry, and I grant you that his counterpart would be a desirable acquisition to American life."
"So you don't believe in the reckless sportsman of the old school."
"No, I confess I don't."
"Why, may I ask?"
"I think I can best answer that question by telling you an anecdote. I was once in North Carolina looking after some property. The place Where I was staying was one of the little villages in the mountains where the advent of a stranger is a matter of momentous importance. I happened to be in the village store one day when one of those tweed-and-knickerbocker Englishmen, who occasionally go there for shooting, walked in to purchase some powder. After he had received his package and was about to leave, the lean-faced cracker store-keeper detained him in conversation somewhat after this fashion:
"'Be you from Noo York, stranger?'
"The Englishman shook his head.
"'Philadelphy?'
"'No,' was the reply.
"'Chicago?'
"Another negative answer.
"'Waal, where be you from?'
"'London.'
"'Whew!' and the cracker gave a long whistle. 'What brought you all the way from London to Loneville?'
"'I came to amuse myself.'
"'Ter amuse yerself, heh! Well, that is mighty curious. What d' you do when you're to home?'
"'Nothing.'
"'How d' you live, anyway?'
"'My father supports me.'
"'Don't do nothing when you're to home, and yer father keeps ye?'
"'Yes.'
"'Waal, I'd like to ask ye jest one more question. What'ud you do 'f your father should bust?'
"That is my theory. I don't think any man should be brought up in such a way that he would have nothing to fall back on if his wealth should fail him. Give every young man an employment of some sort, no matter how rich he may be, and he will know what to do when his father 'busts'."
Marion, somehow, found herself agreeing with her husband's views. His ideas had always seemed so restricted before. She wondered why he was becoming so sensible.
François cleared the table and changed the glasses; the coffee was brought and Duncan and Roswell lighted their cigars. Marion usually remained during the smoking when the party was small, so the talk went on uninterruptedly, Roswell continuing his easy flow of anecdote and argument, and turning the conversation as one subject after another was suggested to his mind. Marion caught herself occasionally looking at her husband with a feeling of admiration, and wondered why she had never before discovered his charm of manner. She felt that he occasionally turned his keen eyes toward her as though he understood her thoughts, and she was afraid that he might be able to see her heart.
"I read a case in the paper this morning which impressed me sadly," said Roswell, putting down his empty coffee cup. "I knew the people and it seemed but the outcome of my fears."
"What was it?" asked Marion.
"The wife of a man I have known in business has left him. The husband went to Decatur on Thursday, and when he returned he found that she had fled the night before with her music teacher."
"It was probably a good riddance, wasn't it," said Duncan.
Marion thought these words unnecessarily harsh and she found herself looking appealingly at Roswell for a charitable reply.
"I can't say that," replied Roswell. "The trouble was that they had nothing in common. He was a man who began life as a page on the Board of Trade. By careful attention to business he worked his way up until he is now a very successful broker. He has, however, absolutely no social position, and no prospect of attaining one. When, two years ago, he went East, and married a girl who belonged to a good Syracuse family and brought her West, it must have been a bitter disappointment to the young wife to find herself denied the recognition which she was accustomed to receive at home. She was alone in a strange city. Her husband was away most of the time, and he was so completely wrapped up in business that his wife was left to her own resources. Can you condemn her entirely for doing as she did? It is all very well to behave if we have never been tempted, when, perhaps, under the same circumstances, we might act no better ourselves. For my part I think the husband is probably as much at fault as the wife."
Marion felt her heart leap with gratitude when she heard these words. Her husband's voice had softened as he spoke them, and his eyes wore a sad, thoughtful expression.
"I don't think you are right," said Duncan, draining a glass of claret. "No one but a fool will permit a woman to go astray under his eyes, and a fool deserves to lose his wife."
As he spoke these words he looked toward Marion with an insinuating expression which told her that his remark was directed at Roswell, and that he expected her to appreciate the humor of it. Marion felt a sense of thankfulness rise in her heart. Coarseness never could appeal to her sensitive nature and she shuddered when she thought that this was the man for whom she had been willing to risk her honor. She was beginning to find him out. Thank heaven, the knowledge came before it was too late.
Roswell was silent for a moment. Then he said, thoughtfully: "Any one of us may be cast to play the rôle of fool. Unfortunately we never recognize just when we begin to play the part. I used to think as you do, Grahame. It is only lately I have begun to feel that it takes two to create a difference. Perhaps I am wrong, but I believe that, had my friend recognized sooner that his wife was made unhappy by his own neglect and the surroundings in which he placed her, the danger might have been averted."
For a while no one spoke. Marion gazed thoughtfully at the table; Duncan twirled a glass carelessly between his fingers and a smile played on his lips, while Roswell silently puffed his cigar and watched the blue wreaths of smoke curl gently upward.
"Shall we go into the next room, my dear?" said Roswell after a moment, dropping his half-finished cigar. "I have just time to catch my train."
"You are not going, are you?" said Marion, looking up, startled. "Please put off your trip," she added with a slight tone of appeal in her voice.
"I must go," he answered, rising from his chair.
The three people walked toward the hall. As they reached the door, Roswell stopped and motioned Duncan to lead the way. The younger man passed out, leaving Marion and her husband together. Roswell took both his wife's hands and drew her toward him.
"I must leave Grahame with you, my dear. Don't mind my running away. It is business and can't be helped."
"Don't go, Roswell," pleaded Marion, and she turned her head away so that he could not look into her face.
"I must, my darling. I must," he answered, and she felt his arms about her. She hid her face on his breast, and, ashamed of her unworthiness, she felt afraid to be left alone. "Good-by, dear," he said, and kissed her tenderly on her forehead. They walked silently through the hallway to the little French room, by the door. They found Duncan there, wandering carelessly about examining the ornaments. Stepping up to him, Roswell put out his hand and said simply: "I must leave you, Grahame. I have just time to catch my train. Sit here and finish your cigar. My wife will do her best to amuse you."
Duncan muttered a word of parting and Roswell hurried into the hallway. Marion took a seat in the farther end of the room and gazed thoughtfully toward the door where her husband had left. She could hear him putting on his coat and then the door closed behind him. The carriage rolled off, and as the last echo of the wheels died away she realized that she was alone with the man who had played such a strange part in her life. She felt brave now. The danger was past and her only thought was to prove worthy of the confidence her husband had placed in her. She looked at Duncan, wondering what his first move would be. He took a few steps on the floor. His eyes seemed to sparkle with merriment. "Well, I must say," he said, stopping in his desultory wandering and plunging his hands into his pockets, "that husband of yours is the most convenient person that I ever came across." Marion cast an angry glance toward him. All the resentment in her nature was aroused by these coarse words. Her dream of months had vanished, and in its place was a repulsive reality.
Duncan came toward her with a confident step and tried to take her hand. Marion jumped to her feet and pushed him back. "Don't touch me," she cried.
Duncan laughed. This new-found anger amused him and he did not believe she was in earnest. "Marion, dearest, we are alone," he said ardently. "We can enjoy our love and no one will interrupt."
He made another movement toward her. She drew back and looked defiantly at him.
"I hate you," she said. "Can't you see that I hate you."
"Hate is the first step to love," answered Duncan, still amused by her anger. "Let it fade away for I want to see love smile from those bewitching eyes."
Then he hesitated. He saw anger flashing from her dark eyes now, but he could not believe that he had lost the power he had so lately exerted over her, and he fancied that this resentment must be due to some whim. "Do you forget the past, dearest?" he said coaxingly, after a moment. "Do you forget our love of yesterday?"
"The unreasoning fancy of a moment is not love," answered Marion coldly.
Duncan saw now that the heart which he had felt so confident of his power to master had slipped from his grasp. Still the thought that so emotional a nature might yet be conquered by appeal prompted him to say, "What is the meaning of this change? Yesterday you loved me."
"That was yesterday. Much may happen in a day, Mr. Grahame."
"Yes," smiled Duncan sarcastically, drawing lines on the floor with the toe of his boot. "In a day one may learn the fickle nature of the woman one is foolish enough to love."
"Yes, and the character of the feeling one was foolish enough to fancy might be love," added Marion.
"Will you not listen to me?" he answered. "Some one has been poisoning your mind against me."
Marion felt that this distasteful interview must end. She had been the prey of too many emotions that day to bear up much longer. She felt a desire to fly away somewhere and escape from this man. Summoning her courage she looked full into Duncan's face and said, in a firm voice: "Mr. Grahame, I will not be insulted. I think there is nothing more to be said."
The color rose to Duncan's cheeks. His pride was touched, yet deep in his heart he could not help feeling ashamed of his own conduct. Revenge for another woman's actions had prompted him to act the part he had played, and there was still manhood enough in his callous heart to make him recognize that he deserved the treatment he was receiving. But pride prompted him to retreat boldly. "As you will, Mrs. Sanderson," he answered, coolly returning Marion's glance. "I came at your bidding and I leave at your command. I had been led to believe, by your actions in the past, that I should receive a more responsive welcome, but I acknowledge my mistake."
"We understand each other perfectly," said Marion. "Six months ago, Mr. Grahame, you challenged me to a game of skill. I think you know the game well enough to recognize that you have lost."
Duncan nodded assent and walked slowly toward the door. On the threshold he turned and looked at Marion. A feeling of admiration for the woman he had so misjudged prompted him to speak "Let me compliment your skill," he said. "I played that game with the assurance of an old hand and I lost. You were a novice, but you won."
Roswell Sanderson was in the library writing. A week had passed since his departure for St. Louis, and a considerable accumulation of mail was absorbing his attention. He had arrived home that morning on an early train, and not caring to awake his wife had gone into the library to look over his letters. It was Sunday, and the measured patter of the raindrops on the window-panes seemed to forebode a cheerless day, while the dismal light, almost obscured by the lowering clouds and heavy window draperies, produced an air of gloom intensified, perhaps, by the unusual chill of the summer atmosphere. Roswell was alone, and as he wrote the scratching of his pen on the paper blended monotonously with the pattering raindrops. Perhaps half an hour passed. Marion entered the room and stood for a moment near the door. There was a fresher color in her cheeks, even in that dim light, and her eyes seemed to have lost their look of restless longing. As she watched her husband writing, a smile of mingled tenderness and sadness came to her lips. Then she walked softly on tip-toe to where he sat, and placed her hand gently on his shoulder.
Roswell looked up startled. "Why, Marion," he said, "I didn't expect to see you so early." Then, leaving his seat, he took both his wife's hands in his and kissed her.
"I am thankful you have come back," said Marion. "I have wanted you so much."
She placed her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder. There had been a tenderness in her voice which made Roswell's heart beat faster than it had ever done before. "Yes, dear," he said, "I have come back, and I think I have a surprise for you, too."
"A surprise," said Marion, looking up.
"Yes. Sit down and I will tell you all about it."
Roswell resumed his seat, and Marion took a low stool at his side and waited for him to speak.
"It is not very much," he said, taking a letter from the table, "but I have here a refusal of the McIlvaine cottage at Bar Harbor for the season. Would you like to go there?"
An expression of astonishment came to Marion's face. "Is this true?" she asked.
"I am only waiting for you to say yes before sending my reply."
"Why did you do this, Roswell?" she said, with a tone of tenderness in her voice.
"Because I felt it would be better for both of us to go away this summer. I am working too hard, I think, and must have a rest. But that is only a selfish reason; I feel it would do you good to be among new people and new scenes."
Marion looked into his eyes a moment and a dark expression of disgust came across her face. "Why don't you speak the truth, Roswell?" she said. "Why don't you say that you are going away because your wife is a selfish woman who is discontented in her home; why don't you say that she is a wicked creature who cares for nothing but her own amusement, and that you are taking her where she can find new excitements? Why don't you say this?" she repeated, and then she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
Roswell leaned forward and stroked her head softly. "I love my wife," he said, "and I will not permit you to say such things about her."
"You don't know how wicked she is; you don't know how black her heart has been," Marion replied, between the sobs. "O, Roswell, I shall never be happy till I tell you all about it and ask you to forgive me. I have thought it over every moment since you left, and I have tried to feel right in my heart, but I can't until you know how wicked I have been. You are too good and generous for a selfish creature like me; but you must know that I have been untrue to you in my heart. Roswell, I did not love you when I married you; I never loved you until a week ago. I did not know your goodness before, and I was thoughtless. O, forgive me, Roswell; forgive me."
Roswell raised her head until he could look into her face. "I forgave you long ago, dearest," he said, "and now I want to see you dry those sweet eyes. I guessed your trouble last winter. At first it was hard for me to bear, and I had black thoughts in my heart, too; but when I remembered how I had been bound up in my musty cash books and ledgers, and how I had failed to enter into your life, I felt I had no right to reproach you. I saw that you were drifting from me, and I knew the fault was mine. Then I prayed that I might save you and win you back again."
"And you forgive me," said Marion, sobbing still.
Roswell kissed her. "It is I who must be forgiven," he said. "I ought to have seen before that a woman like you could not love a crusty old banker, who came home every night covered with the dust of the office. I am a rough fellow who needs a lot of polishing up, but I want you to try and see what you can make of me, and I want your love."
"My darling," said Marion. "I love you as I never knew I could love. I thought the wild fancy of the moment was love, but I have learned my mistake. If you will take me into your heart again I will try so hard to make you a good wife."
A faint sunbeam came through the eastern window and glanced feebly along the floor; then it grew stronger and stronger, until the gloomy library was brightened by a flood of rich, warm sunlight. The storm had ceased. The clouds had rolled away.
"It takes some such trial as ours," Roswell said, "to call forth love. We know now how necessary we are to each other, don't we, dear?"
The look of sweet tenderness in Marion's eyes gave him his answer.
"Let us think no more of those days, my darling," said Roswell, throwing his arms about his wife and drawing her closer to his side. "We will forget the past and live in the future. What answer shall I send about the cottage?" As he said this he reached toward the table to get the letter. Marion's eyes followed his hand, and they fell upon a name signed to a note lying there.
"That man!" she cried, turning her head away and hiding her face on Roswell's shoulder.
"That man will worry you no more," he said, taking up the note. "Read what he says."
Marion took the paper and read:
"Dear Mr. Sanderson:"I wish to say that I have obtained the loan I required from the 'Grocers' National,' so I shall not need to keep my appointment with you. I leave for New York to-day, and shall be unable to see you on your return from St. Louis. Thanking you for your kindness to me while in Chicago, believe me, with kindest regards,"Yours faithfully,"June 29.Duncan Grahame."
"Dear Mr. Sanderson:
"I wish to say that I have obtained the loan I required from the 'Grocers' National,' so I shall not need to keep my appointment with you. I leave for New York to-day, and shall be unable to see you on your return from St. Louis. Thanking you for your kindness to me while in Chicago, believe me, with kindest regards,
"Yours faithfully,
"June 29.Duncan Grahame."
Marion shuddered as she put down the note. It told its story and she felt that there was nothing more to be said.
"This is the letter I want you to answer," said Roswell, taking up the one from Bar Harbor.
Marion looked thoughtfully at the floor a moment, then, glancing up, she said: "If you don't mind, dear, I should like to go to some quieter place. I have had excitements before, but I have never had my husband, and I want him all to myself."
"My darling," said Roswell.
Florence entered the room and stood for a moment near the door. At first she was too surprised to speak, then, appreciating the propriety of making her presence known, she retreated a few steps and said: "May I come in?"
"Of course you may, you dear girl," said Marion, looking up. "You may come in and find the happiest woman in the world. Don't look surprised. Roswell and I are young lovers, and we are laying plans for our honeymoon. I don't deserve my happiness, but I have just discovered that I have the best husband in the world."
Florence ran to Marion's side and kissed her. "Let me share your joy," she said.
That evening Harold Wainwright dined at the Sandersons, and four happy people seated themselves at the little, round table. The candles shed the same cheerful light upon the white linen and the glistening plate, and François moved from place to place with his wonted precision; but the fire of love had kindled on the hearth, and in that home a new life had begun.
We have rarely found a more perfectly idyllic little love story than this—The Living Church, Chicago.The story is told with such an airy touch, such a fine sense of humor, such delicate crispness, that the reader is dealt little shocks of pleasure at every successive sentence.—Evening Post, Chicago.Little books like this, unpretentious, honest in motive, pure in sentiment, and marked by true sympathy are not common in current American literature, and therefore appeal all the more strongly to people who are tired of the didactic, and so relish keenly any representation which depends for its final effect not on preconceived notions of the author, but on fidelity to life.—The Beacon, Boston.
We have rarely found a more perfectly idyllic little love story than this—The Living Church, Chicago.
The story is told with such an airy touch, such a fine sense of humor, such delicate crispness, that the reader is dealt little shocks of pleasure at every successive sentence.—Evening Post, Chicago.
Little books like this, unpretentious, honest in motive, pure in sentiment, and marked by true sympathy are not common in current American literature, and therefore appeal all the more strongly to people who are tired of the didactic, and so relish keenly any representation which depends for its final effect not on preconceived notions of the author, but on fidelity to life.—The Beacon, Boston.
As a story of character it is of high and rare merit. Every person who appears in it is outlined with a distinctness of individuality which cannot be mistaken.—The Churchman, New York."The Beverleys" is one of the notable novels of the year.... The writer knows life and has met people of breeding.... In Eileen she draws a charming creature whose social adventures in Calcutta will be read with unflagging interest.—The Philadelphia Press.To have read "Alexia" is to feel a kindly predisposition towards the successor of that charming little book. "The Beverleys" has followed it, and it is perhaps unreasonable to be disappointed at missing in a novel the wild-rose perfume of the story. It is a novel clever in form and style, and in its portraits from Calcutta society. The moods and fascinations of the wild Irish girl and the labyrinths of her naughty heart are prettily described; there are pungent observations on men, women, and manners a plenty; what more would one have.—The Nation, New York.
As a story of character it is of high and rare merit. Every person who appears in it is outlined with a distinctness of individuality which cannot be mistaken.—The Churchman, New York.
"The Beverleys" is one of the notable novels of the year.... The writer knows life and has met people of breeding.... In Eileen she draws a charming creature whose social adventures in Calcutta will be read with unflagging interest.—The Philadelphia Press.
To have read "Alexia" is to feel a kindly predisposition towards the successor of that charming little book. "The Beverleys" has followed it, and it is perhaps unreasonable to be disappointed at missing in a novel the wild-rose perfume of the story. It is a novel clever in form and style, and in its portraits from Calcutta society. The moods and fascinations of the wild Irish girl and the labyrinths of her naughty heart are prettily described; there are pungent observations on men, women, and manners a plenty; what more would one have.—The Nation, New York.
This work is one that challenges attention for its ambitious character and its high aim. It is an historical novel,—or, rather, as the author prefers to call it, "An Historical Study in Fiction." It is the result of long and careful study of the period of which it treats, and hence is the product of genuine sympathies and a freshly-fired imagination. The field is Europe, and the period is the beginning of the sixteenth century,—a time when the fading glow of the later Renaissance is giving place to the brighter glories of the dawning Reformation.The book deals, in a broad sense, with the grand theme of the progress of intellectual liberty. Many of its characters are well-known historical personages,—such as Erasmus, Sir Thomas Moore, Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII. of England, Francis I. of France, the disturbing monk Martin Luther, and the magnificent Pope Leo X.; other characters are of course fictitious, introduced to give proper play to the author's fancy and to form a suitable framework for the story.Interwoven with the more solid fabric are gleaming threads of romance; and bright bits of description and glows of sentiment relieve the more sombre coloring. The memorable meeting of the French and English monarchs on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, with its gorgeous pageantry of knights and steeds and silken banners, and all the glitter and charm of chivalry, furnish material for several chapters, in which the author's descriptive powers are put to the severest test; while the Waldensian heroes in their mountain homes, resisting the persecutions of their religious foes, afford some thrilling and dramatic situations.
This work is one that challenges attention for its ambitious character and its high aim. It is an historical novel,—or, rather, as the author prefers to call it, "An Historical Study in Fiction." It is the result of long and careful study of the period of which it treats, and hence is the product of genuine sympathies and a freshly-fired imagination. The field is Europe, and the period is the beginning of the sixteenth century,—a time when the fading glow of the later Renaissance is giving place to the brighter glories of the dawning Reformation.
The book deals, in a broad sense, with the grand theme of the progress of intellectual liberty. Many of its characters are well-known historical personages,—such as Erasmus, Sir Thomas Moore, Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII. of England, Francis I. of France, the disturbing monk Martin Luther, and the magnificent Pope Leo X.; other characters are of course fictitious, introduced to give proper play to the author's fancy and to form a suitable framework for the story.
Interwoven with the more solid fabric are gleaming threads of romance; and bright bits of description and glows of sentiment relieve the more sombre coloring. The memorable meeting of the French and English monarchs on the Field of the Cloth of Gold, with its gorgeous pageantry of knights and steeds and silken banners, and all the glitter and charm of chivalry, furnish material for several chapters, in which the author's descriptive powers are put to the severest test; while the Waldensian heroes in their mountain homes, resisting the persecutions of their religious foes, afford some thrilling and dramatic situations.
"An Iceland Fisherman" is really a poem in prose. It has a pure idyllic quality so unlike most of the work which now comes from French hands that one must go back to "Paul and Virginia" to find a worthy companion volume. Other French writers, George Sand notably, have written idyllic chapters, but "An Iceland Fisherman" is a complete idyl from beginning to end. M. Loti is an impressionist of the most delicate quality. He feels with the keenest sensibility the moods and phases of each passing hour. In this little volume one is made aware of all the strange, lonely beauty and terror of the North Seas. Few writers have made so keen an observation of those elusive phases through which sky and sea pass in a day or a season, and still fewer have had the faculty of transferring these subtle things into speech.—The Christian Union, New York.The translator of this remarkable story has done her work wonderfully well. Her choice of words, apt, pat, and picturesque—words which instantly appeal to the imagination, is skillful to an uncommon degree. This is no doubt partly due to the characteristics of the original. Whatever may be true of the French, the English of this beautiful and wholesome story is wonderfully idiomatic and good.—The Advance, Chicago.Of the story itself nothing can well be too good to say. We pity the one who can read it without being deeply stirred by its simple, pathetic, and, at moments, solemn beauty.—The Chicago Evening Journal.It is a gem of the purest ray, a lovely idyl, whose strength is drawn from what is best in human life.—The Philadelphia Enquirer.
"An Iceland Fisherman" is really a poem in prose. It has a pure idyllic quality so unlike most of the work which now comes from French hands that one must go back to "Paul and Virginia" to find a worthy companion volume. Other French writers, George Sand notably, have written idyllic chapters, but "An Iceland Fisherman" is a complete idyl from beginning to end. M. Loti is an impressionist of the most delicate quality. He feels with the keenest sensibility the moods and phases of each passing hour. In this little volume one is made aware of all the strange, lonely beauty and terror of the North Seas. Few writers have made so keen an observation of those elusive phases through which sky and sea pass in a day or a season, and still fewer have had the faculty of transferring these subtle things into speech.—The Christian Union, New York.
The translator of this remarkable story has done her work wonderfully well. Her choice of words, apt, pat, and picturesque—words which instantly appeal to the imagination, is skillful to an uncommon degree. This is no doubt partly due to the characteristics of the original. Whatever may be true of the French, the English of this beautiful and wholesome story is wonderfully idiomatic and good.—The Advance, Chicago.
Of the story itself nothing can well be too good to say. We pity the one who can read it without being deeply stirred by its simple, pathetic, and, at moments, solemn beauty.—The Chicago Evening Journal.
It is a gem of the purest ray, a lovely idyl, whose strength is drawn from what is best in human life.—The Philadelphia Enquirer.
"The Story of Tonty" is eminently a Western story, beginning at Montreal, tarrying at Fort Frontenac, and ending at the old fort at Starved Rock, on the Illinois River. It weaves the adventures of the two great explorers, the intrepid La Salle and his faithful lieutenant, Tonty, into a tale as thrilling and romantic as the descriptive portions are brilliant and vivid. It is superbly illustrated with twenty-three masterly drawings by Mr. Enoch Ward.Such tales as this render service past expression to the cause of history. They weave a spell in which old chronicles are vivified and breathe out human life. Mrs. Catherwood, in thus bringing out from the treasure-houses of half-forgotten historical record things new and old, has set herself one of the worthiest literary tasks of her generation, and is showing herself finely adequate to its fulfillment.—Transcript, Boston.A powerful story by a writer newly sprung to fame.... All the century we have been waiting for the deft hand that could put flesh upon the dry bones of our early heroes. Here is a recreation indeed.... One comes from the reading of the romance with a quickened interest in our early national history, and a profound admiration for the art that can so transport us to the dreamful realms where fancy is monarch of fact.—Press, Philadelphia."The Story of Tonty" is full of the atmosphere of its time. It betrays an intimate and sympathetic knowledge of the great age of explorers, and it is altogether a charming piece of work.—Christian Union, New York.Original in treatment, in subject, and in all the details ofmise en scène, it must stand unique among recent romances.—News, Chicago.A vivid series of fascinating pictures.—New York Observer.
"The Story of Tonty" is eminently a Western story, beginning at Montreal, tarrying at Fort Frontenac, and ending at the old fort at Starved Rock, on the Illinois River. It weaves the adventures of the two great explorers, the intrepid La Salle and his faithful lieutenant, Tonty, into a tale as thrilling and romantic as the descriptive portions are brilliant and vivid. It is superbly illustrated with twenty-three masterly drawings by Mr. Enoch Ward.
Such tales as this render service past expression to the cause of history. They weave a spell in which old chronicles are vivified and breathe out human life. Mrs. Catherwood, in thus bringing out from the treasure-houses of half-forgotten historical record things new and old, has set herself one of the worthiest literary tasks of her generation, and is showing herself finely adequate to its fulfillment.—Transcript, Boston.
A powerful story by a writer newly sprung to fame.... All the century we have been waiting for the deft hand that could put flesh upon the dry bones of our early heroes. Here is a recreation indeed.... One comes from the reading of the romance with a quickened interest in our early national history, and a profound admiration for the art that can so transport us to the dreamful realms where fancy is monarch of fact.—Press, Philadelphia.
"The Story of Tonty" is full of the atmosphere of its time. It betrays an intimate and sympathetic knowledge of the great age of explorers, and it is altogether a charming piece of work.—Christian Union, New York.
Original in treatment, in subject, and in all the details ofmise en scène, it must stand unique among recent romances.—News, Chicago.
A vivid series of fascinating pictures.—New York Observer.