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diff --git a/18158-h/18158-h.htm b/18158-h/18158-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..873e366 --- /dev/null +++ b/18158-h/18158-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6708 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/html4/loose.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Butterfly House</title> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Butterfly House, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Butterfly House + +Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman + +Illustrator: Paul Julian Meylan + +Release Date: April 12, 2006 [EBook #18158] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE *** + + + + +Produced by Jeff Kaylin and Andrew Sly + + + + + +</pre> + + +<img src="images/bh0.jpg" width="719" height="1108" alt="[Illustration: “You must steal in and not wake anybody”]"> + +<h1 align="center">The Butterfly House</h1> + +<h2 align="center">By<br> +Mary E. Wilkins Freeman</h2> + +<p align="center">Author of<br> +“A Humble Romance,” “A New England Nun,”<br> +“The Winning Lady,” etc.</p> + +<p align="center">With illustrations by<br> +Paul Julien Meylan</p> + +<p align="center">New York<br> +Dodd, Mead and Company<br> +1912</p> + + +<h4 align="center">Chapter I</h4> + +<p>Fairbridge, the little New Jersey village, or rather city (for it +had won municipal government some years before, in spite of the +protest of far-seeing citizens who descried in the distance bonded +debts out of proportion to the tiny shoulders of the place), was a +misnomer. Often a person, being in Fairbridge for the first time, and +being driven by way of entertainment about the rural streets, would +inquire, “Why Fairbridge?”</p> + +<p>Bridges there were none, except those over which the trains +thundered to and from New York, and the adjective, except to old +inhabitants who had a curious fierce loyalty for the place, did not +seemingly apply. Fairbridge could hardly, by an unbiassed person who +did not dwell in the little village and view its features through the +rosy glamour of home life, be called “fair.” There were +a few pretty streets, with well-kept sidewalks, and ambitious, +although small houses, and there were many lovely bits of views to be +obtained, especially in the green flush of spring, and the red glow +of autumn over the softly swelling New Jersey landscape with its warm +red soil to the distant rise of low blue hills; but it was not fair +enough in a general way to justify its name. Yet Fairbridge it was, +without bridge, or natural beauty, and no mortal knew why. The origin +of the name was lost in the petty mist of a petty past.</p> + +<p>Fairbridge was tragically petty, inasmuch as it saw itself great. +In Fairbridge narrowness reigned, nay, tyrannised, and was not +recognised as such. There was something fairly uncanny about +Fairbridge's influence upon people after they had lived there even a +few years. The influence held good, too, in the cases of men who +daily went to business or professions in New York. Even Wall Street +was no sinecure. Back they would come at night, and the terrible, +narrow maelstrom of pettiness sucked them in. All outside interest +was as naught. International affairs seemed insignificant when once +one was really in Fairbridge.</p> + +<p>Fairbridge, although rampant when local politics were concerned, +had no regard whatever for those of the nation at large, except as +they involved Fairbridge. Fairbridge, to its own understanding, was a +nucleus, an ultimatum. It was an example of the triumph of the +infinitesimal. It saw itself through a microscope and loomed up +gigantic. Fairbridge was like an insect, born with the conviction +that it was an elephant. There was at once something ludicrous, and +magnificent, and terrible about it. It had the impressiveness of the +abnormal and prehistoric. In one sense, it <em>was</em> prehistoric. +It was as a giant survivor of a degenerate species.</p> + +<p>Withal, it was puzzling. People if pinned down could not say why, +in Fairbridge, the little was so monstrous, whether it depended upon +local conditions, upon the general population, or upon a few who had +an undue estimation of themselves and all connected with them. Was +Fairbridge great because of its inhabitants, or were the inhabitants +great because of Fairbridge? Who could say? And why was Fairbridge so +important that its very smallness overwhelmed that which, by the +nature of things, seemed overwhelming? Nobody knew, or rather, so +tremendous was the power of the small in the village, that nobody +inquired.</p> + +<p>It is entirely possible that had there been any delicate gauge of +mentality, the actual swelling of the individual in his own +estimation as he neared Fairbridge after a few hours' absence, might +have been apparent. Take a broker on Wall Street, for instance, or a +lawyer who had threaded his painful way to the dim light of +understanding through the intricate mazes of the law all day, as his +train neared his loved village. From an atom that went to make up the +motive power of a great metropolis, he himself became an entirety. He +was It with a capital letter. No wonder that under the circumstances +Fairbridge had charms that allured, that people chose it for suburban +residences, that the small, ornate, new houses with their perky +little towers and æsthetic diamond-paned windows, +multiplied.</p> + +<p>Fairbridge was in reality very artistically planned as to the +sites of its houses. Instead of the regulation Main Street of the +country village, with its centre given up to shops and post-office, +side streets wound here and there, and houses were placed with a view +to effect.</p> + +<p>The Main Street of Fairbridge was as naught from a social point of +view. Nobody of any social importance lived there. Even the +physicians had their residences and offices in a more aristocratic +locality. Upon the Main Street proper, that which formed the centre +of the village, there were only shops and a schoolhouse and one or +two mean public buildings. For a village of the self-importance of +Fairbridge, the public buildings were very few and very mean. There +was no city hall worthy of the name of this little city which held +its head so high. The City Hall, so designated by ornate gilt letters +upon the glass panel of a very small door, occupied part of the +building in which was the post-office. It was a tiny building, two +stories high. On the second floor was the millinery shop of Mrs. +Creevy, and behind it the two rooms in which she kept house with her +daughter Jessy.</p> + +<p>On the lower floor was the post-office on the right, filthy with +the foot tracks of the Fairbridge children who crowded it in a noisy +rabble twice a day, and perpetually red-stained with the shale of New +Jersey, brought in upon the boots of New Jersey farmers, who always +bore about with them a goodly portion of their native soil. On the +left, was the City Hall. This was vacant except upon the first Monday +of every month, when the janitor of the Dutch Reformed Church, who +eked out a scanty salary with divers other tasks, got himself to +work, and slopped pails of water over the floor, then swept, and +built a fire, if in winter.</p> + +<p>Upon the evenings of these first Mondays the Mayor and city +officials met and made great talk over small matters, and with the +labouring of a mountain, brought forth mice. The City Hall was closed +upon other occasions, unless the village talent gave a play for some +local benefit. Fairbridge was intensely dramatic, and it was +popularly considered that great, natural, histrionic gifts were +squandered upon the Fairbridge audiences, appreciative though they +were. Outside talent was never in evidence in Fairbridge. No +theatrical company had ever essayed to rent that City Hall. People in +Fairbridge put that somewhat humiliating fact from their minds. +Nothing would have induced a loyal citizen to admit that Fairbridge +was too small game for such purposes. There was a tiny theatre in the +neighbouring city of Axminister, which had really some claims to +being called a city, from tradition and usage, aside from size. +Axminister was an ancient Dutch city, horribly uncomfortable, but +exceedingly picturesque. Fairbridge looked down upon it, and seldom +patronised the shows (they never said “plays”) staged in +its miniature theatre. When they did not resort to their own City +Hall for entertainment by local talent, they arrayed themselves in +their best and patronised New York itself.</p> + +<p>New York did not know that it was patronised, but Fairbridge knew. +When Mr. and Mrs. George B. Slade boarded the seven o'clock train, +Mrs. Slade, tall, and majestically handsome, arrayed most elegantly, +and crowned with a white hat (Mrs. Slade always affected white hats +with long drooping plumes upon such occasions), and George B., natty +in his light top coat, standing well back upon the heels of his shiny +shoes, with the air of the wealthy and well-assured, holding a belted +cigar in the tips of his grey-gloved fingers, New York was most +distinctly patronised, although without knowing it.</p> + +<p>It was also patronised, and to a greater extent, by little Mrs. +Wilbur Edes, very little indeed, so little as to be almost symbolic +of Fairbridge itself, but elegant in every detail, so elegant as to +arrest the eye of everybody as she entered the train, holding up the +tail of her black lace gown. Mrs. Edes doted on black lace. Her +small, fair face peered with a curious calm alertness from under the +black plumes of her great picture hat, perched sidewise upon a +carefully waved pale gold pompadour, which was perfection and would +have done credit to the best hairdresser or the best French maid in +New York, but which was achieved solely by Mrs. Wilbur Edes' own +native wit and skilful fingers.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Wilbur Edes, although small, was masterly in everything, from +waving a pompadour to conducting theatricals. She herself was the +star dramatic performer of Fairbridge. There was a strong feeling in +Fairbridge that in reality she might, if she chose, rival Bernhardt. +Mrs. Emerston Strong, who had been abroad and had seen Bernhardt on +her native soil, had often said that Mrs. Edes reminded her of the +great French actress, although she was much handsomer, and so moral! +Mrs. Wilbur Edes was masterly in morals, as in everything else. She +was much admired by the opposite sex, but she was a model wife and +mother.</p> + +<p>Mr. Wilbur Edes was an admired accessory of his wife. He was so +very tall and slender as to suggest forcible elongation. He carried +his head with a deprecatory, sidewise air as if in accordance with +his wife's picture hat, and yet Mr. Wilbur Edes, out of Fairbridge +and in his law office on Broadway, was a man among men. He was an +exception to the personal esteem which usually expanded a male +citizen of Fairbridge, but he was the one and only husband of Mrs. +Wilbur Edes, and there was not room at such an apex as she occupied +for more than one. Tall as Wilbur Edes was, he was overshadowed by +that immaculate blond pompadour and that plumed picture hat. He was a +prime favourite in Fairbridge society; he was liked and admired, but +his radiance was reflected, and he was satisfied that it should be +so. He adored his wife. The shadow of her black picture hat was his +place of perfect content. He watched the admiring glances of other +men at his wonderful possession with a triumph and pride which made +him really rather a noble sort. He was also so fond and proud of his +little twin daughters, Maida and Adelaide, that the fondness and +pride fairly illuminated his inner self. Wilbur Edes was a clever +lawyer, but love made him something bigger. It caused him to immolate +self, which is spiritually enlarging self.</p> + +<p>In one respect Wilbur Edes was the biggest man in Fairbridge; in +another, Doctor Sturtevant was. Doctor Sturtevant depended upon no +other person for his glory. He shone as a fixed star, with his own +lustre. He was esteemed a very great physician indeed, and it was +considered that Mrs. Sturtevant, who was good, and honest, and portly +with a tight, middle-aged portliness, hardly lived up to her husband. +It was admitted that she tried, poor soul, but her limitations were +held to be impossible, even by her faithful straining following of +love.</p> + +<p>When the splendid, florid Doctor, with his majestically curving +expanse of waistcoat and his inscrutable face, whirred through the +streets of Fairbridge in his motor car, with that meek bulk of +womanhood beside him, many said quite openly how unfortunate it was +that Doctor Sturtevant had married, when so young, a woman so +manifestly his inferior. They never failed to confer that faint +praise, which is worse than none at all, upon the poor soul.</p> + +<p>“She is a good woman,” they said. “She means +well, and she is a good housekeeper, but she is no companion for a +man like that.”</p> + +<p>Poor Mrs. Sturtevant was aware of her status in Fairbridge, and +she was not without a steady, plodding ambition of her own. That +utterly commonplace, middle-aged face had some lines of strength. +Mrs. Sturtevant was a member of the women's club of Fairbridge, which +was poetically and cleverly called the Zenith Club.</p> + +<p>She wrote, whenever it was her turn to do so, papers upon every +imaginable subject. She balked at nothing whatever. She ranged from +household discussions to the Orient. Then she stood up in the midst +of the women, sunk her double chin in her lace collar, and read her +paper in a voice like the whisper of a blade of grass. Doctor +Sturtevant had a very low voice. His wife had naturally a strident +one, but she essayed to follow him in the matter of voice, as in all +other things. The poor hen bird tried to voice her thoughts like her +mate, and the result was a strange and weird note. However, Mrs. +Sturtevant herself was not aware of the result. When she sat down +after finishing her papers her face was always becomingly flushed +with pleasure.</p> + +<p>Nothing, not even pleasure, was becoming to Mrs. Sturtevant. Life +itself was unbecoming to her, and the worst of it was nobody knew it, +and everybody said it was due to Mrs. Sturtevant's lack of taste, and +then they pitied the great doctor anew. It was very fortunate that it +never occurred to Mrs. Sturtevant to pity the doctor on her account, +for she was so fond of him, poor soul, that it might have led to a +tragedy.</p> + +<p>The Zenith Club of Fairbridge always met on Friday afternoons. It +was a cherished aim of the Club to uproot foolish superstitions, +hence Friday. It did not seem in the least risky to the ordinary +person for a woman to attend a meeting of the Zenith Club on a +Friday, in preference to any other day in the week; but many a member +had a covert feeling that she was somewhat heroic, especially if the +meeting was held at the home of some distant member on an icy day in +winter, and she was obliged to make use of a livery carriage.</p> + +<p>There were in Fairbridge three keepers of livery stables, and +curiously enough, no rivalry between them. All three were natives of +the soil, and somewhat sluggish in nature, like its sticky red shale. +They did not move with much enthusiasm, neither were they to be +easily removed. When the New York trains came in, they, with their +equally indifferent drivers, sat comfortably ensconced in their +carriages, and never waylaid the possible passengers alighting from +the train. Sometimes they did not even open the carriage doors, but +they, however, saw to it that they were closed when once the +passenger was within, and that was something. All three drove +indifferent horses, somewhat uncertain as to footing. When a woman +sat behind these weak-kneed, badly shod steeds and realised that +Stumps, or Fitzgerald, or Witless was driving with an utter +indifference to the tightening of lines at dangerous places, and also +realised that it was Friday, some strength of character was doubtless +required.</p> + +<p>One Friday in January, two young women, one married, one single, +one very pretty, and both well-dressed (most of the women who +belonged to the Fairbridge social set dressed well) were being driven +by Jim Fitzgerald a distance of a mile or more, up a long hill. The +slope was gentle and languid, like nearly every slope in that part of +the state, but that day it was menacing with ice. It was one smooth +glaze over the macadam. Jim Fitzgerald, a descendant of a fine old +family whose type had degenerated, sat hunched upon the driver's +seat, his loose jaw hanging, his eyes absent, his mouth open, chewing +with slow enjoyment his beloved quid, while the reins lay slackly on +the rusty black robe tucked over his knees. Even a corner of that +dragged dangerously near the right wheels of the coupé. Jim +had not sufficient energy to tuck it in firmly, although the wind was +sharp from the northwest.</p> + +<p>Alice Mendon paid no attention to it, but her companion, Daisy +Shaw, otherwise Mrs. Sumner Shaw, who was of the tense, nervous type, +had remarked it uneasily when they first started. She had rapped +vigorously upon the front window, and a misty, rather beautiful blue +eye had rolled interrogatively over Jim's shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Your robe is dragging,” shrieked in shrill staccato +Daisy Shaw; and there had been a dull nod of the head, a feeble pull +at the dragging robe, then it had dragged again.</p> + +<p>“Oh, don't mind, dear,” said Alice Mendon. “It +is his own lookout if he loses the robe.”</p> + +<p>“It isn't that,” responded Daisy querulously. +“It isn't that. I don't care, since he is so careless, if he +does lose it, but I must say that I don't think it is safe. Suppose +it got caught in the wheel, and I know this horse +stumbles.”</p> + +<p>“Don't worry, dear,” said Alice Mendon. +“Fitzgerald's robe always drags, and nothing ever +happens.”</p> + +<p>Alice Mendon was a young woman, not a young girl (she had left +young girlhood behind several years since) and she was distinctly +beautiful after a fashion that is not easily affected by the passing +years. She had had rather an eventful life, but not an event, +pleasant or otherwise, had left its mark upon the smooth oval of her +face. There was not a side nor retrospective glance to disturb the +serenity of her large blue eyes. Although her eyes were blue, her +hair was almost chestnut black, except in certain lights, when it +gave out gleams as of dark gold. Her features were full, her figure +large, but not too large. She wore a dark red tailored gown; and +sumptuous sable furs shaded with dusky softness and shot, in the sun, +with prismatic gleams, set off her handsome, not exactly smiling, but +serenely beaming face. Two great black ostrich plumes and one red one +curled down toward the soft spikes of the fur. Between, the two great +blue eyes, the soft oval of the cheeks, and the pleasant red fullness +of the lips appeared.</p> + +<p>Poor Daisy Shaw, who was poor in two senses, strength of nerve and +money, looked blue and cold in her little black suit, and her pale +blue liberty scarf was horribly inadequate and unbecoming. Daisy was +really painful to see as she gazed out apprehensively at the dragging +robe, and the glistening slant over which they were moving. Alice +regarded her not so much with pity as with a calm, sheltering sense +of superiority and strength. She pulled the inner robe of the +coupé up and tucked it firmly around Daisy's thin knees.</p> + +<p>“You look half frozen,” said Alice.</p> + +<p>“I don't mind being frozen, but I do mind being +scared,” replied Daisy sharply. She removed the robe with a +twitch.</p> + +<p>“If that old horse stumbles and goes down and kicks, I want +to be able to get out without being all tangled up in a robe and +dragged,” said she.</p> + +<p>“While the horse is kicking and down I don't see how he can +drag you very far,” said Alice with a slight laugh. Then the +horse stumbled. Daisy Shaw knocked quickly on the front window with +her little, nervous hand in its tight, white kid glove.</p> + +<p>“Do please hold your reins tighter,” she called. Again +the misty blue eyes rolled about, the head nodded, the rotary jaws +were seen, the robe dragged, the reins lay loosely.</p> + +<p>“That wasn't a stumble worth mentioning,” said Alice +Mendon.</p> + +<p>“I wish he would stop chewing and drive,” said poor +Daisy Shaw vehemently. “I wish we had a liveryman as good as +that Dougherty in Axminister. I was making calls there the other day, +and it was as slippery as it is now, and he held the reins up tight +every minute. I felt safe with him.”</p> + +<p>“I don't think anything will happen.”</p> + +<p>“It does seem to me if he doesn't stop chewing, and drive, I +shall fly!” said Daisy.</p> + +<p>Alice regarded her with a little wonder. Such anxiety concerning +personal safety rather puzzled her. “My horses ran away the +other day, and Dick went down flat and barked his knees; that's why I +have Fitzgerald to-day,” said she. “I was not hurt. +Nobody was hurt except the horse. I was very sorry about the +horse.”</p> + +<p>“I wish I had an automobile,” said Daisy. “You +never know what a horse will do next.”</p> + +<p>Alice laughed again slightly. “There is a little doubt +sometimes as to what an automobile will do next,” she +remarked.</p> + +<p>“Well, it is your own brain that controls it, if you can run +it yourself, as you do.”</p> + +<p>“I am not so sure. Sometimes I wonder if the automobile +hasn't an uncanny sort of brain itself. Sometimes I wonder how far +men can go with the invention of machinery without putting more of +themselves into it than they bargain for,” said Alice. Her +smooth face did not contract in the least, but was brooding with +speculation and thought.</p> + +<p>Then the horse stumbled again, and Daisy screamed, and again +tapped the window.</p> + +<p>“He won't go way down,” said Alice. “I think he +is too stiff. Don't worry.”</p> + +<p>“There is no stumbling to worry about with an +automobile,” said Daisy.</p> + +<p>“You couldn't use one on this hill without more risk than +you take with a stumbling horse,” replied Alice. Just then a +carriage drawn by two fine bays passed them, and there was an +interchange of nods.</p> + +<p>“There is Mrs. Sturtevant,” said Alice. “She +isn't using the automobile to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Doctor Sturtevant has had that coachman thirty years, and +he doesn't chew, he drives,” said Daisy.</p> + +<p>Then they drew up before the house which was their destination, +Mrs. George B. Slade's. The house was very small, but perkily +pretentious, and they drove under the porte-cochère to +alight.</p> + +<p>“I heard Mr. Slade had been making a great deal of money in +cotton lately,” Daisy whispered, as the carriage stopped behind +Mrs. Sturtevant's. “Mr. and Mrs. Slade went to the opera last +week. I heard they had taken a box for the season, and Mrs. Slade had +a new black velvet gown and a pearl necklace. I think she is almost +too old to wear low neck.”</p> + +<p>“She is not so very old,” replied Alice. “It is +only her white hair that makes her seem so.” Then she extended +a rather large but well gloved hand and opened the coupé door, +while Jim Fitzgerald sat and chewed and waited, and the two young +women got out. Daisy had some trouble in holding up her long skirts. +She tugged at them with nervous energy, and told Alice of the +twenty-five cents which Fitzgerald would ask for the return trip. She +had wished to arrive at the club in fine feather, but had counted on +walking home in the dusk, with her best skirts high-kilted, and +saving an honest penny.</p> + +<p>“Nonsense; of course you will go with me,” said Alice +in the calmly imperious way she had, and the two mounted the steps. +They had scarcely reached the door before Mrs. Slade's maid, Lottie, +appeared in her immaculate width of apron, with carefully-pulled-out +bows and little white lace top-knot. “Upstairs, front +room,” she murmured, and the two went up the polished stairs. +There was a landing halfway, with a diamond paned window and one +rubber plant and two palms, all very glossy, and all three in nice +green jardinières which exactly matched the paper on the walls +of the hall. Mrs. George B. Slade had a mania for exactly matching +things. Some of her friends said among themselves that she carried it +almost too far.</p> + +<p>The front room, the guest room, into which Alice Mendon and Daisy +Shaw passed, was done in yellow and white, and one felt almost sinful +in disturbing the harmony by any other tint. The walls were yellow, +with a frieze of garlands of yellow roses; the ceiling was tinted +yellow, the tiles on the shining little hearth were yellow, every +ornament upon the mantel-shelf was yellow, down to a china +shepherdess who wore a yellow china gown and carried a basket filled +with yellow flowers, and bore a yellow crook. The bedstead was brass, +and there was a counterpane of white lace over yellow, the muslin +curtains were tied back with great bows of yellow ribbon. Even the +pictures represented yellow flowers or maidens dressed in yellow. The +rugs were yellow, the furniture upholstered in yellow, and all of +exactly the same shade.</p> + +<p>There were a number of ladies in this yellow room, prinking +themselves before going downstairs. They all lived in Fairbridge; +they all knew each other; but they greeted one another with the most +elegant formality. Alice assisted Daisy Shaw to remove her coat and +liberty scarf, then she shook herself free of her own wraps, rather +than removed them. She did not even glance at herself in the glass. +Her reason for so doing was partly confidence in her own appearance, +partly distrust of the glass. She had viewed herself carefully in her +own looking-glass before she left home. She believed in what she had +seen there, but she did not care to disturb that belief, and she saw +that Mrs. Slade's mirror over her white and yellow draped dressing +table stood in a cross-light. While all admitted Alice Mendon's +beauty, nobody had ever suspected her of vanity; yet vanity she had, +in a degree.</p> + +<p>The other women in the room looked at her. It was always a matter +of interest of Fairbridge what she would wear, and this was rather +curious, as, after all, she had not many gowns. There was a certain +impressiveness about her mode of wearing the same gown which seemed +to create an illusion. To-day in her dark red gown embroidered with +poppies of still another shade, she created a distinctly new +impression, although she had worn the same costume often before at +the club meetings. She went downstairs in advance of the other women +who had arrived before, and were yet anxiously peering at themselves +in the cross-lighted mirror, and being adjusted as to refractory +neckwear by one another.</p> + +<p>When Alice entered Mrs. Slade's elegant little reception-room, +which was done in a dull rose colour, its accessories very exactly +matching, even to Mrs. Slade's own costume, which was rose silk under +black lace, she was led at once to a lady richly attired in black, +with gleams of jet, who was seated in a large chair in the place of +honour, not quite in the bay window but exactly in the centre of the +opening. The lady quite filled the chair. She was very stout. Her +face, under an ornate black hat, was like a great rose full of +overlapping curves of florid flesh. The wide mouth was perpetually +curved into a bow of mirth, the small black eyes twinkled. She was +Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder, who had come from New York to deliver her +famous lecture upon the subject: “Where does a woman shine with +more lustre, at home or abroad?”</p> + +<p>The programme was to be varied, as usual upon such occasions, by +local talent. Leila MacDonald, who sang contralto in the church +choir, and Mrs. Arthur Wells, who sang soprano, and Mrs. Jack Evarts, +who played the piano very well, and Miss Sally Anderson, who had +taken lessons in elocution, all had their parts, besides the +president of the club, Mrs. Wilbur Edes, who had a brief address in +readiness, and the secretary, who had to give the club report for the +year. Mrs. Snyder was to give her lecture as a grand climax, then +there were to be light refreshments and a reception following the +usual custom of the club.</p> + +<p>Alice bowed before Mrs. Snyder and retreated to a window at the +other side of the room. She sat beside the window and looked out. +Just then one of the other liverymen drove up with a carriage full of +ladies, and they emerged in a flutter of veils and silk skirts. Mrs. +Slade, who was really superb in her rose silk and black lace, with an +artful frill of white lace at her throat to match her great puff of +white hair, remained beside Mrs. Snyder, whose bow of mirth +widened.</p> + +<p>“Who is that magnificent creature?” whispered Mrs. +Snyder with a gush of enthusiasm, indicating Alice beside the +window.</p> + +<p>“She lives here,” replied Mrs. Slade rather stupidly. +She did not quite know how to define Alice.</p> + +<p>“Lives here in this little place? Not all the year?” +rejoined Mrs. Snyder.</p> + +<p>“Fairbridge is a very good place to live in all the +year,” replied Mrs. Slade rather stiffly. “It is near New +York. We have all the advantages of a great metropolis without the +drawbacks. Fairbridge is a most charming city, and very progressive, +yes, very progressive.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Slade took it rather hardly that Mrs. Snyder should intimate +anything prejudicial to Fairbridge and especially that it was not +good enough for Alice Mendon, who had been born there, and lived +there all her life except the year she had been in college. If +anything, she, Mrs. Slade, wondered if Alice Mendon were good enough +for Fairbridge. What had she ever done, except to wear handsome +costumes and look handsome and self-possessed? Although she belonged +to the Zenith Club, no power on earth could induce her to discharge +the duties connected herewith, except to pay her part of the +expenses, and open her house for a meeting. She simply would not +write a paper upon any interesting and instructive topic and read it +before the club, and she was not considered gifted. She could not +sing like Leila MacDonald and Mrs. Arthur Wells. She could not play +like Mrs. Jack Evarts. She could not recite like Sally Anderson.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Snyder glanced across at Alice, who looked very graceful and +handsome, although also, to a discerning eye, a little sulky, and +bored with a curious, abstracted boredom.</p> + +<p>“She is superb,” whispered Mrs. Snyder, “yes, +simply superb. Why does she live here, pray?”</p> + +<p>“Why, she was born here,” replied Mrs. Slade, again +stupidly. It was as if Alice had no more motive power than a +flowering bush.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Snyder's bow of mirth widened into a laugh. “Well, +can't she get away, even if she was born here?” said she.</p> + +<p>However, Mrs. George B. Slade's mind travelled in such a circle +that she was difficult to corner. “Why should she want to +move?” said she.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Snyder laughed again. “But, granting she should want to +move, is there anything to hinder?” she asked. She wasn't a +very clever woman, and was deciding privately to mimic Mrs. George B. +Slade at some future occasion, and so eke out her scanty +remuneration. She did not think ten dollars and expenses quite enough +for such a lecture as hers.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Slade looked at her perplexedly. “Why, yes, she could I +suppose,” said she, “but why?”</p> + +<p>“What has hindered her before now?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, her mother was a helpless invalid, and Alice was the +only child, and she had been in college just a year when her father +died, then she came home and lived with her mother, but her mother +has been dead two years now, and Alice has plenty of money. Her +father left a good deal, and her cousin and aunt live with her. Oh, +yes, she could, but why should she want to leave Fairbridge, +and—”</p> + +<p>Then some new arrivals approached, and the discussion concerning +Alice Mendon ceased. The ladies came rapidly now. Soon Mrs. Slade's +hall, reception-room, and dining-room, in which a gaily-decked table +was set, were thronged with women whose very skirts seemed full of +important anticipatory stirs and rustles. Mrs. Snyder's curved smile +became set, her eyes absent. She was revolving her lecture in her +mind, making sure that she could repeat it without the assistance of +the notes in her petticoat pocket.</p> + +<p>Then a woman rang a little silver bell, and a woman who sat short +but rose to unexpected heights stood up. The phenomenon was amazing, +but all the Fairbridge ladies had seen Miss Bessy Dicky, the +secretary of the Zenith Club, rise before, and no one observed +anything remarkable about it. Only Mrs. Snyder's mouth twitched a +little, but she instantly recovered herself and fixed her absent eyes +upon Miss Bessy Dicky's long, pale face as she began to read the +report of the club for the past year.</p> + +<p>She had been reading several minutes, her glasses fixed firmly +(one of her eyes had a cast) and her lean, veinous hands trembling +with excitement, when the door bell rang with a sharp peremptory +peal. There was a little flutter among the ladies. Such a thing had +never happened before. Fairbridge ladies were renowned for +punctuality, especially at a meeting like this, and in any case, had +one been late, she would never have rung the bell. She would have +tapped gently on the door, the white-capped maid would have admitted +her, and she, knowing she was late and hearing the hollow recitative +of Miss Bessy Dicky's voice, would have tiptoed upstairs, then +slipped delicately down again and into a place near the door.</p> + +<p>But now it was different. Lottie opened the door, and a masculine +voice was heard. Mrs. Slade had a storm-porch, so no one could look +directly into the hall.</p> + +<p>“Is Mrs. Slade at home?” inquired the voice +distinctly. The ladies looked at one another, and Miss Bessy Dicky's +reading was unheard. They all knew who spoke. Lottie appeared with a +crimson face, bearing a little ostentatious silver plate with a card. +Mrs. Slade adjusted her lorgnette, looked at the card, and appeared +to hesitate for a second. Then a look of calm determination +overspread her face. She whispered to Lottie, and presently appeared +a young man in clerical costume, moving between the seated groups of +ladies with an air not so much of embarrassment as of weary patience, +as if he had expected something like this to happen, and it had +happened.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Slade motioned to a chair near her, which Lottie had placed, +and the young man sat down.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter II</h4> + +<p>Many things were puzzling in Fairbridge, that is, puzzling to a +person with a logical turn of mind. For instance, nobody could say +that Fairbridge people were not religious. It was a church going +community, and five denominations were represented in it; +nevertheless, the professional expounders of its doctrines were held +in a sort of gentle derision, that is, unless the expounder happened +to be young and eligible from a matrimonial point of view, when he +gained a certain fleeting distinction. Otherwise the clergy were +regarded (in very much the same light as if employed by a railroad) +as the conductors of a spiritual train of cars bound for the Promised +Land. They were admittedly engaged in a cause worthy of the highest +respect and veneration. The Cause commanded it, not they. They had +always lacked social prestige in Fairbridge, except, as before +stated, in the cases of the matrimonially eligible.</p> + +<p>Dominie von Rosen came under that head. Consequently he was for +the moment, fleeting as everybody considered it, in request. But he +did not respond readily to the social patronage of Fairbridge. He +was, seemingly, quite oblivious to its importance. Karl von Rosen was +bored to the verge of physical illness by Fairbridge functions. Even +a church affair found him wearily to the front. Therefore his +presence at the Zenith Club was unprecedented and confounding. He had +often been asked to attend its special meetings but had never +accepted. Now, however, here he was, caught neatly in the trap of his +own carelessness. Karl von Rosen should have reflected that the +Zenith Club was one of the institutions of Fairbridge, and met upon a +Friday, and that Mrs. George B. Slade's house was an exceedingly +likely rendezvous, but he was singularly absent-minded as to what was +near, and very present minded as to what was afar. That which should +have been near was generally far to his mind, which was perpetually +gathering the wool of rainbow sheep in distant pastures.</p> + +<p>If there was anything in which Karl von Rosen did not take the +slightest interest, it was women's clubs in general and the Zenith +Club in particular; and here he was, doomed by his own lack of +thought to sit through an especially long session. He had gone out +for a walk. To his mind it was a fine winter's day. The long, +glittering lights of ice pleased him and whenever he was sure that he +was unobserved he took a boyish run and long slide. During his walk +he had reached Mrs. Slade's house, and since he worked in his +pastoral calls whenever he could, by applying a sharp spur to his +disinclination, it had occurred to him that he might make one, and +return to his study in a virtuous frame of mind over a slight and +unimportant, but bothersome duty performed. If he had had his wits +about him he might have seen the feminine heads at the windows, he +might have heard the quaver of Miss Bessy Dicky's voice over the club +report; but he saw and heard nothing, and now he was seated in the +midst of the feminine throng, and Miss Bessy Dicky's voice quavered +more, and she assumed a slightly mincing attitude. Her thin hands +trembled more, the hot, red spots on her thin cheeks deepened. +Reading the club reports before the minister was an epoch in an +epochless life, but Karl von Rosen was oblivious of her except as a +disturbing element rather more insistent than the others in which he +was submerged.</p> + +<img src="images/bh1.jpg" width="1100" height="723" +alt="[Illustration: He was doomed by his own lack of thought to sit +through an especially long session]"> + +<p>He sat straight and grave, his eyes retrospective. He was +constantly getting into awkward situations, and acquitting himself in +them with marvellous dignity and grace. Even Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder, +astute as she was, regarded him keenly, and could not for the life of +her tell whether he had come premeditatedly or not. She only +discovered one thing, that poor Miss Bessy Dicky was reading at him +and posing at him and trembling her hands at him, and that she was +throwing it all away, for Von Rosen heard no more of her report than +if he had been in China when she was reading it. Mrs. Snyder realised +that hardly anything in nature could be so totally uninteresting to +the young man as the report of a woman's club. Inasmuch as she +herself was devoted to such things, she regarded him with +disapproval, although with a certain admiration. Karl von Rosen +always commanded admiration, although often of a grudging character, +from women. His utter indifference to them as women was the prime +factor in this; next to that his really attractive, even +distinguished, personality. He was handsome after the fashion which +usually accompanies devotion to women. He was slight, but sinewy, +with a gentle, poetical face and great black eyes, into which women +were apt to project tenderness merely from their own fancy. It seemed +ridiculous and anomalous that a man of Von Rosen's type should not be +a lover of ladies, and the fact that he was most certainly not was +both fascinating and exasperating.</p> + +<p>Now Mrs. George B. Slade, magnificent matron, as she was, moreover +one who had inhaled the perfume of adulation from her youth up, felt +a calm malice. She knew that he had entered her parlour after the +manner of the spider and fly rhyme of her childhood; she knew that +the other ladies would infer that he had come upon her invitation, +and her soul was filled with one of the petty triumphs of petty +Fairbridge.</p> + +<p>She, however, did not dream of the actual misery which filled the +heart of the graceful, dignified young man by her side. She +considered herself in the position of a mother, who forces an +undesired, but nevertheless, delectable sweet upon a child, who gazes +at her with adoration when the savour has reached his palate. She did +not expect Von Rosen to be much edified by Miss Bessy Dicky's report. +She had her own opinion of Miss Bessy Dicky, of her sleeves, of her +gown, and her report, but she had faith in the truly decorative +features of the occasion when they should be underway, and she had +immense faith in Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder. She was relieved when Miss +Bessy Dicky sat down, and endeavoured to compose her knees, which by +this time were trembling like her hands, and also to assume an +expression as if she had done nothing at all, and nobody was looking +at her. That last because of the fact that she had done so little, +and nobody was looking at her rendered her rather pathetic.</p> + +<p>Miss Bessy Dicky did not glance at the minister, but she, +nevertheless, saw him. She had never had a lover, and here was the +hero of her dreams. He would never know it and nobody else would ever +know it, and no harm would be done except very possibly, by and by, a +laceration of the emotions of an elderly maiden, and afterwards a +life-long scar. But who goes through life without emotional +scars?</p> + +<p>After Miss Bessy Dicky sat down, Mrs. Wilbur Edes, the lady of the +silver bell, rose. She lifted high her delicate chin, her perfect +blond pompadour caught the light, her black lace robe swept round her +in rich darkness, with occasional revelations of flower and leaf, the +fairly poetical pattern of real lace. As she rose, she diffused +around her a perfume as if rose-leaves were stirred up. She held a +dainty handkerchief, edged with real lace, in her little left hand, +which glittered with rings. In her right, was a spangled fan like a +black butterfly. Mrs. Edes was past her first youth, but she was +undeniably charming. She was like a little, perfect, ivory toy, which +time has played with but has not injured. Mrs. Slade looked at her, +then at Karl von Rosen. He looked at Mrs. Wilbur Edes, then looked +away. She was most graceful, but most positively uninteresting. +However, Mrs. Slade was rather pleased at that. She and Mrs. Edes +were rival stars. Von Rosen had never looked long at her, and it +seemed right he should not look long at the other woman.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Slade surveyed Mrs. Edes as she announced the next number on +the programme, and told herself that Mrs. Edes' gown might be real +lace and everything about her very real, and nice, and elegant, but +she was certainly a little fussy for so small a woman. Mrs. Slade +considered that she herself could have carried off that elegance in a +much more queenly manner. There was one feature of Mrs. Edes' costume +which Mrs. Slade resented. She considered that it should be worn by a +woman of her own size and impressiveness. That was a little wrap of +ermine. Now ermine, as everybody knew, should only be worn by large +and queenly women. Mrs. Slade resolved that she herself would have an +ermine wrap which should completely outshine Mrs. Edes' little +affair, all swinging with tails and radiant with tiny, bright-eyed +heads.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Edes announced a duet by Miss MacDonald and Mrs. Wells, and +sat down, and again the perfume of rose leaves was perceptible. Karl +von Rosen glanced at the next performers, Miss MacDonald, who was +very pretty and well-dressed in white embroidered cloth, and Mrs. +Wells, who was not pretty, but was considered very striking, who +trailed after her in green folds edged with fur, and bore a roll of +music. She seated herself at the piano with a graceful sweep of her +green draperies, which defined her small hips, and struck the keys +with slender fingers quite destitute of rings, always lifting them +high with a palpable affectation not exactly doubtful—that was +saying too much—but she was considered to reach limits of +propriety with her sinuous motions, the touch of her sensitive +fingers upon piano keys, and the quick flash of her dark eyes in her +really plain face. There was, for the women in Fairbridge, a certain +mischievous fascination about Mrs. Wells. Moreover, they had in her +their one object of covert gossip, their one stimulus to unlawful +imagination.</p> + +<p>There was a young man who played the violin. His name was Henry +Wheaton, and he was said to be a frequent caller at Mrs. Wells', and +she played his accompaniments, and Mr. Wells was often detained in +New York until the late train. Then there was another young man who +played the 'cello, and he called often. And there was Ellis +Bainbridge, who had a fine tenor voice, and he called. It was +delightful to have a woman of that sort, of whom nothing distinctly +culpable could be affirmed, against whom no good reason could be +brought for excluding her from the Zenith Club and the social set. In +their midst, Mrs. Wells furnished the condiments, the spice, and +pepper, and mustard for many functions. She relieved to a great +extent the monotony of unquestioned propriety. It would have been +horribly dull if there had been no woman in the Zenith Club who +furnished an excuse for the other members' gossip.</p> + +<p>Leila MacDonald, so carefully dressed and brushed and washed, and +so free from defects that she was rather irritating, began to sing, +then people listened. Karl von Rosen listened. She really had a voice +which always surprised and charmed with the first notes, then ceased +to charm. Leila MacDonald was as a good canary bird, born to sing, +and dutifully singing, but without the slightest comprehension of her +song. It was odd too that she sang with plenty of expression, but her +own lack of realisation seemed to dull it for her listeners. Karl von +Rosen listened, then his large eyes again turned introspective.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Edes again arose, after the singing and playing ladies had +finished their performance and returned to their seats, and announced +a recitation by Miss Sally Anderson. Miss Anderson wore a light +summer gown, and swept to the front, and bent low to her audience, +then at once began her recitation with a loud crash of emotion. She +postured, she gesticulated. She lowered her voice to inaudibility, +she raised it to shrieks and wails. She did everything which she had +been taught, and she had been taught a great deal. Mrs. Sarah Joy +Snyder listened and got data for future lectures, with her mirthful +mouth sternly set.</p> + +<p>After Sally Anderson, Mrs. Jack Evarts played a glittering thing +called “Waves of the Sea.” Then Sally Anderson recited +again, then Mrs. Wilbur Edes spoke at length, and with an air which +commanded attention, and Von Rosen suffered agonies. He laughed with +sickly spurts at Mrs. Snyder's confidential sallies, when she had at +last her chance to deliver herself of her ten dollar speech, but the +worst ordeal was to follow. Von Rosen was fluttered about by women +bearing cups of tea, of frothy chocolate, plates of cake, dishes of +bonbons, and saucers of ice-cream. He loathed sweets and was forced +into accepting a plate. He stood in the midst of the feminine throng, +the solitary male figure looking at his cup of chocolate, and a slice +of sticky cake, and at an ice representing a chocolate lily, which +somebody had placed for special delectation upon a little table at +his right. Then Alice Mendon came to his rescue.</p> + +<p>She deftly took the plate with the sticky cake, and the cup of hot +chocolate, and substituted a plate with a chicken mayonnaise +sandwich, smiling pleasantly as she did so.</p> + +<p>“Here,” she whispered. “Why do you make a martyr +of yourself for such a petty cause? Do it for the faith if you want +to, but not for thick chocolate and angel cake.”</p> + +<p>She swept away the chocolate lily also. Von Rosen looked at her +gratefully. “Thank you,” he murmured.</p> + +<p>She laughed. “Oh, you need not thank me,” she said. +“I have a natural instinct to rescue men from sweets.” +She laughed again maliciously. “I am sure you have enjoyed the +club very much,” she said.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen coloured before her sarcastic, kindly eyes. He began to +speak, but she interrupted him. “You have heard that silence is +golden,” said she. “It is always golden when speech would +be a lie.”</p> + +<p>Then she turned away and seized upon the chocolate lily and +pressed it upon Mrs. Joy Snyder, who was enjoying adulation and good +things.</p> + +<p>“Do please have this lovely lily, Mrs. Snyder,” she +said. “It is the very prettiest ice of the lot, and meant +especially for you. I am sure you will enjoy it.”</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder, whose sense of humour deserted her when +she was being praised and fed, and who had already eaten bonbons +innumerable, and three ices with accompanying cake, took the +chocolate lily gratefully. Von Rosen ate his chicken sandwich and +marvelled at the ways of women.</p> + +<p>After Von Rosen had finished his sandwiches and tea, he made his +way to Mrs. Snyder, and complimented her upon her lecture. He had a +constitutional dislike for falsehoods, which was perhaps not so much +a virtue as an idiosyncrasy. Now he told Mrs. Snyder that he had +never heard a lecture which seemed to amuse an audience more than +hers had done, and that he quite envied her because of her power of +holding attention. Mrs. Snyder, with the last petal of her chocolate +lily sweet upon her tongue, listened with such a naïveté +of acquiescence that she was really charming, and Von Rosen had +spoken the truth. He had wondered, when he saw the eagerly tilted +faces of the women, and heard their bursts of shrill laughter and +clapping of hands, why he could not hold them with his sermons which, +he might assume without vanity, contained considerable subject for +thought, as this woman, with her face like a mask of mirth, held them +with her compilation of platitudes.</p> + +<p>He thought that he had never seen so many women listen with such +intensity, and lack of self-consciousness. He had seen only two pat +their hair, only one glance at her glittering rings, only three +arrange the skirts of their gowns while the lecture was in progress. +Sometimes during his sermons, he felt as if he were holding forth to +a bewildering sea of motion with steadily recurrent waves, which +fascinated him, of feathers, and flowers, swinging fur tails, and +kid-gloved hands, fluttering ribbons, and folds of drapery. Karl von +Rosen would not have acknowledged himself as a woman-hater, that +savoured too much of absurd male egotism, but he had an under +conviction that women were, on the whole, admitting of course +exceptions, self-centered in the pursuit of petty ends to the extent +of absolute viciousness. He disliked women, although he had never +owned it to himself.</p> + +<p>In spite of his dislike of women, Von Rosen had a house-keeper. He +had made an ineffectual trial of an ex-hotel chef, but had finally +been obliged to resort to Mrs. Jane Riggs. She was tall and strong, +wider-shouldered than hipped. She went about her work with long +strides. She never fussed. She never asked questions. In fact, she +seldom spoke.</p> + +<p>When Von Rosen entered his house that night, after the club +meeting, he had a comfortable sense of returning to an embodied +silence. The coal fire in his study grate was red and clear. +Everything was in order without misplacement. That was one of Jane +Riggs' chief talents. She could tidy things without misplacing them. +Von Rosen loved order, and was absolutely incapable of keeping it. +Therefore Jane Riggs' orderliness was as balm. He sat down in his +Morris chair before his fire, stretched out his legs to the warmth, +which was grateful after the icy outdoor air, rested his eyes upon a +plaster cast over the chimney place, which had been tinted a +beautiful hue by his own pipe, and sighed with content. His own +handsome face was rosy with the reflection of the fire, his soul +rose-coloured with complete satisfaction. He was so glad to be quit +of that crowded assemblage of eager femininity, so glad that it was +almost worth while to have encountered it just for that sense of +blessed relief.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Edes had offered to take him home in her carriage, and he had +declined almost brusquely. To have exchanged that homeward walk over +the glistening earth, and under the clear rose and violet lights of +the winter sunset, with that sudden rapturous discovery of the +slender crescent of the new moon, for a ride with Mrs. Edes in her +closed carriage with her silvery voice in his ear instead of the keen +silence of the winter air, would have been torture. Von Rosen +wondered at himself for disliking Mrs. Edes in particular, whereas he +disliked most women in general. There was something about her feline +motions instinct with swiftness, and concealed claws, and the half +keen, half sleepy glances of her green-blue eyes, which irritated him +beyond measure, and he was ashamed of being irritated. It implied a +power over him, and yet it was certainly not a physical power. It was +subtle and pertained to spirit. He realised, as did many in +Fairbridge, a strange influence, defying reason and will, which this +small woman with her hidden swiftness had over nearly everybody with +whom she came in contact. It had nothing whatever to do with sex. She +would have produced it in the same degree, had she not been in the +least attractive. It was compelling, and at the same time +irritating.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen in his Morris chair after the tea welcomed the intrusion +of Jane Riggs, which dispelled his thought of Mrs. Wilbur Edes. Jane +stood beside the chair, a rigid straight length of woman with a white +apron starched like a board, covering two thirds of her, and waited +for interrogation.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Jane?” asked Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>Jane Riggs replied briefly. “Outlandish young woman out in +the kitchen,” she said with distinct disapproval, yet with +evident helplessness before the situation.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen started. “Where is the dog?”</p> + +<p>“Licking her hands. Every time I told her to go, Jack +growled. Mebbe you had better come out yourself, Mr. Von +Rosen.”</p> + +<p>When Von Rosen entered the kitchen, he saw a little figure on the +floor in a limp heap, with the dog frantically licking its hands, +which were very small and brown and piteously outspread, as if in +supplication.</p> + +<p>“Mebbe you had better call up the doctor on the telephone; +she seems to have swooned away,” said Jane Riggs. At the same +time she made one long stride to the kitchen sink, and water. Von +Rosen looked aghast at the stricken figure, which was wrapped in a +queer medley of garments. He also saw on the floor near by a bulging +suitcase.</p> + +<p>“She is one of them pedlars,” said Jane Riggs, dashing +water upon the dumb little face. “I rather guess you had better +call up the doctor on the telephone. She don't seem to be coming to +easy and she may have passed away.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen gasped, then he looked pitifully at the poor little +figure, and ran back to his study to the telephone. To his great +relief as he passed the window, he glanced out, and saw Doctor +Sturtevant's automobile making its way cautiously over the icy +street. Then for the first time he remembered that he had been due at +that time about a matter of a sick parishioner. He opened the front +door hurriedly, and stated the case, and the two men carried the +little unconscious creature upstairs. Then Von Rosen came down, +leaving the doctor and Martha with her. He waited in the study, +listening to the sounds overhead, waiting impatiently for the +doctor's return, which was not for half an hour or more. In the +meantime Martha came downstairs on some errand to the kitchen. Von +Rosen intercepted her. “What does Doctor Sturtevant +think?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Dunno, what he thinks,” replied Martha brusquely, +pushing past him.</p> + +<p>“Is she conscious yet?”</p> + +<p>“Dunno, I ain't got any time to talk,” said Martha, +casting a flaming look at him over her shoulder as she entered the +kitchen.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen retreated to the study, where he was presently joined by +the doctor. “What is it?” asked Von Rosen with an +emphasis, which rendered it so suspicious that he might have added: +“what the devil is it?” had it not been for his +profession.</p> + +<p>Sturtevant answered noiselessly, the motion of his lips conveying +his meaning. Then he said, shrugging himself into his fur coat, as he +spoke, “I have to rush my motor to see a patient, whom I dare +not leave another moment, then I will be back.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen's great Persian cat had curled himself on the doctor's +fur coat, and now shaken off, sat with a languid dignity, his great +yellow plume of a tail waving, and his eyes like topazes fixed +intently upon Sturtevant. At that moment a little cry was heard from +the guest room, a cry between a moan and a scream, but unmistakably a +note of suffering. Sturtevant jammed his fur cap upon his head and +pulled on his gloves.</p> + +<p>“Don't go,” pleaded Von Rosen in a sudden terror of +helplessness.</p> + +<p>“I must, but I'll break the speed laws and be back before +you know it. That housekeeper of yours is as good as any trained +nurse, and better. She is as hard as nails, but she does her duty +like a machine, and she has brains. I will be back in a few +minutes.”</p> + +<p>Then Sturtevant was gone, and Von Rosen sat again before his study +fire. There was another little note of suffering from above. Von +Rosen shuddered, rose, and closed his door. The Persian cat came and +sat in front of him, and gazed at him with jewel-like eyes. There was +an expression of almost human anxiety and curiosity upon the animal's +face. He came from a highly developed race; he and his forbears had +always been with humans. At times it seemed to Von Rosen as if the +cat had a dumb knowledge of the most that he himself knew. He reached +down and patted the shapely golden head, but the cat withdrew, curled +himself into a coil of perfect luxuriousness, with the firelight +casting a warm, rosy glow upon his golden beauty, purred a little +while, then sank into the mystery of animal sleep.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen sat listening. He told himself that Sturtevant should be +back within half an hour. When only ten minutes had passed he took +out his watch and was dismayed to find how short a time had elapsed. +He replaced his watch and leaned back. He was always listening +uneasily. He had encountered illness and death and distress, but +never anything quite like this. He had always been able to give +personal aid. Now he felt barred out, and fiercely helpless.</p> + +<p>He sat ten minutes longer. Then he arose. He could reach the +kitchen by another way which did not lead past the stairs. He went +out there, treading on tiptoe. The cat had looked up, stretched, and +lazily gotten upon his feet and followed him, tail waving like a +pennant. He brushed around Von Rosen out in the kitchen, and mewed a +little, delicate, highbred mew. The dog came leaping up the basement +stairs, sat up and begged. Von Rosen opened the ice box and found +therein some steak. He cut off large pieces and fed the cat and dog. +He also found milk and filled a saucer.</p> + +<p>He stole back to the study. He thought he had closed all the +doors, but presently the cat entered, then sat down and began to lick +himself with his little red rough tongue. Von Rosen looked at his +watch again. The house shook a little, and he knew that the shaking +was caused by Jane Riggs, walking upstairs. He longed to go upstairs +but knew that he could not, and again that rage of helplessness came +over him. He reflected upon human life, the agony of its beginning; +the agony, in spite of bravery, in spite of denial of agony, the +agony under the brightest of suns, of its endurance; the agony of its +end; and his reflections were almost blasphemous. His religion seemed +to crumble beneath the standing-place of his soul. A torture of +doubt, a certainty of ignorance, in spite of the utmost efforts of +faith, came over him. The cat coiled himself again and sank into +sleep. Von Rosen gazed at him. What if the accepted order of things +were reversed, after all? What if that beautiful little animal were +on a higher plane than he? Certainly the cat did not suffer, and +certainly suffering and doubt degraded even the greatest.</p> + +<p>He looked at his watch and saw that Sturtevant had been gone five +minutes over the half hour. He switched off the electric light, and +stood in his window, which faced the street down which the doctor in +his car must come. He realised at once that this was more endurable. +He was doing what a woman would have done long before. He was +masculine, and had not the quick instinct to stand by the window and +watch out, to ease impatience. The road was like a broad silver band +under the moon. The lights in house windows gleamed through drawn +shades, except in one house, where he could see quite distinctly a +woman seated beside a lamp with a green shade, sewing, with regular +motions of a red, silk-clad arm. Von Rosen strained his eyes, and +saw, as he thought, a dark bulk advancing far down the street. He +watched and watched, then noted that the dark bulk had not moved. He +wondered if the motor had broken down. He thought of running out to +see, and made a motion to go, then he saw swiftly-moving lights pass +the dark bulk. He thought they were the lights of the motor, but as +they passed he saw it was a cab taking someone to the railroad +station. He knew then that the dark bulk was a clump of trees.</p> + +<p>Then, before he could fairly sense it, the doctor's motor came +hurtling down the street, its search-lights glaring, swinging from +side to side. The machine stopped, and Von Rosen ran to the door.</p> + +<p>“Here I am,” said Sturtevant in a hushed voice. There +was a sound from the room above, and the doctor, Von Rosen and nurse +looked at each other. Then Von Rosen sat again alone in his study, +and now, in spite of the closed door, he heard noises above stairs. +Solitude was becoming frightful to him. He felt all at once strangely +young, like a child, and a pitiful sense of injury was over him, but +the sense of injury was not for himself alone, but for all mankind. +He realised that all mankind was enormously pitiful and injured, by +the mere fact of their obligatory existence. And he wished more than +anything in the world for some understanding soul with whom to share +his sense of the universal grievance.</p> + +<p>But he continued to sit alone, and the cat slept in his golden +coil of peace. Then suddenly the cat sat up, and his jewel eyes +glowed. He looked fixedly at a point in the room. Von Rosen looked in +the same direction but saw nothing except his familiar wall. Then he +heard steps on the stairs, and the door opened, and Jane Riggs +entered. She was white and stern. She was tragic. Her lean fingers +were clutching at the air. Von Rosen stared at her. She sat down and +swept her crackling white apron over her head.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter III</h4> + +<p>When Margaret Edes had returned home after the Zenith Club, she +devoted an hour to rest. She had ample time for that before dressing +for a dinner which she and her husband were to give in New York that +evening. The dinner was set for rather a late hour in order to enable +Margaret to secure this rest before the train-time. She lay on a +couch before the fire, in her room which was done in white and gold. +Her hair was perfectly arranged, for she had scarcely moved her head +during the club meeting, and had adjusted and removed her hat with +the utmost caution. Now she kept her shining head perfectly still +upon a rather hard pillow. She did not relax her head, but she did +relax her body, and the result, as she was aware, would be +beautifying.</p> + +<p>Still as her head remained, she allowed no lines of disturbance to +appear upon her face, and for that matter, no lines of joy. Secretly +she did not approve of smiles, more than she approved of tears. Both +of them, she knew, tended to leave traces, and other people, +especially other women, did not discriminate between the traces of +tears and smiles. Therefore, lying with her slim graceful body +stretched out at full length upon her couch, Margaret Edes' face was +as absolutely devoid of expression as a human face could well be, and +this although she was thinking rather strenuously. She had not been +pleased with the impression which Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder had made upon +the Zenith Club, because Mrs. Slade, and not she, had been +instrumental in securing her valuable services. Mrs. Edes had a +Napoleonic ambition which was tragic and pathetic, because it could +command only a narrow scope for its really unusual force. If Mrs. +Edes had only been possessed of the opportunity to subjugate Europe, +nothing except another Waterloo could have stopped her onward march. +But she had absolutely nothing to subjugate except poor little +Fairbridge. She was a woman of power which was wasted. She was +absurdly tragic, but none the less tragic. Power spent upon petty +ends is one of the greatest disasters of the world. It wrecks not +only the spender, but its object. Mrs. Edes was horribly and +unworthily unhappy, reflecting upon Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder and Mrs. +Slade. She cared very much because Mrs. Slade and not she had brought +about this success of the Zenith Club, with Mrs. Snyder as +high-light. It was a shame to her, but she could not help it, because +one living within narrow horizons must have limited aims.</p> + +<p>If only her husband had enough money to enable her to live in New +York after the manner which would have suited her, she felt capable +of being a leading power in that great and dreadful city. Probably +she was right. The woman was in reality possessed of abnormal nerve +force. Had Wilbur Edes owned millions, and she been armed with the +power which they can convey, she might have worked miracles in her +subtle feminine fashion. She would always have worked subtly, and +never believed her feminine self. She understood its worth too well. +She would have conquered like a cat, because she understood her +weapons, her velvet charm, her purr, and her claws. She would not +have attempted a growling and bulky leap into success. She would have +slid and insinuated and made her gliding progress almost +imperceptible, but none the less remorseless.</p> + +<p>But she was fated to live in Fairbridge. What else could she do? +Wilbur Edes was successful in his profession, but he was not an +accumulator, and neither was she. His income was large during some +years, but it was spent during those years for things which seemed +absolutely indispensable to both husband and wife. For instance, +to-night Wilbur would spend an extravagant sum upon this dinner, +which he was to give at an extravagant hotel to some people whom Mrs. +Edes had met last summer, and who, if not actually in the great swim, +were in the outer froth of it, and she had vague imaginings of future +gain through them. Wilbur had carried his dress suit in that morning. +He was to take a room in the hotel and change, and meet her at the +New York side of the ferry. As she thought of the ferry it was all +Mrs. Edes could do to keep her smooth brow from a frown. Somehow the +ferry always humiliated her; the necessity of going up or down that +common, democratic gang plank, clinging to the tail of her fine gown, +and seating herself in a row with people who glanced askance at her +evening wrap and her general magnificence.</p> + +<p>Poor Mrs. Edes was so small and slight that holding up +magnificence and treading the deck with her high-heeled shoes was +physically fatiguing. Had she been of a large, powerful physique, had +her body matched her mind, she might not have felt a sense of angry +humiliation. As it was, she realised that for her, <em>her</em>, to +be obliged to cross the ferry was an insult at the hands of +Providence. But the tunnel was no better, perhaps worse,—that +plunged into depths below the waters, like one in a public bath. +Anything so exquisite, so dainty, so subtly fine and powerful as +herself, should not have been condemned to this. She should have been +able to give her dinners in her own magnificent New York mansion. As +it was, there was nothing for her except to dress and accept the +inevitable.</p> + +<p>It was as bad as if Napoleon the Great had been forced to ride to +battle on a trolley car, instead of being booted and spurred and +astride a charger, which lifted one fore-leg in a fling of scorn. Of +course Wilbur would meet her, and they would take a taxicab, but even +a taxicab seemed rather humiliating to her. It should have been her +own private motor car. And she would be obliged to descend the stairs +at the station ungracefully, one hand clutching nervously at the tail +of her gorgeous gown, the other at her evening cloak. It was +absolutely impossible for so slight a woman to descend stairs with +dignity and grace, holding up an evening cloak and a long gown.</p> + +<p>However, there would be compensations later. She thought, with +decided pleasure, of the private dining-room, and the carefully +planned and horribly expensive decorations, which would be eminently +calculated to form a suitable background for herself. The flowers and +candle-shades were to be yellow, and she was to wear her yellow +chiffon gown, with touches of gold embroidery, a gold comb set with +topazes in her yellow hair, and on her breast a large, gleaming stone +which was a yellow diamond of very considerable value. Wilbur had +carried in his suit case her yellow satin slippers, her gold-beaded +fan, and the queer little wrap of leopard skin which she herself had +fashioned from a rug which her husband had given her. She had much +skill in fashioning articles for her own adornment as a cat has in +burnishing his fur, and would at any time have sacrificed the +curtains or furniture covers, had they met her needs.</p> + +<p>She would not be obliged—crowning disgrace—to carry a +bag. All she would need would be her little case for tickets, and her +change purse, and her evening cloak had pockets. The evening cloak +lay beside the yellow chiffon gown, carefully disposed on the bed, +which had a lace counterpane over yellow satin. The cloak was of a +creamy cloth lined with mink, a sumptuous affair, and she had a tiny +mink toque with one yellow rose as head covering.</p> + +<p>She glanced approvingly at the rich attire spread upon the bed, +and then thought again of the dreadful ferry, and her undignified hop +across the dirty station to the boat. She longed for the days of +sedan chairs, for anything rather than this. She was an exquisite +lady caught in the toils of modern cheap progress toward all her +pleasures and profits. She did not belong in a democratic country at +all unless she had millions. She was out of place, as much out of +place as a splendid Angora in an alley. Fairbridge to her instincts +was as an alley; yet since it was her alley, she had to make the best +of it. Had she not made the best of it, exalted it, magnified it, she +would have gone mad. Wherefore the triumph of Mrs. Slade in +presenting Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder seemed to her like an affair of +moment. For lack of something greater to hate and rival, she hated +and rivalled Mrs. Slade. For lack of something big over which to +reign, she wished to reign over Fairbridge and the Zenith Club. Mrs. +Slade's perfectly-matched drawing-room took on the semblance of a +throne-room, in which she had seen herself usurped.</p> + +<p>Then she thought of the young clergyman, even as he was thinking +of her. She knew perfectly well how he had been trapped, but she +failed to see the slightest humour in it. She had no sense of humour. +She saw only the additional triumph of Mrs. Slade in securing this +rather remarkable man at the Zenith Club, something which she herself +had never been able to do. Von Rosen's face came before her. She +considered it a handsome face, but no man's face could disturb her. +She held her virtue with as nervous a clutch as she held up her fine +gown. To soil either would be injudicious, impolitic, and she never +desired the injudicious and impolitic.</p> + +<p>“He is a handsome man,” she said to herself, “an +aristocratic-looking man.” Then the telephone bell close +beside her divan rang, and she took up the receiver carefully, not +moving her head, sat up, and put her delicate lips to the speaking +tube.</p> + +<p>“Hello,” said a voice, and she recognised it as Von +Rosen's although it had an agitated, nervous ring which was foreign +to it.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” she said in reply, and the voice +responded with volubility, “A girl, a young Syrian girl, is at +my home. She is in a swoon or something. We cannot revive her. Is the +doctor at home? Tell him to hurry over, please. I am Mr. von Rosen. +Tell him to hurry. She may be dead.”</p> + +<p>“You have made a mistake, Mr. von Rosen,” said Mrs. +Edes' thin voice, as thin and silvery as a reed. “You are +speaking to Mrs. Wilbur Edes. My telephone number is 5R. You +doubtless want Doctor Sturtevant. His number is 51M.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, pardon,” cried the voice over the telephone. +“Sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs. Edes, I +mistook—”</p> + +<p>The voice trailed into nothingness. There was a sharp ring. Mrs. +Edes hung up her receiver. She thought slowly that it was a strange +circumstance that Mr. von Rosen should have a fainting or dead young +Syrian girl in his house. Then she rose from the divan, holding her +head very stiffly, and began to dress. She had just enough time to +dress leisurely and catch the train. She called on one of the two +maids to assist her and was quite equipped, even to the little mink +toque, fastened very carefully on her shining head, when there was a +soft push at the door, and her twin daughters, Maida and Adelaide, +entered. They were eight years old, but looked younger. They were +almost exactly alike as to small, pretty features and pale blond +colouring. Maida scowled a little, and Adelaide did not, and people +distinguished them by that when in doubt.</p> + +<p>They stood and stared at their mother with a curious expression on +their sharp, delicate little faces. It was not exactly admiration, it +was not wonder, nor envy, nor affection, yet tinctured by all.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Edes looked at them. “Maida,” said she, “do +not wear that blue hair-ribbon again. It is soiled. Have you had your +dinners?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, mamma,” responded first one, then the other, +Maida with the frown being slightly in the lead.</p> + +<p>“Then you had better go to bed,” said Mrs. Edes, and +the two little girls stood carefully aside to allow her to pass.</p> + +<p>“Good night, children,” said Mrs. Edes without turning +her mink-crowned head. The little girls watched the last yellow swirl +of their mother's skirts, disappearing around the stair-landing, then +Adelaide spoke.</p> + +<p>“I mean to wear red, myself, when I'm grown up,” said +she.</p> + +<p>“Ho, just because Jim Carr likes red,” retorted Maida. +“As for me, I mean to have a gown just like hers, only a little +deeper shade of yellow.”</p> + +<p>Adelaide laughed, an unpleasantly snarling little laugh. +“Ho,” said she, “just because Val Thomas likes +yellow.”</p> + +<p>Then the coloured maid, Emma, who was cross because Mrs. Edes' +evening out had deprived her of her own, and had been ruthlessly +hanging her mistress's gown which she had worn to the club in a wad +on a closet hook, disregarding its perfumed hanger, turned upon +them.</p> + +<p>“Heah, ye chillun,” said she, “your ma sid for +you to go to baid.”</p> + +<p>Each little girl had her white bed with a canopy of pink silk in a +charming room. There were garlands of rosebuds on the wallpaper and +the furniture was covered with rosebud chintz.</p> + +<p>While their mother was indignantly sailing across the North River, +her daughters lay awake, building air-castles about themselves and +their boy-lovers, which fevered their imaginations, and aged them +horribly in a spiritual sense.</p> + +<p>“Amy White's mother plays dominoes with her every +evening,” Maida remarked. Her voice sounded incredibly old, +full of faint derisiveness and satire, but absolutely +non-complaining.</p> + +<p>“Amy White's mother would look awfully funny in a gown like +Mamma's,” said Adelaide.</p> + +<p>“I suppose that is why she plays dominoes with Amy,” +said Maida in her old voice.</p> + +<p>“Oh, don't talk any more, Maida, I want to go to +sleep,” said Adelaide pettishly, but she was not in the least +sleepy. She wished to return to the air-castle in which she had been +having sweet converse with Jim Carr. This air-castle was the abode of +innocence, but it was not yet time for its building at all. It was +such a little childish creature who lay curled up under the coverlid +strewn with rosebuds that the gates of any air-castle of life and +love, and knowledge, however innocent and ignorant, should have been +barred against her, perhaps with dominoes.</p> + +<p>However, she entered in, her soft cheeks burning, and her pulse +tingling, and saw the strange light through its fairy windows, and +her sister also entered her air-castle, and all the time their mother +was sailing across the North River toward the pier where her husband +waited. She kept one gloved hand upon the fold of her gown, ready to +clutch it effectually clear of the dirty deck when the pier was +reached. When she was in the taxicab with Wilbur, she thought again +of Von Rosen. “Dominie von Rosen made a mistake,” said +she, “and called up the wrong number. He wanted Doctor +Sturtevant, and he got me.” Then she repeated the message. +“What do you suppose he was doing with a fainting Syrian girl +in his house?” she ended.</p> + +<p>A chuckle shook the dark bulk in its fur lined coat at her side. +“The question is why the Syrian girl chose Von Rosen's house to +faint in,” said he lightly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, don't be funny, Wilbur,” said Margaret. +“Have you seen the dining-room? How does it look?”</p> + +<p>“I thought it beautiful, and I am sure you will like +it,” said Wilbur Edes in the chastened tone which he commonly +used toward his wife. He had learned long ago that facetiousness +displeased her, and he lived only to please her, aside from his +interest in his profession. Poor Wilbur Edes thought his wife very +wonderful, and watched with delight the hats doffed when she entered +the hotel lift like a little beruffled yellow canary. He wished those +men could see her later, when the canary resemblance had altogether +ceased, when she would look tall and slender and lithe in her +clinging yellow gown with the great yellow stone gleaming in her +corsage.</p> + +<p>For some reason Margaret Edes held her husband's admiration with a +more certain tenure because she could not be graceful when weighed +down with finery. The charm of her return to grace was a never-ending +surprise. Wilbur Edes loved his wife more comfortably than he loved +his children. He loved them a little uneasily. They were unknown +elements to him, and he sometimes wished that he had more time at +home, to get them firmly fixed in his comprehension. Without the +slightest condemnation of his wife, he had never regarded her as a +woman in whom the maternal was a distinguishing feature. He saw with +approbation the charming externals with which she surrounded their +offspring. It was a gratification to him to be quite sure that +Maida's hair ribbon would always be fresh and tied perkily, and that +Adelaide would be full of dainty little gestures copied from her +mother, but he had some doubts as to whether his wonderful Margaret +might not be too perfect in herself, and too engrossed with the +duties pertaining to perfection to be quite the proper manager of +imperfection and immaturity represented by childhood.</p> + +<p>“How did you leave the children!” he inquired when +they were in their bedroom at the hotel, and he was fitting the +yellow satin slippers to his wife's slender silk shod feet.</p> + +<p>“The children were as well as usual. I told Emma to put them +to bed. Do you think the orchids in the dining-room are the right +shade, Wilbur?”</p> + +<p>“I am quite sure. I am glad that you told Emma to put them +to bed.”</p> + +<p>“I always do. Mrs. George B. Slade is most unpleasantly +puffed up.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, because she got Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder to speak to the +club.”</p> + +<p>“Did she do her stunt well?”</p> + +<p>“Well enough. Mrs. Slade was so pleased, it was really +offensive.”</p> + +<p>Wilbur Edes had an inspiration. “The Fay-Wymans,” said +he (the Fay-Wymans were the principal guests of their dinner party), +“know a lot of theatrical people. I will see if I can't get +them to induce somebody, say Lydia Greenway, to run out some day; I +suppose it would have to be later on, just after the season, and do a +stunt at the club.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that would be simply charming,” cried Margaret, +“and I would rather have it in the spring, because everything +looks so much prettier. But don't you think it will be impossible, +Wilbur?”</p> + +<p>“Not with money as an inducement.” Wilbur had the +pleasant consciousness of an unusually large fee which was sure to be +his own before that future club meeting, and he could see no better +employment for it than to enable his adored wife to outshine Mrs. +George B. Slade. When in New York engaged in his profession, Wilbur +Edes was entirely free from the vortex of Fairbridge, but his wife, +with its terrible eddies still agitating her garments, could suck him +therein, even in the great city. He was very susceptible to her +influence.</p> + +<p>Margaret Edes beamed at her husband as he rose. “That will +make Marion Slade furious,” she said. She extended her feet. +“Pretty slippers, aren't they, Wilbur?”</p> + +<p>“Charming, my dear.”</p> + +<p>Margaret was so pleased that she tried to do something very +amiable.</p> + +<p>“That was funny, I mean what you said about the Syrian girl +at the Dominie's,” she volunteered, and laughed, without making +a crease in her fair little face. She was really adorable, far more +than pretty, leaning back with one slender, yellow-draped leg crossed +over the other, revealing the glittering slippers and one silken +ankle.</p> + +<p>“It does sound somewhat queer, a Syrian girl fainting in the +Dominie's house,” said Wilbur. “She could not have found +a house where her sex, of any nationality, are in less +repute.”</p> + +<p>“Then you don't think that Alice Mendon—?” +There was a faint note of jealousy in Margaret's voice, although she +herself had not the slightest interest in Dominie von Rosen or any +man, except her husband; and in him only because he was her husband. +As the husband of her wonderful self, he acquired a certain claim to +respect, even affection, such as she had to bestow.</p> + +<p>“I don't think Alice Mendon would take up with the Dominie, +if he would with her,” responded Wilbur Edes hastily. Margaret +did not understand his way of speaking, but just then she looked at +herself in an opposite mirror, and pulled down one side of her blond +pompadour a bit, which softened her face, and added to its +allurement. The truth was Wilbur Edes, before he met Margaret, had +proposed to Alice Mendon. Alice had never told, and he had not, +consequently Margaret did not know. Had she known it would have made +no difference, since she could not imagine any man preferring Alice +to herself. All her jealousy was based upon the facts of her superior +height, and ability to carry herself well, where she knew herself +under many circumstances about as graceful as an Angora cat walking +upon her hind legs. She was absolutely sure of her husband. The +episode with Alice had occurred before he had ever even seen Herself. +She smiled radiantly upon him as she arose. She was conscious of no +affection for her husband, but she was conscious of a desire to show +appreciation, and to display radiance for his delectation.</p> + +<p>“It is charming of you to think of getting Lydia Greenway to +read, you dear old man,” said she. Wilbur beamed.</p> + +<p>“Well, of course, I can not be sure, that is not absolutely +sure, but if it is to be done, I will manage it,” said he.</p> + +<p>It was at this very time, for radically different notes sound at +the same time in the harmony or discord of life, that Von Rosen's +housekeeper, Jane Riggs, stood before him with that crackling white +apron swept over her face.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Von Rosen, and he realised that +his lips were stiff, and his voice sounded strange.</p> + +<p>A strange harsh sob came from behind the apron. “She was all +bent to one side with that heavy suit case, as heavy as lead, for I +hefted it,” said Jane Riggs, “and she couldn't have been +more than fifteen. Them outlandish girls get married awful +young.”</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>“And there was poor Jack lickin' her hands, and him a dog +everybody is so scared of, and she a sinkin' down in a heap on my +kitchen floor.”</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>“She has passed away,” answered Jane Riggs, +“and—the baby is a boy, and no bigger than the cat, not +near as big as the cat when I come to look at him, and I put some of +my old flannels and my shimmy on him, and Doctor Sturtevant has got +him in my darning basket, all lined with newspapers, the New York +<i>Sun</i>, and the <i>Times</i> and hot water bottles, and it's all +happened in the best chamber, and I call it pretty goings +on.”</p> + +<p>Jane Riggs gave vent to discordant sobs. Her apron crackled. Von +Rosen took hold of her shoulders. “Go straight back up +there,” he ordered.</p> + +<p>“Why couldn't she have gone in and fainted away somewhere +where there was more women than one,” said Jane Riggs. +“Doctor Sturtevant, he sent me down for more +newspapers.”</p> + +<p>“Take these, and go back at once,” said Von Rosen, and +he gathered up the night papers in a crumpled heap and thrust them +upon the woman.</p> + +<p>“He said you had better telephone for Mrs. Bestwick,” +said Jane. Mrs. Bestwick was the resident nurse of Fairbridge. Von +Rosen sprang to the telephone, but he could get no response whatever +from the Central office, probably on account of the ice-coated +wires.</p> + +<p>He sat down disconsolately, and the cat leapt upon his knees, but +he pushed him away impatiently, to be surveyed in consequence by +those topaz eyes with a regal effect of injury, and astonishment. Von +Rosen listened. He wondered if he heard, or imagined that he heard, a +plaintive little wail. The dog snuggled close to him, and he felt a +warm tongue lap. Von Rosen patted the dog's head. Here was sympathy. +The cat's leap into his lap had been purely selfish. Von Rosen +listened. He got up, and tried to telephone again, but got no +response from Central. He hung up the receiver emphatically and sat +down again. The dog again came close, and he patted the humble loving +head. Von Rosen listened again, and again could not be sure whether +he actually heard or imagined that he heard, the feeblest, most +helpless cry ever lifted up from this earth, that of a miserable new +born baby with its uncertain future reaching before it and all the +sins of its ancestors upon its devoted head.</p> + +<p>When at last the door opened and Doctor Sturtevant entered, he was +certain. That poor little atom of humanity upstairs was lifting up +its voice of feeble rage and woe because of its entrance into +existence. Sturtevant had an oddly apologetic look. “I assure +you I am sorry, my dear fellow—” he began.</p> + +<p>“Is the poor little beggar going to live?” asked Von +Rosen.</p> + +<p>“Well, yes, I think so, judging from the present +outlook,” replied the doctor still apologetically.</p> + +<p>“I could not get Mrs. Bestwick,” said Von Rosen +anxiously. “I think the telephone is out of commission, on +account of the ice.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind that. Your housekeeper is a jewel, and I will +get Mrs. Bestwick on my way home. I say, Von Rosen—”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen looked at him inquiringly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, never mind; I really must be off now,” said +the doctor hurriedly. “I will get Mrs. Bestwick here as soon as +possible. I think—the child will have to be kept here for a +short time anyway, considering the weather, and +everything.”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course,” said Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>After the doctor had gone, he went out in the kitchen. He had had +no dinner. Jane Riggs, who had very acute hearing, came to the head +of the stairs, and spoke in a muffled tone, muffled as Von Rosen knew +because of the presence of death and life in the house. “The +roast is in the oven, Mr. von Rosen,” said she, “I +certainly hope it isn't too dry, and the soup is in the kettle, and +the vegetables are all ready to dish up. Everything is ready except +the coffee.”</p> + +<p>“You know I can make that,” called Von Rosen in alarm. +“Don't think of coming down.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen could make very good coffee. It was an accomplishment of +his college days. He made some now. He felt the need of it. Then he +handily served the very excellent dinner, and sat down at his +solitary dining table. As he ate his soup, he glanced across the +table, and a blush like that of a girl overspread his dark face. He +had a vision of a high chair, and a child installed therein with the +customary bib and spoon. It was a singular circumstance, but +everything in life moves in sequences, and that poor Syrian child +upstairs, in her dire extremity, was furnishing a sequence in the +young man's life, before she went out of it. Her stimulation of his +sympathy and imagination was to change the whole course of his +existence.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, Doctor Sturtevant was having a rather strenuous +argument with his wife, who for once stood against him. She had her +not-to-be-silenced personal note. She had a horror of the alien and +unusual. All her life she had walked her chalk-line, and anything +outside savoured of the mysterious, and terrible. She was +Anglo-Saxon. She was what her ancestresses had been for generations. +The strain was unchanged, and had become so tense and narrow that it +was almost fathomless. Mrs. Sturtevant, good and benevolent on her +chalk-line, was involuntarily a bigot. She looked at Chinese laundry +men, poor little yellow figures, shuffling about with bags of soiled +linen, with thrills of recoil. She would not have acknowledged it to +herself, for she came of a race which favoured abolition, but nothing +could have induced her to have a coloured girl in her kitchen. Her +imaginations and prejudices were stained as white as her skin. There +was a lone man living on the outskirts of Fairbridge, in a little +shack built by himself in the woods, who was said to have Indian +blood in his veins, and Mrs. Sturtevant never saw him without that +awful thrill of recoil. When the little Orientals, men or women, +swayed sidewise and bent with their cheap suitcases filled with +Eastern handiwork, came to the door, she did not draw a long breath +until she had watched them out of sight down the street. It made no +difference to her that they might be Christians, that they might have +suffered persecution in their own land and sought our doorless +entrances of hospitality; she still realised her own aloofness from +them, or rather theirs from her. They had entered existence entirely +outside her chalk-line. She and they walked on parallels which to all +eternity could never meet.</p> + +<p>It therefore came to pass that, although she had in the secret +depths of her being bemoaned her childlessness, and had been +conscious of yearnings and longings which were agonies, when Doctor +Sturtevant, after the poor young unknown mother had been laid away in +the Fairbridge cemetery, proposed that they should adopt the bereft +little one, she rebelled.</p> + +<p>“If he were a white baby, I wouldn't object that I know +of,” said she, “but I can't have this kind. I can't make +up my mind to it, Edward.”</p> + +<p>“But, Maria, the child is white. He may not be European, but +he is white. That is, while of course he has a dark complexion and +dark eyes and hair, he is as white, in a way, as any child in +Fairbridge, and he will be a beautiful boy. Moreover, we have every +reason to believe that he was born in wedlock. There was a ring on a +poor string of a ribbon on the mother's neck, and there was a +fragment of a letter which Von Rosen managed to make out. He thinks +that the poor child was married to another child of her own race. The +boy is all right and he will be a fine little fellow.”</p> + +<p>“It is of no use,” said Maria Sturtevant. “I +can't make up my mind to adopt a baby, that belonged to that kind of +people. I simply can not, Edward.”</p> + +<p>Sturtevant gave up the matter for the time being. The baby +remained at Von Rosen's under the care of Mrs. Bestwick, and Jane +Riggs, but when it was a month old, the doctor persuaded his wife to +go over and see it. Maria Sturtevant gazed at the tiny scrap of +humanity curled up in Jane Riggs' darning basket, the old-young face +creased as softly as a rosebud, with none of its beauty, but with a +compelling charm. She watched the weak motion of the infinitesimal +legs and arms beneath the soft smother of wrappings, and her heart +pained her with longing, but she remained firm.</p> + +<p>“It is no use, Edward,” she said, when they had +returned to Von Rosen's study. “I can't make up my mind to +adopt a baby coming from such queer people.” Then she was +confronted by a stare of blank astonishment from Von Rosen, and also +from Jane Riggs.</p> + +<p>Jane Riggs spoke with open hostility. “I don't know that +anybody has asked anybody to adopt our baby,” said she.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen laughed, but he also blushed. He spoke rather +stammeringly. “Well, Sturtevant,” said he, “the +fact is, Jane and I have talked it over, and she thinks she can +manage, and he seems a bright little chap, and—I have about +made up my mind to keep him myself.”</p> + +<p>“He is going to be baptised as soon as he is big enough to +be taken out of my darning basket,” said Jane Riggs with +defiance, but Mrs. Sturtevant regarded her with relief.</p> + +<p>“I dare say he will be a real comfort to you,” she +said, “even if he does come from such queer stock.” Her +husband looked at Von Rosen and whistled under his breath.</p> + +<p>“People will talk,” he said aside.</p> + +<p>“Let them,” returned Von Rosen. He was experiencing a +strange new joy of possession, which no possibility of ridicule could +daunt. However, his joy was of short duration. The baby was a little +over three months old, and had been promoted to a crib, and a +perambulator, had been the unconscious recipient of many gifts from +the women of Von Rosen's parish, and of many calls from admiring +little girls. Jane had scented the danger. She came home from +marketing one morning, quite pale, and could hardly speak when she +entered Von Rosen's study.</p> + +<p>“There's an outlandish young man around here,” said +she, “and you had better keep that baby close.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen laughed. “Those people are always about,” he +said. “You have no reason to be nervous, Jane. There is hardly +a chance he has anything to do with the baby, and in any case, he +would not be likely to burden himself with the care of it.”</p> + +<p>“Don't you be too sure,” said Jane stoutly, “a +baby like that!”</p> + +<p>Jane, much against her wishes, was obliged to go out that +afternoon, and Von Rosen was left alone with the baby with the +exception of a little nurse girl who had taken the place of Mrs. +Bestwick. Then it was that the Syrian man, he was no more than a boy, +came. Von Rosen did not at first suspect. The Syrian spoke very good +English, and he was a Christian. So he told Von Rosen. Then he also +told him that the dead girl had been his wife, and produced letters +signed with the name which those in her possession had borne. Von +Rosen was convinced. There was something about the boy with his +haughty, almost sullen, oriental manner which bore the stamp of +truth. However, when he demanded only the suit-case which his dead +wife had brought when she came to the house, Von Rosen was relieved. +He produced it at once, and his wonder and disgust mounted to fever +heat, when that Eastern boy proceeded to take out carefully the gauds +of feminine handiwork which it contained, and press them upon Von +Rosen at exorbitant prices. Von Rosen was more incensed than he often +permitted himself to be. He ordered the boy from the house, and he +departed with strong oaths, and veiled and intricate threats after +the manner of his subtle race, and when Jane Riggs came home, Von +Rosen told her.</p> + +<p>“I firmly believe the young rascal was that poor girl's +husband, and the boy's father,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Didn't he ask to have the baby?”</p> + +<p>“Never mentioned such a thing. All he wanted was the article +of value which the poor girl left here.”</p> + +<p>Jane Riggs also looked relieved. “Outlandish people are +queer,” she said.</p> + +<p>But the next morning she rushed into Von Rosen's room when he had +barely finished dressing, sobbing aloud like a child, her face +rigidly convulsed with grief, and her hands waving frantically with +no effort to conceal it.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter IV</h4> + +<p>The little Syrian baby had disappeared. Nobody had reckoned with +the soft guile of a race as supple and silent as to their real +intentions as cats. There was a verandah column wound with a massive +wistaria vine near the window of the baby's room. The little nurse +girl went home every night, and Jane Riggs was a heavy sleeper. When +she had awakened, her first glance had been into the baby's crib. +Then she sprang, and searched with hungry hands. The little softly +indented nest was not warm, the child had been gone for some hours, +probably had been taken during the first and soundest sleep of the +household. Jane's purse, and her gold breast pin, had incidentally +been taken also. When she gave the alarm to Von Rosen, a sullen, +handsome Syrian boy was trudging upon an unfrequented road, which led +circuitously to the City, and he carried a suit-case, but it was held +apart, by some of the Eastern embroideries used as wedges, before +strapping, and from that came the querulous wail of a baby squirming +uncomfortably upon drawn work centre pieces, and crepe kimonas. Now +and then the boy stopped and spoke to the baby in a lovely gentle +voice. He promised it food, and shelter soon in his own soft tongue. +He was carrying it to his wife's mother, and sullen as he looked and +was, and thief as he was, love for his own swayed him, and made him +determined to hold it fast. Von Rosen made all possible inquiries. He +employed detectives but he never obtained the least clue to the +whereabouts of the little child. He, however, although he grieved +absurdly, almost as absurdly as Jane, had a curious sense of joy over +the whole. Life in Fairbridge had, before birth and death entered his +home, been so monotonous, that he was almost stupefied. Here was a +thread of vital gold and flame, although it had brought pain with it. +When Doctor Sturtevant condoled with him, he met with an unexpected +response. “I feel for you, old man. It was a mighty unfortunate +thing that it happened in your house, now that this has come of +it,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I am very glad it happened, whatever came of it,” +said Von Rosen. “It is something to have had in my life. I +wouldn't have missed it.”</p> + +<p>Fairbridge people, who were on the whole a good-natured set, were +very sympathetic, especially the women. Bessy Dicky shed tears when +talking to Mrs. Sturtevant about the disappearance of the baby. Mrs. +Sturtevant was not very responsive.</p> + +<p>“It may be all for the best,” she said. “Nobody +can tell how that child would have turned out. He might have ended by +killing Mr. von Rosen.” Then she added with a sigh that she +hoped his poor mother had been married.</p> + +<p>“Why, of course she was since there was a baby,” said +Bessy Dicky. Then she rose hastily with a blush because Doctor +Sturtevant's motor could be heard, and took her leave.</p> + +<p>Doctor Sturtevant had just returned from a call upon Margaret +Edes, who had experienced a very severe disappointment, coming as it +did after another very successful meeting of the Zenith Club at Daisy +Shaw's, who had most unexpectedly provided a second cousin who +recited monologues wonderfully. Wilbur had failed in his attempt to +secure Lydia Greenway for Margaret's star-feature. The actress had +promised, but had been suddenly attacked with a very severe cold +which had obliged her to sail for Europe a week earlier than she had +planned. Margaret had been quite ill, but Doctor Sturtevant gave her +pain pellets with the result that late in the afternoon she sat on +her verandah in a fluffy white tea gown, and then it was that little +Annie Eustace came across the street, and sat with her. Annie was not +little. Although slender, she was, in fact, quite tall and wide +shouldered and there was something about her which seemed to justify +the use of the diminutive adjective. Possibly it was her face, which +was really small and very pretty, with perfect cameo-like features +and an odd, deprecating, almost painfully humble expression. It was +the face of a creature entirely capable of asking an enemy's pardon +for an injury inflicted upon herself. In reality, Annie Eustace had +very much that attitude of soul. She always considered the wrong as +her natural place, and, in fact, would not have been comfortable +elsewhere, although she suffered there. And yet, little Annie Eustace +was a gifted creature. There was probably not a person in Fairbridge +who had been so well endowed by nature, but her environment and +up-bringing had been unfortunate. If Annie's mother had lived, the +daughter might have had more spirit, but she had died when Annie was +a baby, and the child had been given over to the tyranny of two +aunts, and a grandmother. As for her father, he had never married +again, but he had never paid much attention to her. He had been a +reserved, silent man, himself under the sway of his mother and +sisters. Charles Eustace had had an obsession to the effect that the +skies of his own individual sphere would fall to his and his child's +destruction, if his female relatives deserted him, and that they had +threatened to do, upon the slightest sign of revolt. Sometimes +Annie's father had regarded her wistfully and wondered within himself +if it were quite right for a child to be so entirely governed, but +his own spirit of yielding made it impossible for him to realise the +situation. Obedience had been little Annie Eustace's first lesson +taught by the trio, who to her represented all government, in her +individual case.</p> + +<p>Annie Eustace obeyed her aunts, and grandmother (her father had +been dead for several years), but she loved only three,—two +were women, Margaret Edes and Alice Mendon; the other was a man, and +the love was not confessed to her own heart.</p> + +<p>This afternoon Annie wore an ugly green gown, which was, moreover, +badly cut. The sleeves were too long below the elbow, and too short +above, and every time she moved an arm they hitched uncomfortably. +The neck arrangement was exceedingly unbecoming, and the skirt not +well hung. The green was of the particular shade which made her look +yellow. As she sat beside Margaret and embroidered assiduously, and +very unskilfully, some daisies on a linen centre-piece, the other +woman eyed her critically.</p> + +<p>“You should not wear that shade of green, if you will excuse +my saying so, dear,” she remarked presently.</p> + +<p>Annie regarded her with a charming, loving smile. She would have +excused her idol for saying anything. “I know it is not very +becoming,” she agreed sweetly.</p> + +<p>“Becoming,” said Margaret a trifle viciously. She was +so out of sorts about her failure to secure Lydia Greenway that she +felt a great relief in attacking little Annie Eustace.</p> + +<p>“Becoming,” said she. “It actually makes you +hideous. That shade is impossible for you and why,—I trust you +will not be offended, you know it is for your own good, +dear,—why do you wear your hair in that fashion?”</p> + +<p>“I am afraid it is not very becoming,” said Annie with +the meekness of those who inherit the earth. She did not state that +her aunt Harriet had insisted that she dress her hair in that +fashion. Annie was intensely loyal.</p> + +<p>“Nobody,” said Margaret, “unless she were as +beautiful as Helen of Troy, should wear her hair that way, and not +look a fright.”</p> + +<p>Annie Eustace blushed, but it was not a distressed blush. When one +has been downtrodden one's whole life, one becomes accustomed to it, +and besides she loved the down-treader.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said she. “I looked at myself in my glass +just before I came and I thought I did not look well.”</p> + +<p>“Hideous,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>Annie smiled agreement and looked pretty, despite the fact that +her hair was strained tightly back, showing too much of her +intellectual forehead, and the colour of her gown killed all the pink +bloom lights in her face. Annie Eustace had a beautiful soul and it +showed forth triumphant over all bodily accessories, in her +smile.</p> + +<p>“You are not doing that embroidery at all well,” said +Margaret.</p> + +<p>Annie laughed. “I know it,” she said with a sort of +meek amusement. “I don't think I ever can master long and short +stitch.”</p> + +<p>“Why on earth do you attempt it then?”</p> + +<p>“Everybody embroiders,” replied Annie. She did not +state that her grandmother had made taking the embroidery a condition +of her call upon her friend.</p> + +<p>Margaret continued to regard her. She was finding a species of +salve for her own disappointment in this irritant applied to another. +“What does make you wear that hair ring?” said she.</p> + +<p>“It was a present,” replied Annie humbly, but she for +the first time looked a little disturbed. That mourning emblem with +her father's and mother's, and a departed sister's hair in a neat +little twist under a small crystal, grated upon her incessantly. It +struck her as a species of ghastly sentiment, which at once +distressed, and impelled her to hysterical mirth.</p> + +<p>“A present,” repeated Margaret. “If anybody gave +me such a present as that, I would never wear it. It is simply in +shocking bad taste.”</p> + +<p>“I sometimes fear so,” said Annie. She did not state +that her Aunt Jane never allowed her to be seen in public without +that dismal adornment.</p> + +<p>“You are a queer girl,” said Margaret, and she summed +up all her mood of petty cruelty and vicarious revenge in that one +word “queer.”</p> + +<p>However, little Annie Eustace only smiled as if she had been given +a peculiarly acceptable present. She was so used to being underrated, +that she had become in a measure immune to criticism, and besides +criticism from her adored Mrs. Edes was even a favour. She took +another bungling stitch in the petal of a white floss daisy.</p> + +<p>Margaret felt suddenly irritated. All this was too much like +raining fierce blows upon a down pillow.</p> + +<p>“Do, for goodness sake, Annie Eustace, stop doing that awful +embroidery if you don't want to drive me crazy,” said she.</p> + +<p>Then Annie looked at Margaret, and she was obviously distressed +and puzzled. Her grandmother had enjoined it upon her to finish just +so many of these trying daisies before her return and yet, on the +other hand, here was Margaret, her adorable Margaret, forbidding her +to work, and, moreover, Margaret in such an irritable mood, with that +smooth brow of hers frowning, and that sweet voice, which usually had +a lazy trickle like honey, fairly rasping, was as awe-inspiring as +her grandmother. Annie Eustace hesitated for a second. Her +grandmother had commanded. Margaret Edes had commanded. The strongest +impulse of her whole being was obedience, but she loved Margaret, and +she did not love her grandmother. She had never confessed such a +horror to herself, but one does not love another human being whose +main aim toward one is to compress, to stiffen, to make move in a +step with itself. Annie folded up the untidy embroidery. As she did +so, she dropped her needle and also her thimble. The needle lay +glittering beside her chair, the thimble rolled noiselessly over the +trailing fold of her muslin gown into the folds of Margaret's white +silk. Margaret felt an odd delight in that. Annie was careless, and +she was dainty, and she was conscious of a little pleasurable +preening of her own soul-plumage.</p> + +<p>Margaret said nothing about the thimble and needle. Annie sat +regarding her with a sort of expectation, and the somewhat mussy +little parcel of linen lay in her lap. Annie folded over it her very +slender hands, and the horrible hair ring was in full evidence.</p> + +<p>Margaret fixed her eyes upon it. Annie quickly placed the hand +which wore it under the other. Then she spoke, since Margaret did +not, and she said exactly the wrong thing. The being forced +continually into the wrong, often has the effect of making one quite +innocently take the first step in that direction even if no force be +used.</p> + +<p>“I hear that the last meeting of the Zenith Club was +unusually interesting,” said little Annie Eustace, and she +could have said nothing more hapless to Margaret Edes in her present +mood. Quite inadvertently, she herself became the irritant party. +Margaret actually flushed. “I failed to see anything +interesting whatever about it, myself,” said she tartly.</p> + +<p>Annie offended again. “I heard that Mrs. Sarah Joy Snyder's +address was really very remarkable,” said she.</p> + +<p>“It was simply a very stupid effort to be funny,” +returned Margaret. “Sometimes women will laugh because they are +expected to, and they did that afternoon. Everything was simply cut +and dried. It always is at Mrs. George B. Slade's. I never knew a +woman so absolutely destitute of originality.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked helplessly at Margaret. She could say no more unless +she contradicted. Margaret continued. She felt that she could no +longer conceal her own annoyance, and she was glad of this adoring +audience of one.</p> + +<p>“I had planned something myself for the next meeting, +something which has never been done,” said she, +“something new, and stimulating.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, how lovely!” cried Annie.</p> + +<p>“But of course, like all really clever plans for the real +good and progress of a club like ours, something has to come up to +prevent,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“Oh, what?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I had planned to have Lydia Greenway, you know she is +really a great artist, come to the next meeting and give dramatic +recitations.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, would she?” gasped Annie Eustace.</p> + +<p>“Of course, it would have meant a large pecuniary +outlay,” said Margaret, “but I was prepared, quite +prepared, to make some sacrifices for the good of the club, but, why, +you must have read it in the papers, Annie.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked guiltily ignorant.</p> + +<p>“I really do not see how you contrive to exist without +keeping more in touch with the current events,” said +Margaret.</p> + +<p>Annie looked meekly culpable, although she was not. Her aunts did +not approve of newspapers, as containing so much information, so much +cheap information concerning the evil in the world, especially for a +young person like Annie, and she was not allowed to read them, +although she sometimes did so surreptitiously.</p> + +<p>“It was in all the papers,” continued Margaret, with +her censorious air. “Lydia Greenway was obliged to leave +unexpectedly and go to the Riveria. They fear tuberculosis. She +sailed last Saturday.”</p> + +<p>“I am so sorry,” said Annie. Then she proceeded to +elaborate her statement in exactly the wrong way. She said how very +dreadful it would be if such a talented young actress should fall a +victim of such a terrible disease, and what a loss she would be to +the public, whereas all that Margaret Edes thought should be at all +considered by any true friend of her own was her own particular +loss.</p> + +<p>“For once the Zenith Club would have had a meeting +calculated to take Fairbridge women out of their rut in which people +like Mrs. Slade and Mrs. Sturtevant seem determined to keep +them,” returned Margaret testily. Annie stared at her. Margaret +often said that it was the first rule of her life never to speak ill +of any one, and she kept the letter of it as a rule.</p> + +<p>“I am so sorry,” said Annie. Then she added with more +tact. “It would have been such a wonderful thing for us all to +have had Lydia Greenway give dramatic recitals to us. Oh, Margaret, I +can understand how much it would have meant.”</p> + +<p>“It would have meant progress,” said Margaret. She +looked imperiously lovely, as she sat there all frilled about with +white lace and silk with the leaf-shadows playing over the slender +whiteness. She lifted one little hand tragically. +“Progress,” she repeated. “Progress beyond Mrs. +George B. Slade's and Mrs. Sturtevant's and Miss Bessy Dicky's, and +that is precisely what we need.”</p> + +<p>Annie Eustace gazed wistfully upon her friend. “Yes,” +she agreed, “you are quite right, Margaret. Mrs. Slade and Mrs. +Sturtevant and poor Bessy Dicky and all the other members are very +good, and we think highly of them, but I too feel that we all travel +in a rut sometimes. Perhaps we all walk too much the same way.” + Then suddenly Annie burst into a peal of laughter. She had a sense +of humour which was startling. It was the one thing which environment +had not been able to subdue, or even produce the effect of +submission. Annie Eustace was easily amused. She had a scent for the +humorous like a hound's for game, and her laugh was +irrepressible.</p> + +<p>“What on earth are you laughing at now?” inquired +Margaret Edes irritably.</p> + +<p>“I was thinking,” Annie replied chokingly, “of +some queer long-legged birds I saw once in a cage in a park. I really +don't know whether they were ibises or cranes, or survivals of +species, but anyway, the little long-legged ones all walked just the +same way in a file behind a tall long-legged one, who walked +precisely in the same way, and all of a sudden, I seemed to see us +all like that. Only you are not in the least like that tall, +long-legged bird, Margaret, and you are the president of the Zenith +Club.”</p> + +<p>Margaret surveyed Annie with cool displeasure. “I,” +said she, “see nothing whatever to laugh at in the Zenith Club, +if you do.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Margaret, I don't!” cried Annie.</p> + +<p>“To my mind, the Zenith Club is the one institution in this +little place which tends to advancement and mental +improvement.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Margaret, I think so too, you know I do,” said +Annie in a shocked voice. “And my heart was almost broken +because I had to miss that last meeting on account of grandmother's +having such a severe cold.”</p> + +<p>“The last meeting was not very much to miss,” said +Margaret, for Annie had again said the wrong thing.</p> + +<p>Annie, however, went on eagerly and unconsciously. She was only +aware that she was being accused of disloyalty, or worse, of actually +poking fun, when something toward which she felt the utmost respect +and love and admiration was concerned.</p> + +<p>“Margaret, you know,” she cried, “you know how I +feel toward the Zenith Club. You must know what it means to me. It +really does take me out of my little narrow place in life as nothing +else does. I cannot tell you what an inspiration it really is to me. +Oh, Margaret, you know!”</p> + +<p>Margaret nodded in stiff assent. As a matter of fact, she +<em>did</em> know. The Zenith Club of Fairbridge did mean very much, +very much indeed, to little Annie Eustace. Nowhere else did she meet +<i>en masse</i> others of her kind. She did not even go to church for +the reason that her grandmother did not believe in church going at +all and wished her to remain with her. One aunt was Dutch Reformed +and the other Baptist; and neither ever missed a service. Annie +remained at home Sundays, and read aloud to her grandmother, and when +both aunts were in the midst of their respective services, and the +cook, who was intensely religious, engaged in preparing dinner, she +and her old grandmother played pinocle. However, although Annie +played cards very well, it was only with her relatives. She had never +been allowed to join the Fairbridge Card Club. She never attended a +play in the city, because Aunt Jane considered plays wicked. It was +in reality doubtful if she would have been permitted to listen to +Lydia Greenway, had that person been available. Annie's sole large +recreation was the Zenith Club, and it meant, as she had said, much +to her. It was to the stifled young heart as a great wind of stimulus +which was for the strengthening of her soul. Whatever the Zenith Club +of Fairbridge was to others, it was very much worth while for little +Annie Eustace. She wrote papers for it, which were astonishing, +although her hearers dimly appreciated the fact, not because of +dulness, but because little Annie had written them, and it seemed +incredible to Fairbridge women that little Annie Eustace whom they +had always known, and whose grandmother and aunts they knew, could +possibly write anything remarkable. It was only Alice Mendon who +listened with a frown of wonder, and intent eyes upon the reader. +When she came home upon one occasion, she remarked to her aunt, Eliza +Mendon, and her cousin, Lucy Mendon, that she had been impressed by +Annie Eustace's paper, but both women only stared and murmured +assent. The cousin was very much older than Alice, and both she and +her mother were of a placid, reflective type. They got on very well +with Alice, but sometimes she had a queer weariness from always +seeing herself and her own ideas in them instead of their own. And +she was not in the least dictatorial. She would have preferred open, +antagonistic originality, but she got a surfeit of clear, mirror-like +peace.</p> + +<p>She was quite sure that they would quote her opinion of Annie +Eustace's paper, but that did not please her. Later on she spoke to +Annie herself about it. “Haven't you something else written +that you can show me?” She had even suggested the possibility, +the desirability, of Annie's taking up a literary career, but she had +found the girl very evasive, even secretive, and had never broached +the subject again.</p> + +<p>As for Margaret Edes, she had never fairly listened to anything +which anybody except herself had written, unless it had afforded +matter for discussion, and the display of her own brilliancy. Annie's +productions were so modestly conclusive as to apparently afford no +standing ground for argument. In her heart, Margaret regarded them as +she regarded Annie's personality, with a contempt so indifferent that +it was hardly contempt.</p> + +<p>She proceeded exactly as if Annie had not made such a fervent +disclaimer. “The Zenith Club is the one and only thing which +lifts Fairbridge, and the women of Fairbridge, above the common +herd,” said she majestically.</p> + +<p>“Don't I know it? Oh, Margaret, don't I know it,” +cried the other with such feverish energy that Margaret regarded her +wonderingly. For all her exploiting of the Zenith Club of Fairbridge, +she herself, unless she were the main figure at the helm, could +realise nothing in it so exceedingly inspiring, but it was otherwise +with Annie. It was quite conceivable that had it not been for the +Zenith Club, she never would have grown to her full mental height. +Annie Eustace had a mind of the sequential order. By subtle +processes, unanalysable even by herself, even the record of Miss +Bessy Dicky started this mind upon momentous trains of thought. +Unquestionably the Zenith Club acted as a fulminate for little Annie +Eustace. To others it might seem, during some of the sessions, as a +pathetic attempt of village women to raise themselves upon tiptoes +enough to peer over their centuries of weedy feminine growth; an +attempt which was as futile, and even ridiculous, as an attempt of a +cow to fly. But the Zenith Club justified its existence nobly in the +result of little Annie Eustace, if in no other, and it, no doubt, +justified itself in others. Who can say what that weekly gathering +meant to women who otherwise would not move outside their little +treadmill of household labour, what uplifting, if seemingly futile +grasps at the great outside of life? Let no one underrate the Women's +Club until the years have proven its uselessness.</p> + +<p>“I am so sorry about Lydia Greenway,” said Annie, and +this time she did not irritate Margaret.</p> + +<p>“It does seem as if one were simply doomed to failure every +time one really made an effort to raise standards,” said +Margaret.</p> + +<p>Then it was that Annie all unconsciously sowed a seed which led to +strange, and rather terrifying results. “It would be +nice,” said little Annie, “if we could get Miss Martha +Wallingford to read a selection from <i>Hearts Astray</i> at a +meeting of the club. I read a few nights ago, in a paper I happened +to pick up at Alice's, that she was staying in New York at the +Hollingsgate. Her publishers were to give her a dinner last night, I +believe.”</p> + +<p>Margaret Edes started. “I had not seen that,” she +said. Then she added in a queer brooding fashion, “That book of +hers had an enormous sale. I suppose her publishers feel that they +owe it to her to give her a good time in New York. Then, too, it will +advertise <i>Hearts Astray</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Did you like the book?” asked Annie rather +irrelevantly. Margaret did not reply. She was thinking intently. +“It would be a great feature for the club if we could induce +her to give a reading,” she said at length.</p> + +<p>“I don't suppose it would be possible,” replied Annie. +“You know they say she never does such things, and is very +retiring. I read in the papers that she was, and that she refused +even to speak a few words at the dinner given in her +honour.”</p> + +<p>“We might ask her,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“I am sure that she would not come. The paper stated that +she had had many invitations to Women's Clubs and had refused. I +don't think she ought because she might be such a help to other +women.”</p> + +<p>Margaret said nothing. She leaned back, and, for once, her face +was actually contracted with thought to the possible detriment of its +smooth beauty.</p> + +<p>A clock in the house struck, and at the same time Maida and +Adelaide raced up the steps, followed by gleeful calls from two +little boys on the sidewalk.</p> + +<p>“Where have you been?” asked Margaret. Then she said +without waiting for a reply, “If Martha Wallingford would come, +I should prefer that to Lydia Greenway.”</p> + +<p>Maida and Adelaide, flushed and panting, and both with mouths full +of candy, glanced at their mother, then Maida chased Adelaide into +the house, their blue skirts flitting out of sight like blue +butterfly wings.</p> + +<p>Annie Eustace rose. She had noticed that neither Maida nor +Adelaide had greeted her, and thought them rude. She herself had been +most carefully trained concerning manners of incoming and outgoing. +She, however, did not care. She had no especial love for children +unless they were small and appealing because of helplessness.</p> + +<p>“I must go,” she said. “It is six o'clock, +supper will be ready.” She glanced rather apprehensively as +she spoke at the large white house, not two minutes' walk distant +across the street.</p> + +<p>“How very delightful it is to be as punctual as your people +are,” said Margaret. “Good-bye, Annie.” She spoke +abstractedly, and Annie felt a little hurt. She loved Margaret, and +she missed her full attention when she left her. She passed down the +walk between Margaret's beautifully kept Japanese trees, and gained +the sidewalk. Then a sudden recollection filled her with dismay. She +had promised her grandmother to go to the post-office before +returning. An important business letter was expected. Annie swept the +soft tail of her muslin into a little crushed ball, and ran, her +slender legs showing like those of a young bird beneath its fluff of +plumage. She realized the necessity of speed, of great speed, for the +post-office was a quarter of a mile away, and the Eustace family +supped at five minutes past six, with terrible and relentless +regularity. Why it should have been five minutes past instead of upon +the stroke of the hour, Annie had never known, but so it was. It was +as great an offence to be a minute too early as a minute too late at +the Eustace house, and many a maid had been discharged for that +offence, her plea that the omelet was cooked and would fall if the +meal be delayed, being disregarded. Poor Annie felt that she must +hasten. She could not be dismissed like the maid, but something +equally to be dreaded would happen, were she to present herself half +a minute behind time in the dining-room. There they would be seated, +her grandmother, her Aunt Harriet, and her Aunt Jane. Aunt Harriet +behind the silver tea service; Aunt Jane behind the cut glass bowl of +preserves; her grandmother behind the silver butter dish, and on the +table would be the hot biscuits cooling, the omelet falling, the tea +drawing too long and all because of her. There was tremendous +etiquette in the Eustace family. Not a cup of tea would Aunt Harriet +pour, not a spoon would Aunt Jane dip into the preserves, not a +butter ball would her grandmother impale upon the little silver fork. +And poor Hannah, the maid, white aproned and capped, would stand +behind Aunt Harriet like a miserable conscious graven image. +Therefore Annie ran, and ran, and it happened that she ran rather +heedlessly and blindly and dropped her mussy little package of fancy +work, and Karl von Rosen, coming out of the parsonage, saw it fall +and picked it up rather gingerly, and called as loudly as was +decorous after the flying figure, but Annie did not hear and Von +Rosen did not want to shout, neither did he want, or rather think it +advisable, to run, therefore he followed holding the linen package +well away from him, as if it were a disagreeable insect. He had never +seen much of Annie Eustace. Now and then he called upon one of her +aunts, who avowed her preference for his religious denomination, but +if he saw Annie at all, she was seated engaged upon some such +doubtfully ornamental or useful task, as the specimen which he now +carried. Truth to say, he had scarcely noticed Annie Eustace at all. +She had produced the effect of shrinking from observation under some +subtle shadow of self-effacement. She was in reality a very rose of a +girl, loving and sweet, and withal wonderfully endowed; but this +human rose, dwelt always for Karl von Rosen, in the densest of bowers +through which her beauty and fragrance of character could not +penetrate his senses. Undoubtedly also, although his masculine +intelligence would have scouted the possibility of such a thing, +Annie's dull, ill-made garb served to isolate her. She also never +came to church. That perfect little face with its expression of +strange insight, must have aroused his attention among his audience. +But there was only the Aunt Harriet Eustace, an exceedingly thin +lady, present and always attired in rich blacks. Karl von Rosen +to-day walking as rapidly as became his dignity, in pursuit of the +young woman, was aware that he hardly felt at liberty to accost her +with anything more than the greeting of the day. He eyed +disapprovingly the parcel which he carried. It was a very dingy +white, and greyish threads dangled from it. Von Rosen thought it a +most unpleasant thing, and reflected with mild scorn and bewilderment +concerning the manner of mind which could find amusement over such +employment, for he divined that it was a specimen of feminine skill, +called fancy work.</p> + +<p>Annie Eustace ran so swiftly with those long agile legs of hers +that he soon perceived that interception upon her return, and not +overtaking, must ensue. He did not gain upon her at all, and he began +to understand that he was making himself ridiculous to possible +observers in windows. He therefore slackened his pace, and met Annie +upon her return. She had a letter in her hand and was advancing with +a headlong rush, and suddenly she attracted him. He surrendered the +parcel. “Thank you very much,” said Annie, “but I +almost wish you had not found it.”</p> + +<img src="images/bh2.jpg" width="725" height="1198" +alt="[Illustration: “I almost wish you had not found +it”]"> + +<p>Von Rosen stared at her. Was she rude after all, this very pretty +girl, who was capable of laughter. “You would not blame me if +you had to embroider daisies on that dreadful piece of linen,” +said Annie with a rueful glance at the dingy package.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen smiled kindly at her. “I don't blame you at +all,” he replied. “I can understand it must be a dismal +task to embroider daisies.”</p> + +<p>“It is, Mr. von Rosen—” Annie hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Von Rosen encouragingly.</p> + +<p>“You know I never go to church.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Von Rosen mendaciously. He really did not +know. In future he, however, would.</p> + +<p>“Well, I don't go because—” again Annie +hesitated, while the young man waited interrogatively.</p> + +<p>Then Annie spoke with force. “I would really like to go +occasionally,” she said, “I doubt if I would always care +to.”</p> + +<p>“No, I don't think you would,” assented Von Rosen with +a queer delight.</p> + +<p>“But I never can because—Grandmother is old and she +has not much left in life, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>“It is all very well for people to talk about firesides, and +knitting work, and peaceful eyes of age fixed upon Heavenly +homes,” said Annie, “but all old people are not like +that. Grandma hates to knit although she does think I should +embroider daisies, and she does like to have me play pinocle with her +Sunday mornings, when Aunt Harriet and Aunt Jane are out of the way. +It is the only chance she has during the whole week you know because +neither Aunt Harriet nor Aunt Jane approves of cards, and poor +Grandma is so fond of them, it seems cruel not to play with her the +one chance she has.”</p> + +<p>“I think you are entirely right,” said Von Rosen with +grave conviction and he was charmed that the girl regarded him as if +he had said nothing whatever unusual.</p> + +<p>“I have always been sure that it was right,” said +Annie Eustace, “but I would like sometimes to go to +church.”</p> + +<p>“I really wish you could,” said Von Rosen, “and +I would make an especial effort to write a good sermon.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Annie, “Aunt Harriet often hears you +preach one which she thinks very good.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen bowed. Suddenly Annie's shyness, reserve, whatever it +was, seemed to overcloud her. The lovely red faded from her cheeks, +the light from her eyes. She lost her beauty in a great measure. She +bowed stiffly, saying: “I thank you very much, good +evening,” and passed on, leaving the young man rather dazed, +pleased and yet distinctly annoyed, and annoyed in some inscrutable +fashion at himself.</p> + +<p>Then he heard shouts of childish laughter, and a scamper of +childish feet, and Maida and Adelaide Edes rushed past, almost +jostling him from the sidewalk. Maida carried a letter, which her +mother had written, and dispatched to the last mail. And that letter +was destined to be of more importance to Von Rosen than he knew.</p> + +<p>As for Annie Eustace, whose meeting with Von Rosen had, after her +first lapse into the unconsciousness of mirth, disturbed her, as the +meeting of the hero of a dream always disturbs a true maiden who has +not lost through many such meetings the thrill of them, she hurried +home trembling, and found everything just exactly as she knew it +would be.</p> + +<p>There sat Aunt Harriet perfectly motionless behind the silver tea +service, and although the cosy was drawn over the teapot, the tea +seemed to be reproachfully drawing to that extent that Annie could +hear it. There sat Aunt Jane behind the cut glass bowl of preserved +fruit, with the untouched silver spoon at hand. There sat her +grandmother behind the butter plate. There stood Hannah, white capped +and white aproned, holding the silver serving tray like a petrified +statue of severity, and not one of them spoke, but their silence, +their dignified, reproachful silence was infinitely worse than a +torrent of invective. How Annie wished they would speak. How she +wished that she could speak herself, but she knew better than to even +offer an excuse for her tardiness. Well she knew that the stony +silence which would meet that would be worse, much worse than this. +So she slid into her place opposite her Aunt Jane, and began her own +task of dividing into sections the omelet which was quite flat +because she was late, and seemed to reproach her in a miserable, +low-down sort of fashion.</p> + +<p>However, there was in the girl's heart a little glint of youthful +joy, which was unusual. She had met Mr. Von Rosen and had forgotten +herself, that is at first, and he had looked kindly at her. There was +no foolish hope in little Annie Eustace's heart; there would be no +spire of aspiration added to her dreams because of the meeting, but +she tasted the sweet of approbation, and it was a tonic which she +sorely needed, and which inspired her to self-assertion in a +childishly naughty and mischievous way. It was after supper that +evening, that Annie strolled a little way down the street, taking +advantage of Miss Bessy Dicky's dropping in for a call, to slink +unobserved out of her shadowy corner, for the Eustaces were fond of +sitting in the twilight. The wind had come up, the violent strong +wind which comes out of the south, and Annie walked very near the +barberry hedge which surrounded Doctor Sturtevant's grounds, and the +green muslin lashed against it to its undoing. When Annie returned, +the skirt was devastated and Aunt Harriet decreed that it could not +be mended and must be given to the poor Joy children. There were many +of those children of a degenerate race, living on the outskirts of +Fairbridge, and Annie had come to regard them as living effigies of +herself, since everything which she had outgrown or injured past +repair, fell to them. “There will be enough to make two nice +dresses for Charlotte and Minnie Joy,” said Aunt Harriet, +“and it will not be wasted, even if you have been so careless, +Annie.”</p> + +<p>Annie could see a vision of those two little Joy girls getting +about in the remnants of her ghastly muslin, and she shuddered, +although with relief.</p> + +<p>“You had better wear your cross barred white muslin +afternoons now,” said Aunt Harriet, and Annie smiled for that +was a pretty dress. She smiled still more when Aunt Jane said that +now as the cross-barred white was to be worn every day, another dress +must be bought, and she mentioned China silk—something which +Annie had always longed to own—and blue, dull blue,—a +colour which she loved.</p> + +<p>Just before she went to bed, Annie stood in the front doorway +looking out at the lovely moonlight and the wonderful shadows which +transformed the village street, like the wings of angels, and she +heard voices and laughter from the Edes' house opposite. Then +Margaret began singing in her shrill piercing voice from which she +had hoped much, but which had failed to please, even at the Zenith +Club.</p> + +<p>Annie adored Margaret, but she shrank before her singing voice. If +she had only known what was passing through the mind of the singer +after she went to bed that night, she would have shuddered more, for +Margaret Edes was planning a possible <i>coup</i> before which Annie, +in spite of a little latent daring of her own, would have been +aghast.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter V</h4> + +<p>The next morning Margaret announced herself as feeling so much +better that she thought she would go to New York. She had several +errands, she said, and the day was beautiful and the little change +would do her good. She would take the train with her husband, but a +different ferry, as she wished to go up town. Wilbur acquiesced +readily. “It is a mighty fine morning, and you need to get +out,” he said. Poor Wilbur at this time felt guiltily culpable +that he did not own a motor car in which his Margaret might take the +air. He had tried to see his way clear toward buying one, but in +spite of a certain improvidence, the whole nature of the man was +intrinsically honest. He always ended his conference with himself +concerning the motor by saying that he could not possibly keep it +running, even if he were to manage the first cost, and pay regularly +his other bills. He, however, felt it to be a shame to himself that +it was so, and experienced a thrill of positive pain of covetousness, +not for himself, but for his Margaret, when one of the luxurious +things whirled past him in Fairbridge. He, it was true, kept a very +smart little carriage and horse, but that was not as much as Margaret +should have. Every time Margaret seemed a little dull, or complained +of headache, as she had done lately, he thought miserably of that +motor car, which was her right. Therefore when she planned any little +trip like that of to-day, he was immeasurably pleased. At the same +time he regarded her with a slightly bewildered expression, for in +some subtle fashion, her face as she propounded the trifling plan, +looked odd to him, and her voice also did not sound quite natural. +However, he dismissed the idea at once as mere fancy, and watched +proudly the admiring glances bestowed upon her in the Fairbridge +station, while they were waiting for the train. Margaret had a +peculiar knack in designing costumes which were at once plain and +striking. This morning she wore a black China silk, through the thin +bodice of which was visible an under silk strewn with gold disks. Her +girdle was clasped with a gold buckle, and when she moved there were +slight glimpses of a yellow silk petticoat. Her hat was black, but +under the brim was tucked a yellow rose against her yellow hair. Then +to finish all, Margaret wore in the lace at her throat, a great +brooch of turquoise matrix, which matched her eyes. Her husband +realised her as perfectly attired, although he did not in the least +understand why. He knew that his Margaret looked a woman of another +race from the others in the station, in their tailored skirts, and +shirtwaists, with their coats over arm, and their shopping bags +firmly clutched. It was a warm morning, and feminine Fairbridge's +idea of a suitable costume for a New York shopping trip was a +tailored suit, and a shirtwaist, and as a rule, the shirtwaist did +not fit. Margaret never wore shirtwaists,—she understood that +she was too short unless she combined a white skirt with a waist. +Margaret would have broken a commandment with less hesitation than +she would have broken the line of her graceful little figure with two +violently contrasting colours. Mrs. Sturtevant in a grey skirt and an +elaborate white waist, which emphasised her large bust, looked +ridiculous beside this fair, elegant little Margaret, although her +clothes had in reality cost more. Wilbur watched his wife as she +talked sweetly with the other woman, and his heart swelled with the +pride of possession. When they were on the train and he sat by +himself in the smoker, having left Margaret with Mrs. Sturtevant, his +heart continued to feel warm with elation. He waited to assist his +wife off the train at Jersey City and realised it a trial that he +could not cross the river on the same ferry. Margaret despised the +tube and he wished for the short breath of sea air which he would get +on the Courtland ferry. He glanced after her retreating black skirts +with the glimpses of yellow, regretfully, before he turned his back +and turned toward his own slip. And he glanced the more regretfully +because this morning, with all his admiration of his wife, he had a +dim sense of something puzzling which arose like a cloud of mystery +between them.</p> + +<p>Wilbur Edes sailing across the river had, however, no conception +of the change which had begun in his little world. It was only a +shake of the kaleidoscope of an unimportant life, resulting in a +different combination of atoms, but to each individual it would be a +tremendous event partaking of the nature of a cataclysm. That morning +he had seen upon Margaret's charming face an expression which made it +seem as the face of a stranger. He tried to dismiss the matter from +his mind. He told himself that it must have been the effect of the +light or that she had pinned on her hat at a different angle. Women +are so perplexing, and their attire alters them so strangely. But +Wilbur Edes had reason to be puzzled. Margaret had looked and really +was different. In a little while she had become practically a +different woman. Of course, she had only developed possibilities +which had always been dormant within her, but they had been so +dormant, that they had not been to any mortal perception endowed with +life. Hitherto Margaret had walked along the straight and narrow way, +sometimes, it is true, jostling circumstances and sometimes being +jostled by them, yet keeping to the path. Now she had turned her feet +into that broad way wherein there is room for the utmost self which +is in us all. Henceforth husband and wife would walk apart in a +spiritual sense, unless there should come a revolution in the +character of the wife, who was the stepper aside.</p> + +<p>Margaret seated comfortably on the ferry boat, her little feet +crossed so discreetly that only a glimpse of the yellow fluff beneath +was visible, was conscious of a not unpleasurable exhilaration. She +might and she might not be about to do something which would place +her distinctly outside the pale which had henceforth enclosed her +little pleasance of life. Were she to cross that pale, she felt that +it might be distinctly amusing. Margaret was not a wicked woman, but +virtue, not virtue in the ordinary sense of the word, but straight +walking ahead according to the ideas of Fairbridge, had come to drive +her at times to the verge of madness. Then, too, there was always +that secret terrible self-love and ambition of hers, never satisfied, +always defeated by petty weapons. Margaret, sitting as gracefully as +a beautiful cat, on the ferry boat that morning realised the +vindictive working of her claws, and her impulse to strike at her +odds of life, and she derived therefrom an unholy exhilaration.</p> + +<p>She got her taxicab on the other side and leaned back, catching +frequent glances of admiration, and rode pleasurably to the regal +up-town hotel which was the home of Miss Martha Wallingford, while in +the city. She, upon her arrival, entered the hotel with an air which +caused a stir among bell boys. Then she entered a reception room and +sat down, disposing herself with slow grace. Margaret gazed about her +and waited. There were only three people in the room, one man and two +ladies, one quite young—a mere girl—the other from the +resemblance and superior age, evidently her mother. The man was young +and almost vulgarly well-groomed. He had given a glance at Margaret +as she entered, a glance of admiration tempered with the +consideration that in spite of her grace and beauty, she was probably +older than himself. Then he continued to gaze furtively at the young +girl who sat demurely, with eyes downcast beneath a soft, wild tangle +of dark hair, against which some pink roses and a blue feather on her +hat showed fetchingly. She was very well dressed, evidently a +well-guarded young thing from one of the summer colonies. The mother, +high corseted, and elegant in dark blue lines, which made only a +graceful concession to age, without fairly admitting it, never +allowed one glance of the young man's to escape her. She also saw her +slender young daughter with every sense in her body and mind.</p> + +<p>Margaret looked away from them. The elder woman had given her +costume an appreciative, and herself a supercilious glance, which had +been met with one which did not seem to recognise her visibility. +Margaret was not easily put down by another woman. She stared +absently at the ornate and weary decorations of the room. It was +handsome, but tiresome, as everybody who entered realised, and as, no +doubt, the decorator had found out. It was a ready-made species of +room, with no heart in it, in spite of the harmonious colour scheme +and really artistic detail.</p> + +<p>Presently the boy with the silver tray entered and approached +Margaret. The young man stared openly at her. He began to wonder if +she were not younger than he had thought. The girl never raised her +downcast eyes; the older woman cast one swift sharp glance at her. +The boy murmured so inaudibly that Margaret barely heard, and she +rose and followed him as he led the way to the elevator. Miss +Wallingford, who was a young Western woman and a rising, if not +already arisen literary star, had signified her willingness to +receive Mrs. Wilbur Edes in her own private sitting-room. Margaret +was successful so far. She had pencilled on her card, “Can you +see me on a matter of importance? I am not connected with the +Press,” and the young woman who esteemed nearly everything of +importance, and was afraid of the Press, had agreed at once to see +her. Miss Martha Wallingford was staying in the hotel with an elderly +aunt, against whose rule she rebelled in spite of her youth and +shyness, which apparently made it impossible for her to rebel against +anybody, and the aunt had retired stiffly to her bedroom when her +niece said positively that she would see her caller.</p> + +<p>“You don't know who she is and I promised your Pa when we +started that I wouldn't let you get acquainted with folks unless I +knew all about them,” the aunt had said and the niece, the +risen star, had set her mouth hard. “We haven't seen a soul +except those newspaper men, and I know everyone of them is married, +and those two newspaper women who told about my sleeves being out of +date,” said Martha Wallingford, “and this Mrs. Edes may +be real nice. I'm going to see her anyhow. We came so late in the +season that I believe everybody in New York worth seeing has gone +away and this lady has come in from the country and it may lead to my +having a good time after all. I haven't had much of a time so far, +and you know it, Aunt Susan.”</p> + +<p>“How you talk, Martha Wallingford! Haven't you been to the +theatre every night and Coney Island, and the Metropolitan +and—everything there is to see?”</p> + +<p>“There isn't much to see in New York anyway except the +people,” returned the niece. “People are all I care for +anyway, and I don't call the people I have seen worth counting. They +only came to make a little money out of me and my sleeves. I am glad +I got this dress at McCreery's. These sleeves are all right. If this +Mrs. Edes should be a newspaper woman, she can't make fun of these +sleeves anyway.”</p> + +<p>“You paid an awful price for that dress,” said her +aunt.</p> + +<p>“I don't care. I got such a lot for my book that I might as +well have a little out of it, and you know as well as I do, Aunt +Susan, that South Mordan, Illinois, may be a very nice place, but it +does not keep up with New York fashions. I really did not have a +decent thing to wear when I started. Miss Slocumb did as well as she +knew how, but her ideas are about three years behind New York. I +didn't know myself, how should I? And you didn't, and as for Pa, he +would think everything I had on was stylish if it dated back to the +ark. You ought to have bought that mauve silk for yourself. You have +money enough; you know you have, Aunt Susan.”</p> + +<p>“I have money enough, thanks to my dear husband's saving all +his life, but it is not going to be squandered on dress by me, now he +is dead and gone.”</p> + +<p>“I would have bought the dress for you myself, then,” +said the niece.</p> + +<p>“No, thank you,” returned the aunt with asperity. +“I have never been in the habit of being beholden to you for my +clothes and I am not going to begin now. I didn't want that dress +anyway. I always hated purple.”</p> + +<p>“It wasn't purple, it was mauve.”</p> + +<p>“I call purple, purple, I don't call it anything +else!” Then the aunt retreated precipitately before the sound +of the opening door and entrenched herself in her bedroom, where she +stood listening.</p> + +<p>Margaret Edes treated the young author with the respect which she +really deserved, for talent she possessed in such a marked degree as +to make her phenomenal, and the phenomenal is always entitled to +consideration of some sort.</p> + +<p>“Miss Wallingford?” murmured Margaret, and she gave an +impression of obeisance; this charming elegantly attired lady before +the Western girl. Martha Wallingford coloured high with delight and +admiration.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am Miss Wallingford,” she replied and asked +her caller to be seated. Margaret sat down facing her. The young +author shuffled in her chair like a school girl. She was an odd +combination of enormous egotism and the most painful shyness. She +realised at a glance that she herself was provincial and pitifully at +a disadvantage personally before this elegant vision, and her +personality was in reality more precious to her than her talent.</p> + +<p>“I can not tell you what a great pleasure and privilege this +is for me,” said Margaret, and her blue eyes had an expression +of admiring rapture. The girl upon whom the eyes were fixed, blushed +and giggled and tossed her head with a sudden show of pride. She +quite agreed that it was a pleasure and privilege for Margaret to see +her, the author of <i>Hearts Astray</i>, even if Margaret was herself +so charming and so provokingly well dressed. Miss Martha Wallingford +did not hide her light of talent under a bushel with all her shyness, +which was not really shyness at all but a species of rather sullen +pride and resentment because she was so well aware that she could not +do well the things which were asked of her and had not mastered the +art of dress and self poise.</p> + +<p>Therefore, Martha, with the delight of her own achievements full +upon her face, which was pretty, although untutored, regarded her +visitor with an expression which almost made Margaret falter. It was +probably the absurd dressing of the girl's hair which restored +Margaret's confidence in her scheme. Martha Wallingford actually wore +a frizzled bang, very finely frizzled too, and her hair was strained +from the nape of her neck, and it seemed impossible that a young +woman who knew no better than to arrange her hair in such fashion, +should not be amenable to Margaret's plan. The plan, moreover, +sounded very simple, except for the little complications which might +easily arise. Margaret smiled into the pretty face under the fuzz of +short hair.</p> + +<p>“My dear Miss Wallingford,” said she, “I have +come this morning to beg a favour. I hope you will not refuse me, +although I am such an entire stranger. If, unfortunately, my intimate +friend, Mrs. Fay-Wyman, of whom I assume that you of course know, +even if you have not met her, as you may easily have done, or her +daughter, Miss Edith Fay-Wyman, had not left town last week for their +country house, Rose-In-Flower, at Hyphen-by-the-Sea, a most +delightful spot. Mr. Edes and I have spent several week ends there. I +am prevented from spending longer than week ends because I am kept at +home by my two darling twin daughters. Mrs. Fay-Wyman is a sweet +woman and I do so wish I could have brought her here to-day. I am +sure you would at once fall madly in love with her and also with her +daughter, Miss Edith Fay-Wyman, such a sweet girl, and—” +But here Margaret was unexpectedly, even rudely interrupted by Miss +Wallingford, who looked at her indignantly.</p> + +<p>“I never fall in love with women,” stated that newly +risen literary star abruptly, “why should I? What does it +amount to?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, my dear,” cried Margaret, “when you are a +little older you will find that it amounts to very much. There is a +soul sympathy, and—”</p> + +<p>“I don't think that I care much about soul sympathy,” +stated Miss Wallingford, who was beginning to be angrily bewildered +by her guest's long sentences, which so far seemed to have no point +as far as she herself was concerned.</p> + +<p>Margaret started a little. Again the doubt seized her if she were +not making a mistake, undertaking more than she could well carry +through, for this shy authoress was fast developing unexpected +traits. However, Margaret, once she had started, was not easily +turned back. She was as persistently clinging as a sweet briar.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my dear,” she said, and her voice was like +trickling honey, “only wait until you are a little older and +you will find that you do care, care very, very much. The +understanding and sympathy of other women will become very sweet to +you. It is so pure and ennobling, so free from all material +taint.”</p> + +<p>“I have seen a great many women who were perfect +cats,” stated Miss Martha Wallingford.</p> + +<p>“Wait until you are older,” said Margaret again and +her voice seemed fairly dissolving into some spiritual liquid of +divine sweetness. “Wait until you are older, my dear. You are +very young, so young to have accomplished a wonderful work which will +live.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well,” said Martha Wallingford, and as she spoke +she fixed pitiless shrewd young eyes upon the face of the other +woman, which did not show at its best, in spite of veil and the +velvety darkness of hat-shadow. This hotel sitting-room was full of +garish cross lights. “Oh, well,” said Martha Wallingford, +“of course, I don't know what may happen if I live to be old, +as old as you.”</p> + +<p>Margaret Edes felt like a photograph proof before the slightest +attempt at finish had been made. Those keen young eyes conveyed the +impression of convex mirrors. She restrained an instinctive impulse +to put a hand before her face, she had an odd helpless sensation +before the almost brutal, clear-visioned young thing. Again she +shrank a little from her task, again her spirit reasserted itself. +She moved and brought her face somewhat more into the shadow. Then +she spoke again. She wisely dropped the subject of feminine +affinities. She plunged at once into the object of her visit, which +directly concerned Miss Martha Wallingford, and Margaret, who was as +astute in her way as the girl, knew that she was entirely right in +assuming that Martha Wallingford was more interested in herself than +anything else in the world.</p> + +<p>“My dear,” she said, “I may as well tell you at +once why I intruded upon you this morning.”</p> + +<p>“Please do,” said Martha Wallingford.</p> + +<p>“As I said before, I deeply regret that I was unable to +bring some well-known person, Mrs. Fay-Wyman, for instance, to make +us acquainted in due form, but—”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don't care a bit about that,” said Martha. +“What is it?”</p> + +<p>Margaret again started a little. She had not expected anything +like this. The mental picture which she had formed of Martha +Wallingford, the young literary star, seemed to undergo a +transformation akin to an explosion, out of which only one feature +remained intact—the book, “<i>Hearts Astray</i>.” +If Miss Wallingford had not possessed a firm foundation in that +volume, it is entirely possible that Margaret might have abandoned +her enterprise. As it was, after a little gasp she went on.</p> + +<p>“I did so wish to assure you in person of my great +admiration for your wonderful book,” said she. Martha +Wallingford made no reply. She had an expression of utter +acquiescence in the admiration, also of having heard that same thing +so many times, that she was somewhat bored by it. She waited with +questioning eyes upon Margaret's face.</p> + +<p>“And I wondered,” said Margaret, “if you would +consider it too informal, if I ventured to beg you to be my guest at +my home in Fairbridge next Thursday and remain the weekend, over +Sunday. It would give me so much pleasure, and Fairbridge is a +charming little village and there are really many interesting people +there whom I think you would enjoy, and as for them—!” +Margaret gave a slight roll to her eyes—“they would be +simply overwhelmed.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to come very much, thank you,” said +Martha Wallingford.</p> + +<p>Margaret beamed. “Oh, my dear,” she cried, “I +can not tell you how much joy your prompt and warm response gives me. +And—” Margaret looked about her rather vaguely, +“you are not alone here, of course. You have a maid, or +perhaps, your mother—”</p> + +<p>“My Aunt Susan is with me,” said Miss Wallingford, +“but there is no use inviting her. She hates going away for a +few days. She says it is just as much trouble packing as it would be +to go for a month. There is no use even thinking of her, but I shall +be delighted to come.”</p> + +<p>Margaret hesitated. “May I not have the pleasure of being +presented to your aunt?” she inquired.</p> + +<p>“Aunt Susan is out shopping,” lied Miss Martha +Wallingford. Aunt Susan was clad in a cotton crepe wrapper, and +Martha knew that she would think it quite good enough for her to +receive anybody in, and that she could not convince her to the +contrary. It was only recently that Martha herself had become +converted from morning wrappers, and the reaction was violent. +“The idea of a woman like this Mrs. Edes seeing Aunt Susan in +that awful pink crepe wrapper!” she said to herself. She hoped +Aunt Susan was not listening, and would not make a forcible entry +into the room. Aunt Susan in moments of impulse was quite capable of +such coups. Martha glanced rather apprehensively toward the door +leading into the bedroom but it did not open. Aunt Susan was indeed +listening and she was rigid with indignation, but in truth, she did +not want to accompany her niece upon this projected visit, and she +was afraid of being drawn into such a step should she present +herself. Aunt Susan did dislike making the effort of a visit for a +few days only. Martha had told the truth. It was very hot, and the +elder woman was not very strong. Moreover, she perceived that Martha +did not want her and there would be the complication of kicking +against the pricks of a very determined character, which had grown +more determined since her literary success. In fact, Aunt Susan stood +in a slight awe of her niece since that success, for all her revolts +which were superficial. Therefore, she remained upon her side of the +door which she did not open until the visitor had departed after +making definite arrangements concerning trains and meetings. Then +Aunt Susan entered the room with a cloud of pink crepe in her +wake.</p> + +<p>“Who was that?” she demanded of Martha.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Wilbur Edes,” replied her niece, and she aped +Margaret to perfection as she added, “and a most charming +woman, most charming.”</p> + +<p>“What did she want you to do?” inquired the aunt.</p> + +<p>“Now, Aunt Susan,” replied the niece, “what is +the use of going over it all? You heard every single thing she +said.”</p> + +<p>“I did hear her ask after me,” said the aunt +unabashed, “and I heard you tell a lie about it. You told her I +had gone out shopping and you knew I was right in the next +room.”</p> + +<p>“I didn't mean to have you come in and see a woman dressed +like that one, in your wrapper.”</p> + +<p>“What is the matter with my wrapper?”</p> + +<p>Martha said nothing.</p> + +<p>“Are you going?” asked her aunt.</p> + +<p>“You know that too.”</p> + +<p>“I don't know what your Pa would say,” remarked Aunt +Susan, but rather feebly, for she had a vague idea that it was her +duty to accompany her niece and she was determined to shirk it.</p> + +<p>“I don't see how Pa can say much of anything since he is in +South Mordan, Illinois, and won't know about it, unless you +telegraph, until next week,” said Martha calmly. “Now, +come along, Aunt Susan, and get dressed. I have made up my mind to +get that beautiful white silk dress we looked at yesterday. It did +not need any alteration and I think I shall buy that pearl and +amethyst necklace at Tiffany's. I know Mrs. Edes will have an evening +party and there will be gentlemen, and what is the use of my making +so much money out of <i>Hearts Astray</i> if I don't have a few +things I want? Hurry and get dressed.”</p> + +<p>“I don't see why this wrapper isn't plenty good enough for a +few errands at two or three stores,” said the aunt sulkily, but +she yielded to Martha's imperative demand that she change her wrapper +for her black satin immediately.</p> + +<p>Meantime Margaret on her way down town to the ferry was conscious +of a slight consternation at what she had done. She understood that +in this young woman was a feminine element which radically differed +from any which had come within her ken. She, however, was determined +to go on. The next day invitations were issued to the Zenith Club for +the following Friday, from four to six, and also one to dinner that +evening to four men and five women. She planned for Sunday an +automobile ride; she was to hire the car from the Axminister garage, +and a high tea afterward. Poor Margaret did all in her power to make +her scheme a success, but always she had that chilling doubt of her +power. Miss Martha Wallingford had impressed her as being a young +woman capable of swift and unexpected movements. She was rather +afraid of her but she did not confess her fear to Wilbur. When he +inquired genially what kind of a girl the authoress was, she replied: +“Oh, charming, of course, but the poor child does not know how +to do up her hair.” However, when Martha arrived Thursday +afternoon and Margaret met her at the station, she, at a glance, +discovered that the poor child had discovered how to do up her hair. +Some persons' brains work in a great many directions and Martha +Wallingford's was one of them. Somehow or other, she had contrived to +dispose of her tightly frizzed fringe, and her very pretty hair swept +upward from a forehead which was both intellectual and beautiful. She +was well dressed too. She had drawn heavily upon her royalty revenue. +She had worked hard and spent a good deal during the short time since +Margaret's call, and her brain had served her body well. She stepped +across the station platform with an air. She carried no provincial +bag—merely a dainty little affair mounted in gold which matched +her gown—and she had brought a small steamer trunk.</p> + +<p>Margaret's heart sank more and more, but she conducted her visitor +to her little carriage and ordered the man to drive home, and when +arrived there, showed Martha her room. She had a faint hope that the +room might intimidate this Western girl, but instead of intimidation +there was exultation. She looked about her very coolly, but +afterward, upon her return to East Mordan, Illinois, she bragged a +good deal about it. The room was really very charming and rather +costly. The furniture was genuine First Empire; the walls, which were +hung with paper covered with garlands of roses, were decorated with +old engravings; there was a quantity of Dresden ware and there was a +little tiled bathroom. Over a couch in the bedroom lay a kimona of +white silk embroidered with pink roses. Afterward Martha made cruel +fun of her Aunt's pink crepe and made her buy a kimona.</p> + +<p>“Shall I send up my maid to assist you in unpacking, Miss +Wallingford?” inquired Margaret, inwardly wondering how the +dinner would be managed if the offer were accepted. To her relief, +Martha gave her an offended stare. “No, thank you, Mrs. +Edes,” said she, “I never like servants, especially other +peoples', mussing up my things.”</p> + +<p>When Margaret had gone, Martha looked about her, and her mouth was +frankly wide open. She had never seen such exquisite daintiness and +it daunted her, although she would have died rather than admit it. +She thought of her own bedroom at home in East Mordan, Illinois, with +its old black walnut chamber set and framed photographs and chromos, +but she maintained a sort of defiant pride in it even to herself. In +Martha Wallingford's character there was an element partaking of the +nature of whalebone, yielding, but practically unbreakable, and +sometimes wholly unyielding. Martha proceeded to array herself for +dinner. She had not a doubt that it would be a grand affair. She +therefore did not hesitate about the white silk, which was a robe of +such splendour that it might not have disgraced a court. It showed a +great deal of her thin, yet pretty girlish neck, and it had a very +long train. She had a gold fillet studded with diamonds for her +hair—that hair which was now dressed according to the very +latest mode—a mode which was startling, yet becoming, and she +clasped around her throat the Tiffany necklace, and as a crowning +touch, put on long white gloves. When she appeared upon the verandah +where Margaret sat dressed in a pretty lingerie gown with Wilbur in a +light grey business suit, the silence could be heard. Then there was +one double gasp of admiration from Maida and Adelaide in their white +frocks and blue ribbons. They looked at the visitor with positive +adoration, but she flushed hotly. She was a very quick-witted girl. +Margaret recovered herself, presented Wilbur, and shortly, they went +in to dinner, but it was a ghastly meal. Martha Wallingford in her +unsuitable splendour was frankly, as she put it afterward, +“hopping mad,” and Wilbur was unhappy and Margaret +aghast, although apparently quite cool. There was not a guest besides +Martha. The dinner was simple. Afterward it seemed too farcical to +ask a guest attired like a young princess to go out on the verandah +and lounge in a wicker chair, while Wilbur smoked. Then Annie Eustace +appeared and Margaret was grateful. “Dear Annie,” she +said, after she had introduced the two girls, “I am so glad you +came over. Come in.”</p> + +<p>“It is pleasanter on the verandah, isn't it?” began +Annie, then she caught Margaret's expressive glance at the +magnificent white silk. They all sat stiffly in Margaret's pretty +drawing-room. Martha said she didn't play bridge and upon Annie's +timid suggestion of pinocle, said she had never heard of it. Wilbur +dared not smoke. All that wretched evening they sat there. The +situation was too much for Margaret, that past mistress of +situations, and her husband was conscious of a sensation approaching +terror and also wrath whenever he glanced at the figure in sumptuous +white, the figure expressing sulkiness in every feature and motion. +Margaret was unmistakably sulky as the evening wore on and nobody +came except this other girl of whom she took no notice at all. She +saw that she was pretty, her hair badly arranged and she was +ill-dressed, and that was enough for her. She felt it to be an insult +that these people had invited her and asked nobody to meet her, +Martha Wallingford, whose name was in all the papers, attired in this +wonderful white gown. When Annie Eustace arose to go, she arose too +with a peremptory motion.</p> + +<p>“I rather guess I will go to bed,” said Martha +Wallingford.</p> + +<p>“You must be weary,” said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“I am not tired,” said Martha Wallingford, “but +it seems to me as dull here as in South Mordan, Illinois. I might as +well go to bed and to sleep as sit here any longer.”</p> + +<p>When Margaret had returned from the guest room, her husband looked +at her almost in a bewildered fashion. Margaret sank wearily into a +chair. “Isn't she impossible?” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“Did she think there was a dinner party?” Wilbur +inquired perplexedly.</p> + +<p>“I don't know. It was ghastly. I did not for a moment +suppose she would dress for a party, unless I told her, and it is +Emma's night off and I could not ask people with only Clara to cook +and wait.”</p> + +<p>Wilbur patted his wife's shoulder comfortingly. “Never mind, +dear,” he said, “when she gets her chance to do her +to-morrow's stunt at your club, she will be all right.”</p> + +<p>Margaret shivered a little. She had dared say nothing to Martha +about that “stunt.” Was it possible that she was making +a horrible mistake?</p> + +<p>The next day, Martha was still sulky but she did not, as Margaret +feared, announce her intention of returning at once to New York. +Margaret said quite casually that she had invited a few of the +brightest and most interesting people in Fairbridge to meet her that +afternoon and Martha became curious, although still resentful, and +made no motion to leave. She, however, resolved to make no further +mistakes as to costume, and just as the first tide of the Zenith Club +broke over Margaret's threshold, she appeared clad in one of her +South Mordan, Illinois, gowns. It was one which she had tucked into +her trunk in view of foul weather. It was a hideous thing made from +two old gowns. It had a garish blue tunic reaching well below the +hips and a black skirt bordered with blue. Martha had had it made +herself from a pattern after long study of the fashion plates in a +Sunday newspaper and the result, although startling, still half +convinced her. It was only after she had seen all the members of the +Zenith Club seated and had gazed at their costumes, that she realised +that she had made a worse mistake than that of the night before. To +begin with, the day was very warm and her gown heavy and clumsy. The +other ladies were arrayed in lovely lingeries or light silks and +laces. The Zenith Club was exceedingly well dressed on that day. +Martha sat in her place beside her hostess and her face looked like a +sulky child's. Her eye-lids were swollen, her pouting lips dropped at +the corners. She stiffened her chin until it became double. Margaret +was inwardly perturbed but she concealed it. The programme went on +with the inevitable singing by Miss MacDonald and Mrs. Wells, the +playing by Mrs. Jack Evarts, the recitation by Sally Anderson. +Margaret had not ventured to omit those features. Then, Mrs. +Sturtevant read in a trembling voice a paper on Emerson. Then +Margaret sprang her mines. She rose and surveyed her audience with +smiling impressiveness. “Ladies,” she said, and there was +an immediate hush, “Ladies, I have the pleasure, the exceeding +pleasure of presenting you to my guest, Miss Martha Wallingford, the +author of <i>Hearts Astray</i>. She will now speak briefly to you +upon her motive in writing and her method of work.” There was +a soft clapping of hands. Margaret sat down. She was quite pale. +Annie Eustace regarded her wonderingly. What had happened to her dear +Margaret?</p> + +<p>The people waited. Everybody stared at Miss Martha Wallingford who +had written that great seller, <i>Hearts Astray</i>. Martha +Wallingford sat perfectly still. Her eyes were so downcast that they +gave the appearance of being closed. Her pretty face looked red and +swollen. Everybody waited. She sat absolutely still and made no sign +except that of her obstinate face of negation. Margaret bent over her +and whispered. Martha did not even do her the grace of a shake of the +head.</p> + +<p>Everybody waited again. Martha Wallingford sat so still that she +gave the impression of a doll made without speaking apparatus. It did +not seem as if she could even wink. Then Alice Mendon, who disliked +Margaret Edes and had a shrewd conjecture as to the state of affairs, +but who was broad in her views, pitied Margaret. She arose with +considerable motion and spoke to Daisy Shaw at her right, and broke +the ghastly silence, and immediately everything was in motion and +refreshments were being passed, but Martha Wallingford, who had +written <i>Hearts Astray</i>, was not there to partake of them. She +was in her room, huddled in a chair upholstered with cream silk +strewn with roses; and she was in one of the paroxysms of silent rage +which belonged to her really strong, although undisciplined nature, +and which was certainly in this case justified to some degree.</p> + +<p>“It was an outrage,” she said to herself. She saw +through it all now. She had refused to speak or to read before all +those women's clubs and now this woman had trapped her, that was the +word for it, trapped her.</p> + +<p>As she sat there, her sullenly staring angry eyes saw in large +letters at the head of a column in a morning paper on the table +beside her, “‘<i>The Poor Lady</i>,’ the greatest +anonymous novel of the year.”</p> + +<p>Then she fell again to thinking of her wrongs and planning how she +should wreak vengeance upon Margaret Edes.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter VI</h4> + +<p>Martha Wallingford was a young person of direct methods. She +scorned subterfuges. Another of her age and sex might have gone to +bed with a headache, not she. She sat absolutely still beside her +window, quite in full view of the departing members of the Zenith +Club, had they taken the trouble to glance in that direction, and +some undoubtedly did, and she remained there; presently she heard her +hostess's tiny rap on the door. Martha did not answer, but after a +repeated rap and wait, Margaret chose to assume that she did, and +entered. Margaret knelt in a soft flop of scented lingerie beside the +indignant young thing. She explained, she apologised, she begged, she +implored Martha to put on that simply ravishing gown which she had +worn the evening before; she expatiated at length upon the charms of +the people whom she had invited to dinner, but Martha spoke not at +all until she was quite ready. Then she said explosively, “I +won't.”</p> + +<p>She was silent after that. Margaret recognised the futility of +further entreaties. She went down stairs and confided in Wilbur. +“I never saw such an utterly impossible girl,” she said; +“there she sits and won't get dressed and come down to +dinner.”</p> + +<p>“She is a freak, must be, most of these writer people are +freaks,” said Wilbur sympathetically. “Poor old girl, and +I suppose you have got up a nice dinner too.”</p> + +<p>“A perfectly charming dinner and invited people to meet +her.”</p> + +<p>“How did she do her stunt this afternoon?”</p> + +<p>Margaret flushed. “None too well,” she replied.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, dear, I don't see how you are to +blame.”</p> + +<p>“I can say that Miss Wallingford is not well, I +suppose,” said Margaret, and that was what she did say, but +with disastrous results.</p> + +<p>Margaret, ravishing in white lace, sprinkled with little gold +butterflies, had taken her place at the head of her table. Emma was +serving the first course and she was making her little speech +concerning the unfortunate indisposition of her guest of honour when +she was suddenly interrupted by that guest herself, an image of sulky +wrath, clad in the blue and black costume pertaining to South Mordan, +Illinois.</p> + +<p>“I am perfectly well. She is telling an awful +whopper,” proclaimed this amazing girl. “I won't dress up +and come to dinner because I won't. She trapped me into a woman's +club this afternoon and tried to get me to make a speech without even +telling me what she meant to do and now I won't do +anything.”</p> + +<p>With that Miss Wallingford disappeared and unmistakable stamps +were heard upon the stairs. One woman giggled convulsively; another +took a glass of water and choked. A man laughed honestly. Wilbur was +quite pale. Margaret was imperturbable. Karl von Rosen, who was one +of the guests and who sat behind Annie Eustace, looked at Margaret +with wonder. “Was this the way of women?” he thought. He +did not doubt for one minute that the Western girl had spoken the +truth. It had been brutal and homely, but it had been the truth. +Little Annie Eustace, who had been allowed to come to a dinner party +for the first time in her life and who looked quite charming in an +old, much mended, but very fine India muslin and her grandmother's +corals, did not, on the contrary, believe one word of Miss +Wallingford's.</p> + +<p>Her sympathy was all with her Margaret. It was a horrible +situation and her dear Margaret was the victim of her own +hospitality. She looked across the table at Alice Mendon for another +sympathiser, but Alice was talking busily to the man at her right +about a new book. She had apparently not paid much attention. Annie +wondered how it could have escaped her. That horrid girl had spoken +so loudly. She looked up at Von Rosen. “I am so sorry for poor +Margaret,” she whispered. Von Rosen looked down at her very +gently. This little girl's belief in her friend was like a sacred +lily, not to be touched or soiled.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said and Annie smiled up at him comfortably. +Von Rosen was glad she sat beside him. He thought her very lovely, +and there was a subtle suggestion of something besides loveliness. He +thought that daintily mended India muslin exquisite, and also the +carved corals,—bracelets on the slender wrists, a +necklace—resting like a spray of flowers on the girlish neck, a +comb in the soft hair which Annie had arranged becomingly and covered +from her aunt's sight with a lace scarf. She felt deceitful about her +hair, but how could she help it?</p> + +<p>The dinner was less ghastly than could have been expected after +the revelation of the guest of honour and the blank consternation of +the host, who made no attempt to conceal his state of mind. Poor +Wilbur had no society tricks. Alice Mendon, who was quite cognizant +of the whole matter, but was broad enough to leap to the aid of +another woman, did much. She had quite a talent for witty stories and +a goodly fund of them. The dinner went off very well, while Martha +Wallingford ate hers from a dinner tray in her room and felt that +every morsel was sweetened with righteous revenge.</p> + +<p>The next morning she left for New York and Margaret did not +attempt to detain her although she had a lunch party planned besides +the Sunday festivities. Margaret had had a scene with Wilbur after +the departure of the guests the previous evening. For the first time +in her experience, the devoted husband had turned upon his goddess. +He had asked, “Was it true, what that girl said?” and +Margaret had laughed up at him bewitchingly to no effect. Wilbur's +face was very stern.</p> + +<p>“My dear,” said Margaret, “I knew perfectly well +that if I actually asked her to speak or read, she would have +refused.”</p> + +<p>“You have done an unpardonable thing,” said the man. +“You have betrayed your own sense of honour, your hospitality +toward the guest under your roof.”</p> + +<p>Margaret laughed as she took an ornament from her yellow head but +the laugh was defiant and forced. In her heart she bitterly resented +her husband's attitude and more bitterly resented the attitude of +respect into which it forced her. “It is the very last time I +ask a Western authoress to accept my hospitality,” said +she.</p> + +<p>“I hope so,” said Wilbur gravely.</p> + +<p>That night Karl von Rosen walked home with Annie Eustace. She had +come quite unattended, as was the wont of Fairbridge ladies. That +long peaceful Main Street lined with the homes of good people always +seemed a safe thoroughfare. Annie was even a little surprised when +Von Rosen presented himself and said, “I will walk home with +you, Miss Eustace, with your permission.”</p> + +<p>“But I live a quarter of a mile past your house,” said +Annie.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen laughed. “A quarter of a mile will not injure +me,” he said.</p> + +<p>“It will really be a half mile,” said Annie. She +wanted very much that the young man should walk home with her, but +she was very much afraid of making trouble. She was relieved when he +only laughed again and said something about the beauty of the night. +It was really a wonderful night and even the eyes of youth, +inhabiting it with fairy dreams, were not essential to perceive +it.</p> + +<p>“What flower scent is that?” asked Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>“I think,” replied Annie, “that it is wild +honeysuckle,” and her voice trembled slightly. The perfumed +night and the strange presence beside her went to the child's head a +bit. The two walked along under the trees, which cast etching-like +shadows in the broad moonlight, and neither talked much. There was +scarcely a lighted window in any of the houses and they had a +delicious sense of isolation,—the girl and the man awake in a +sleeping world. Annie made no further allusion to Miss Wallingford. +She had for almost the first time in her life a little selfish +feeling that she did not wish to jar a perfect moment even with the +contemplation of a friend's troubles. She was very happy walking +beside Von Rosen, holding up her flimsy embroidered skirts carefully +lest they come in contact with dewy grass. She had been admonished by +her grandmother and her aunts so to do and reminded that the frail +fabric would not endure much washing however skilful. Between the +shadows, her lovely face showed like a white flower as Von Rosen +looked down upon it. He wondered more and more that he had never +noticed this exquisite young creature before. He did not yet dream of +love in connection with her, but he was conscious of a passion of +surprised admiration and protectiveness.</p> + +<p>“How is it that I have never seen you when I call on your +Aunt Harriet?” he asked when he parted with her at her own +gate, a stately wrought iron affair in a tall hedge of close trimmed +lilac.</p> + +<p>“I am generally there, I think,” replied Annie, but +she was also conscious of a little surprise that she had not paid +more attention when this young man, who looked at her so kindly, +called. Then came one of her sudden laughs.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>“Oh, nothing, except that the cat is usually there +too,” replied Annie. Von Rosen looked back boyishly.</p> + +<p>“Be sure I shall see you next time and hang the cat,” +he said.</p> + +<p>When Annie was in her room unclasping her corals, she considered +how very much mortified and troubled her friend, Margaret Edes, must +feel. She recalled how hideous it had all been—that appearance +of the Western girl in the dining-room door-way, her rude ways, her +flushed angry face. Annie did not dream of blaming Margaret. She was +almost a fanatic as far as loyalty to her friends was concerned. She +loved Margaret and she had only a feeling of cold dislike and +disapprobation toward Miss Wallingford who had hurt Margaret. As for +that charge of “trapping,” she paid no heed to it +whatever. She made up her mind to go and see Margaret the very next +day and tell her a secret, a very great secret, which she was sure +would comfort her and make ample amends to her for all her distress +of the night before. Little Annie Eustace was so very innocent and +ignorant of the ways of the world that had her nearest and dearest +been able to look into her heart of hearts, they might have been +appalled, incredulous and reverent, according to their natures. For +instance, this very good, simple young girl who had been born with +the light of genius always assumed that her friends would be as +delighted at any good fortune of hers as at their own. She fairly fed +upon her admiration of Alice Mendon that evening when she had stepped +so nobly and tactfully into the rather frightful social breach and +saved, if not wholly, the situation.</p> + +<p>“Alice was such a dear,” she thought, and the thought +made her face fairly angelic. Then she recalled how lovely Alice had +looked, and her own mobile face took on unconsciously Alice's +expression. Standing before her looking-glass brushing out her hair, +she saw reflected, not her own beautiful face between the lustrous +folds, but Alice's. Then she recalled with pride Margaret's +imperturbability under such a trial. “Nobody but Margaret could +have carried off such an insult under her own roof too,” she +thought.</p> + +<p>After she was in bed and her lamp blown out and the white +moon-beams were entering her open windows like angels, she, after +saying her prayers, thought of the three, Margaret, Alice, and Karl +von Rosen. Then suddenly a warm thrill passed over her long slender +body but it seemed to have its starting point in her soul. She saw +very distinctly the young man's dark handsome face, but she thought, +“How absurd of me, to see him so distinctly, as distinctly as I +see Margaret and Alice, when I love them so much, and I scarcely know +Mr. von Rosen.” Being brought up by one's imperious +grandmother and two imperious aunts and being oneself naturally of an +obedient disposition and of a slowly maturing temperament, tends to +lengthen the long childhood of a girl. Annie was almost inconceivably +a child, much more of a child than Maida or Adelaide Edes. They had +been allowed to grow like weeds as far as their imagination was +concerned, and she had been religiously pruned.</p> + +<p>The next afternoon she put on her white barred muslin and obtained +her Aunt Harriet's permission to spend an hour or two with Margaret +if she would work assiduously on her daisy centre piece, and stepped +like a white dove across the shady village street. Annie, unless she +remembered to do otherwise, was prone to toe in slightly with her +slender feet. She was also prone to allow the tail of her white gown +to trail. She gathered it up only when her Aunt called after her. She +found Margaret lying indolently in the hammock which was strung +across the wide shaded verandah. She was quite alone. Annie had seen +with relief Miss Martha Wallingford being driven to the station that +morning and the express following with her little trunk. Margaret +greeted Annie a bit stiffly but the girl did not notice it. She was +so full of her ignorant little plan to solace her friend with her own +joy. Poor Annie did not understand that it requires a nature seldom +met upon this earth, to be solaced, under disappointment and failure, +by another's joy. Annie had made up her mind to say very little to +Margaret about what had happened the evening before. Only at first, +she remarked upon the beauty of the dinner, then she said quite +casually, “Dear Margaret, we were all so sorry for poor Miss +Wallingford's strange conduct.”</p> + +<p>“It really did not matter in the least,” replied +Margaret coldly. “I shall never invite her again.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure nobody can blame you,” said Annie warmly. +“I don't want to say harsh things, you know that, Margaret, but +that poor girl, in spite of her great talent, cannot have had the +advantage of good home-training.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she is Western,” said Margaret. “How very +warm it is to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Very, but there is quite a breeze here.”</p> + +<p>“A hot breeze,” said Margaret wearily. “How I +wish we could afford a house at the seashore or the mountains. The +hot weather does get on my nerves.”</p> + +<p>A great light of joy came into Annie's eyes. “Oh, Margaret +dear,” she said, “I can't do it yet but it does look as +if some time before long perhaps, I may be able myself to have a +house at the seashore. I think Sudbury beach would be lovely. It is +always cool there, and then you can come and stay with me whenever +you like during the hot weather. I will have a room fitted up for you +in your favourite white and gold and it shall be called Margaret's +room and you can always come, when you wish.”</p> + +<p>Margaret looked at the other girl with a slow surprise. “I +do not understand,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Of course, you don't. You know we have only had enough to +live here as we have done,” said Annie with really childish +glee, “but oh, Margaret, you will be so glad. I have not told +you before but now I must for I know it will make you so happy, and I +know I can trust you never to betray me, for it is a great secret, a +very great secret, and it must not be known by other people at +present. I don't know just when it can be known, perhaps never, +certainly not now.”</p> + +<p>Margaret looked at her with indifferent interrogation. Annie did +not realise how indifferent. A flood-tide of kindly joyful emotion +does not pay much attention to its banks. Annie continued. She looked +sweetly excited; her voice rose high above its usual pitch. +“You understand, Margaret dear, how it is,” she said. +“You see I am quite unknown, that is, my name is quite unknown, +and it would really hinder the success of a book.”</p> + +<p>Margaret surveyed her with awakening interest. “A +book?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Yes, a book! Oh, Margaret, I know it will be hard for you +to believe, but you know I am very truthful. I—I wrote the book +they are talking about so much now. You know what I mean?”</p> + +<p>“Not the—?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, <i>The Poor Lady</i>,—the anonymous novel which +people are talking so much about and which sold better than any other +book last week. I wrote it. I really did, Margaret.”</p> + +<p>“You wrote it!”</p> + +<p>Annie continued almost wildly. “Yes, I did, I did!” +she cried, “and you are the only soul that knows except the +publishers. They said they were much struck with the book but advised +anonymous publication, my name was so utterly unknown.”</p> + +<p>“You wrote <i>The Poor Lady</i>?” said Margaret. Her +eyes glittered, and her lips tightened. Envy possessed her, but Annie +Eustace did not recognise envy when she saw it.</p> + +<p>Annie went on in her sweet ringing voice, almost producing the +effect of a song. She was so happy, and so pleased to think that she +was making her friend happy.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” she said, “I wrote it. I wrote <i>The +Poor Lady</i>.”</p> + +<p>“If,” said Margaret, “you speak quite so loud, +you will be heard by others.”</p> + +<p>Annie lowered her voice immediately with a startled look. +“Oh,” she whispered. “I would not have anybody hear +me for anything.”</p> + +<p>“How did you manage?” asked Margaret.</p> + +<p>Annie laughed happily. “I fear I have been a little +deceitful,” she said, “but I am sure they will forgive me +when they know. I keep a journal; I have always kept one since I was +a child. Aunt Harriet wished me to do so. And the journal was very +stupid. So little unusual happens here in Fairbridge, and I have +always been rather loath to write very much about my innermost +feelings or very much about my friends in my journal because of +course one can never tell what will happen. It has never seemed to me +quite delicate—to keep a very full journal, and so there was in +reality very little to write.” Annie burst into a peal of +laughter. “It just goes this way, the journal,” she said. +“To-day is pleasant and warm. This morning I helped Hannah +preserve cherries. In the afternoon I went over to Margaret's and sat +with her on the verandah, embroidered two daisies and three leaves +with stems on my centre piece, came home, had supper, sat in the +twilight with Grandmother, Aunt Harriet and Aunt Susan. Went +upstairs, put on my wrapper and read until it was time to go to bed. +Went to bed. Now that took very little time and was not interesting +and so, after I went upstairs, I wrote my entry in the journal in +about five minutes and then I wrote <i>The Poor Lady</i>. Of course, +when I began it, I was not at all sure that it would amount to +anything. I was not sure that any publisher would look at it. +Sometimes I felt as if I were doing a very foolish thing: spending +time and perhaps deceiving Grandmother and my aunts very wickedly, +though I was quite certain that if the book should by any chance +succeed, they would not think it wrong.</p> + +<p>“Grandmother is very fond of books and so is Aunt Harriet, +and I have often heard them say they wished I had been a boy in order +that I might do something for the Eustace name. You know there have +been so many distinguished professional men in the Eustace family and +they of course did not for one minute think a girl like me could do +anything and I did not really think so myself. Sometimes I wonder how +I had the courage to keep on writing when I was so uncertain but it +was exactly as if somebody were driving me. When I had the book +finished, I was so afraid it ought to be typewritten, but I could not +manage that. At least I thought I could not, but after awhile I did, +and in a way that nobody suspected, Aunt Harriet sent me to New York. +You know I am not often allowed to go alone but it was when +Grandmother had the grippe and Aunt Susan the rheumatism and Aunt +Harriet had a number of errands and so I went on the Twenty-third +Street ferry, and did not go far from Twenty-third Street and I took +my book in my handbag and carried it into Larkins and White's and I +saw Mr. Larkins in his office and he was very kind and polite, +although I think now he was laughing a little to himself at the idea +of my writing a book, but he said to leave the MSS. and he would let +me hear. And I left it and, oh, Margaret, I heard within a week, and +he said such lovely things about it. You know I always go to the +post-office, so there was no chance of anybody's finding it out that +way. And then the proof began to come and I was at my wits' end to +conceal that, but I did. And then the book was published, and, +Margaret, you know the rest. Nobody dreams who wrote it, and I have +had a statement and oh, my dear, next November I am to have a +check.” (Annie leaned over and whispered in Margaret's ear.) +“Only think,” she said with a burst of rapture.</p> + +<p>Margaret was quite pale. She sat looking straight before her with +a strange expression. She was tasting in the very depths of her soul +a bitterness which was more biting than any bitter herb which ever +grew on earth. It was a bitterness, which, thank God, is unknown to +many; the bitterness of the envy of an incapable, but self-seeking +nature, of one with the burning ambition of genius but destitute of +the divine fire. To such come unholy torture, which is unspeakable at +the knowledge of another's success. Margaret Edes was inwardly +writhing. To think that Annie Eustace, little Annie Eustace, who had +worshipped at her own shrine, whom she had regarded with a lazy, +scarcely concealed contempt, for her incredible lack of wordly +knowledge, her provincialism, her ill-fitting attire, should have +achieved a triumph which she herself could never achieve. A cold +hatred of the girl swept over the woman. She forced her lips into a +smile, but her eyes were cruel.</p> + +<p>“How very interesting, my dear,” she said.</p> + +<p>Poor Annie started. She was acute, for all her innocent trust in +another's goodness, and the tone of her friend's voice, the look in +her eyes chilled her. And yet she did not know what they signified. +She went on begging for sympathy and rejoicing with her joy as a +child might beg for a sweet. “Isn't it perfectly lovely, +Margaret dear?” she said.</p> + +<p>“It is most interesting, my dear child,” replied +Margaret.</p> + +<p>Annie went on eagerly with the details of her triumph, the book +sales which increased every week, the revises, the letters from her +publishers, and Margaret listened smiling in spite of her torture, +but she never said more than “How interesting.”</p> + +<p>At last Annie went home and could not help feeling disappointed, +although she could not fathom the significance of Margaret's +reception of her astonishing news. Annie only worried because she +feared lest her happiness had not cheered her friend as much as she +had anticipated.</p> + +<p>“Poor Margaret, she must feel so very bad that nothing can +reconcile her to such a betrayal of her hospitality,” she +reflected as she flitted across the street. There was nobody in +evidence at her house at window or on the wide verandah. Annie looked +at her watch tucked in her girdle, hung around her neck by a thin +gold chain which had belonged to her mother. It yet wanted a full +hour of supper time. She had time to call on Alice Mendon and go to +the post-office. Alice lived on the way to the post-office, in a +beautiful old colonial house. Annie ran along the shady sidewalk and +soon had a glimpse of Alice's pink draperies on her great front +porch. Annie ran down the deep front yard between the tall box +bushes, beyond which bloomed in a riot of colour and perfume roses +and lilies and spraying heliotrope and pinks and the rest of their +floral tribe all returned to their dance of summer. Alice's imposing +colonial porch was guarded on either side of the superb circling +steps by a stone lion from over seas. On the porch was a little table +and several chairs. Alice sat in one reading. She was radiant in her +pink muslin. Alice seldom wore white. She was quite sensible as to +the best combinations of herself with colours although she had, +properly speaking, no vanity. She arranged herself to the best +advantage as she arranged a flower in a vase. On the heavily carved +mahogany table beside her was a blue and white India bowl filled with +white roses and heliotrope and lemon verbena. Annie inhaled the +bouquet of perfume happily as she came up the steps with Alice +smiling a welcome at her. Annie had worshipped more fervently at +Margaret Edes' shrine than at Alice's and yet she had a feeling of +fuller confidence in Alice. She was about to tell Alice about her +book, not because Alice needed the comfort of her joy but because she +herself, although unknowingly, needed Alice's ready sympathy of which +she had no doubt. Her interview with Margaret had left the child hurt +and bewildered and now she came to Alice. Alice did not rise and kiss +her. Alice seldom kissed anybody but she radiated kindly welcome.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, little Annie,” she said, “I am glad +you have come. My aunt and cousin have gone to New York and I have +been alone all day. We would have tea and cake but <em>I</em> know +the hour of your Medes and Persians' supper approaches instead of my +later dinner.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Annie, sitting down, “and if I were +to take tea and cake now, Alice, I could eat nothing and grandmother +and my aunts are very particular about my clearing my +plate.”</p> + +<p>Alice laughed, but she looked rather solicitously at the girl. +“I know,” she said, then she hesitated. She pitied little +Annie Eustace and considered her rather a victim of loving but +mistaken tyranny. “I wish,” she said, “that you +would stay and dine with me to-night.”</p> + +<p>Annie fairly gasped. “They expect me at home,” she +replied.</p> + +<p>“I know, and I suppose if I were to send over and tell them +you would dine with me, it would not answer.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked frightened. “I fear not, Alice. You see they +would have had no time to think it over and decide.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I suppose so.”</p> + +<p>“I have time to make you a little call and stop at the +post-office for the last mail and get home just in time for +supper.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, you must come and dine with me a week from +to-day, and I will have a little dinner-party,” said Alice. +“I will invite some nice people. We will have Mr. von Rosen for +one.”</p> + +<p>Annie suddenly flushed crimson. It occurred to her that Mr. von +Rosen might walk home with her as he had done from Margaret's, and a +longing and terror at once possessed her.</p> + +<p>Alice wondered at the blush.</p> + +<p>“I was so sorry for poor Margaret last night,” Annie +said with an abrupt change of subject.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Alice.</p> + +<p>“That poor Western girl, talented as she is, must have been +oddly brought up to be so very rude to her hostess,” said +Annie.</p> + +<p>“I dare say Western girls are brought up differently,” +said Alice.</p> + +<p>Annie was so intent with what she had to tell Alice that she did +not realise the extreme evasiveness of the other's manner.</p> + +<p>“Alice,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Well, little Annie Eustace?”</p> + +<p>Annie began, blushed, then hesitated.</p> + +<p>“I am going to tell you something. I have told Margaret. I +have just told her this afternoon. I thought it might please her and +comfort her after that terrible scene at her dinner last night, but +nobody else knows except the publishers.”</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Alice, regarding Annie with a +little smile.</p> + +<p>“Nothing, only I wrote <i>The Poor Lady</i>,” said +Annie.</p> + +<p>“My dear Annie, I knew it all the time,” said +Alice.</p> + +<p>Annie stared at her. “How?”</p> + +<p>“Well, you did not know it, but you did repeat in that book +verbatim, ad literatim, a sentence, a very striking one, which +occurred in one of your papers which you wrote for the Zenith Club. I +noticed that sentence at the time. It was this: ‘A rose has +enough beauty and fragrance to enable it to give very freely and yet +itself remain a rose. It is the case with many endowed natures but +that is a fact which is not always understood.’ My dear Annie, +I knew that you wrote the book, for that identical sentence occurs in +<i>The Poor Lady</i> on page one hundred forty-two. You see I have +fully considered the matter to remember the exact page. I knew the +minute I read that sentence that my little Annie Eustace had written +that successful anonymous book, and I was the more certain because I +had always had my own opinion as to little Annie's literary ability +based upon those same Zenith Club papers. You will remember that I +have often told you that you should not waste your time writing club +papers when you could do work like that.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked alarmed. “Oh, Alice,” she said, “do +you think anybody else has remembered that sentence?”</p> + +<p>“My dear child, I am quite sure that not a blessed woman in +that club has remembered that sentence,” said Alice.</p> + +<p>“I had entirely forgotten.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, you had.”</p> + +<p>“It would be very unfortunate if it were remembered, because +the publishers are so anxious that my name should not be known. You +see, nobody ever heard of me and my name would hurt the sales and the +poor publishers have worked so hard over the advertising, it would be +dreadful to have the sales fall off. You really don't think anybody +does remember?”</p> + +<p>“My dear,” said Alice with her entirely good-natured, +even amused and tolerant air of cynicism, “the women of the +Zenith Club remember their own papers. You need not have the +slightest fear. But Annie, you wonderful little girl, I am so glad +you have come to me with this. I have been waiting for you to tell +me, for I was impatient to tell you how delighted I am. You blessed +child, I never was more glad at anything in my whole life. I am as +proud as proud can be. I feel as if I had written that book myself, +and better than written it myself. I have had none of the bother of +the work and my friend had it and my friend has the fame and the +glory and she goes around among us with her little halo hidden out of +sight of everybody, except myself.”</p> + +<p>“Margaret knows.”</p> + +<p>Alice stiffened a little. “That is recent,” she said, +“and I have known all the time.”</p> + +<p>“Margaret could not have remembered that sentence, I am +sure,” Annie said thoughtfully. “Poor Margaret, she was +so upset by what happened last night that I am afraid the news did +not cheer her up as much as I thought it would.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you dear little soul,” said Alice, “I am +simply revelling in happiness and pride because of it, you may be +sure of that.”</p> + +<p>“But you have not had such an awful blow as poor Margaret +had,” said Annie. Then she brightened. “Oh Alice,” +she cried, “I wanted somebody who loved me to be +glad.”</p> + +<p>“You have not told your grandmother and aunts +yet?”</p> + +<p>“I have not dared,” replied Annie in a shamed fashion. +“I know I deceived them and I think perhaps grandmother might +find it hard not to tell. She is so old you know, and she does tell a +great deal without meaning and Aunt Susan likes to tell news. I have +not dared, Alice. The publishers have been so very insistent that +nobody should know, but I had to tell you and Margaret.”</p> + +<p>“It made no difference anyway about me,” said Alice, +“since I already knew.”</p> + +<p>“Margaret can be trusted too, I am sure,” Annie said +quickly.</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked at her watch. “I must go,” she said, +“or I shall be late. Isn't it really wonderful that I should +write a successful book, Alice?”</p> + +<p>“You are rather wonderful, my dear,” said Alice. Then +she rose and put her arms around the slender white-clad figure and +held her close, and gave her one of her infrequent kisses. “You +precious little thing,” she said, “the book is wonderful, +but my Annie is more wonderful because she can be told so and never +get the fact into her head. Here is your work, dear.”</p> + +<p>An expression of dismay came over Annie's face. “Oh, +dear,” she said, “I have only embroidered half a daisy +and what will Aunt Harriet say?”</p> + +<p>“You have embroidered a whole garden as nobody else can, if +people only knew it,” said Alice.</p> + +<p>“But Alice,” said Annie ruefully, “my embroidery +is really awful and I don't like to do it and the linen is so grimy +that I am ashamed. Oh, dear, I shall have to face Aunt Harriet with +that half daisy!”</p> + +<p>Alice laughed. “She can't kill you.”</p> + +<p>“No, but I don't like to have her so +disappointed.”</p> + +<p>Alice kissed Annie again before she went, and watched the slight +figure flitting down between the box-rows, with a little frown of +perplexity. She wished that Annie had not told Margaret Edes about +the book and yet she did not know why she wished so. She was very far +from expecting the results. Alice was too noble herself to entertain +suspicions of the ignobility of others. Certainty she was obliged to +confront, as she had confronted the affair of the night before. It +was, of course, the certainty that Margaret had been guilty of a +disgraceful and treacherous deed which made her uneasy in a vague +fashion now and yet she did not for one second dream of what was to +occur at the next meeting of the Zenith Club.</p> + +<p>That was at Mrs. Sturtevant's and was the great affair of the +year. It was called, to distinguish it from the others, “The +Annual Meeting,” and upon that occasion the husbands and men +friends of the members were invited and the function was in the +evening. Margaret had wished to have the club at her own house, +before the affair of Martha Wallingford, but the annual occasions +were regulated by the letters of the alphabet and it was +incontrovertibly the turn of the letter S and Mrs. Sturtevant's right +could not be questioned. During the time which elapsed before this +meeting, Margaret Edes was more actively unhappy than she had ever +been in her life and all her strong will could not keep the traces of +that unhappiness from her face. Lines appeared. Her eyes looked large +in dark hollows. Wilbur grew anxious about her.</p> + +<p>“You must go somewhere for a change,” he said, +“and I will get my cousin Marion to come here and keep house +and look out for the children. You must not be bothered even with +them. You need a complete rest and change.”</p> + +<p>But Margaret met his anxiety with irritation. She felt as if some +fatal fascination confined her in Fairbridge and especially did she +feel that she must be present at the annual meeting. Margaret never +for one minute formulated to herself why she had this fierce desire. +She knew in a horrible way at the back of her brain, but she kept the +knowledge covered as with a veil even from herself.</p> + +<p>She had a beautiful new gown made for the occasion. Since she had +lost so much colour, she was doubtful of the wisdom of wearing her +favourite white and gold, or black. She had a crepe of a peculiar +shade of blue which suited her and she herself worked assiduously +embroidering it in a darker shade which brought out the colour of her +eyes. She looked quite herself when the evening came and Wilbur's +face brightened as he looked at her in her trailing blue with a +little diamond crescent fastening a tiny blue feather in her golden +fluff of hair.</p> + +<p>“You certainly do look better,” he said happily.</p> + +<p>“I am well, you old goose,” said Margaret, fastening +her long blue gloves. “You have simply been fussing over +nothing as I told you.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I hope I have. You do look stunning to-night,” +said Wilbur, gazing at her with a pride so intense that it was almost +piteous in its self-abnegation.</p> + +<p>“Is that your stunt there on the table?” he inquired, +pointing to a long envelope.</p> + +<p>Margaret laughed carefully, dimpling her cheeks. +“Yes,” she said, and Wilbur took the envelope and put it +into his pocket. “I will carry it for you,” he said. +“By the way, what is your stunt, honey? Did you write +something?”</p> + +<p>“Wait, until you hear,” replied Margaret, and she +laughed carefully again. She gathered up the train of her blue gown +and turned upon him, her blue eyes glowing with a strange fire, +feverish roses on her cheeks. “You are not to be surprised at +anything to-night,” she said and laughed again.</p> + +<p>She still had a laughing expression when they were seated in Mrs. +Sturtevant's flower-scented drawing-room, a handsome room, thanks to +the decorator, who was young and enthusiastic. Margaret had duly +considered the colour scheme in her choice of a gown. The furniture +was upholstered with a wisteria pattern, except a few chairs which +were cane-seated, with silvered wood. Margaret had gone directly to +one of these chairs. She was not sure of her gown being exactly the +right shade of blue to harmonise with the wisteria at close quarters. +The chair was tall and slender. Margaret's feet did not touch the +floor, but the long blue trail of her gown concealed that, and she +contrived to sit as if they did. She gave the impression of a tall +creature of extreme grace as she sat propping her back against her +silvered chair. Wilbur gazed at her with adoration. He had almost +forgotten the affair of Martha Wallingford. He had excused his +Margaret because she was a woman and he was profoundly ignorant of +women's strange ambitions. Now, he regarded her with unqualified +admiration. He looked from her to the other women and back again and +was entirely convinced that she outshone them all as a sun a star. He +looked at the envelope in her blue lap and was sure that she had +written something which was infinitely superior to the work of any +other woman there. Down in the depths of his masculine soul, Wilbur +Edes had a sense of amused toleration when women's clubs were +concerned, but he always took his Margaret seriously, and the Zenith +Club on that account was that night an important and grave +organisation. He wished very much to smoke and he was wedged into an +uncomfortable corner with a young girl who insisted upon talking to +him and was all the time nervously rearranging her hair, but he had a +good view of his Margaret in her wonderful blue gown, in her silver +chair, and he was consoled.</p> + +<p>“Have you read <i>The Poor Lady</i>?” asked +spasmodically the girl, and drove in a slipping hair-pin at the same +time.</p> + +<p>“I never read novels,” replied Wilbur absently, +“haven't much time you know.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose not, but that is such a wonderful book and +only think, nobody has the least idea who wrote it, and it does make +it so interesting. I thought myself it was written by Wilbur Jack +until I came to a sentence which I could quite understand and that +put him out of the question. Of course, Wilbur Jack is such a great +genius that no young girl like myself pretends to understand him, but +that is why I worship him. I tell Mamma I think he is the ideal +writer for young girls, so elevating. And then I thought <i>The Poor +Lady</i> might have been written by Mrs. Eudora Peasely because she +is always so lucid and I came to a sentence which I could not +understand at all. Oh, dear, I have thought of all the living writers +as writing that book and have had to give it up, and of course the +dead ones are out of the question.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Wilbur gravely, and then his +Margaret stood up and took some printed matter from an envelope and +instantly the situation became strangely tense. Men and women turned +eager faces; they could not have told why eager, but they were all +conscious of something unusual in the atmosphere and every expression +upon those expectant faces suddenly changed into one which made them +as a listening unit. Then Margaret began.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter VII</h4> + +<p>Wilbur Edes thought he had never seen his wife look as beautiful +as she did standing there before them all with those fluttering +leaves of paper in her hand. A breeze came in at an opposite window +and Margaret's blue feather tossed in it; her yellow hair crisped and +fluffed and the paper fluttered. Margaret stood for an appreciable +second surveying them all with a most singular expression. It was +compounded of honeyed sweetness, of triumph, and something else more +subtle, the expression of a warrior entering battle and ready for +death, yet terrible with defiance and the purpose of victory, and +death for his foe.</p> + +<p>Then Margaret spoke and her thin silvery voice penetrated to every +ear in the room.</p> + +<p>“Members of the Zenith Club and friends,” said +Margaret, “I take the opportunity offered me to-night to +disclose a secret which is a source of much joy to myself, and which +I am sure will be a source of joy to you also. I trust that since you +are my friends and neighbours and associates in club work, you will +acquit me of the charge of egotism and credit me with my whole +motive, which is, I think, not an unworthy one coming to you in joy, +as I would come in sorrow for your sympathy and understanding. I am +about to read an extract from a book whose success has given me the +most unqualified surprise and delight, knowing as I do that a reading +by an author from her own work always increases the interest even +though she may not be an able expositor by word of mouth of what she +has written.”</p> + +<p>Then Margaret read. She had chosen a short chapter which was in +itself almost a complete little story. She read exceedingly well and +without faltering. People listened with ever-growing amazement. Then +Mrs. Jack Evarts whispered so audibly to a man at her side that she +broke in upon Margaret's clear recitative. “Goodness, she's +reading from that book that is selling so,—<i>The Poor +Lady</i>—I remember every word of that chapter.”</p> + +<p>Then while Margaret continued her reading imperturbably, the +chorus of whispers increased. “That is from <i>The Poor +Lady</i>, yes, it is. Did she write it? Why, of course, she did. She +just said so. Isn't it wonderful that she has done such a +thing?”</p> + +<p>Wilbur Edes sat with his eyes riveted upon his wife's face, his +own gone quite pale, but upon it an expression of surprise and joy so +intense that he looked almost foolish from such a revelation of his +inner self.</p> + +<p>The young girl beside him drove hair pins frantically into her +hair. She twisted up a lock which had strayed and fastened it. She +looked alternately at Wilbur and Margaret.</p> + +<p>“Goodness gracious,” said she, and did not trouble to +whisper. “That is the next to the last chapter of <i>The Poor +Lady</i>. And to think that your wife wrote it! Goodness gracious, +and here she has been living right here in Fairbridge all the time +and folks have been seeing her and talking to her and never knew! Did +you know, Mr. Edes?”</p> + +<p>The young girl fixed her sharp pretty eyes upon Wilbur. +“Never dreamed of it,” he blurted out, “just as +much surprised as any of you.”</p> + +<p>“I don't believe I could have kept such a wonderful thing as +that from my own husband,” said the girl, who was unmarried, +and had no lover. But Wilbur did not hear. All he heard was his +beloved Margaret, who had secretly achieved fame for herself, reading +on and on. He had not the slightest idea what she was reading. He had +no interest whatever in that. All he cared for was the amazing fact +that his wife, his wonderful, beautiful Margaret, had so covered +herself with glory and honour. He had a slightly hurt feeling because +she had not told him until this public revelation. He felt that his +own private joy and pride as her husband should have been perhaps +sacred and respected by her and yet possibly she was right. This +public glory might have seemed to her the one which would the most +appeal to him.</p> + +<p>He had, as he had said, not read the book, but he recalled with a +sort of rapturous tenderness for Margaret how he had seen the posters +all along the railroad as he commuted to the city, and along the +elevated road. His face gazing at Margaret was as beautiful in its +perfectly unselfish pride and affection, as a mother's. To think that +his darling had done such a thing! He longed to be at home alone with +her and say to her what he could not say before all these people. He +thought of a very good reason why she had chosen this occasion to +proclaim her authorship of the famous anonymous novel. She had been +so humiliated, poor child, by the insufferable rudeness of that +Western girl that she naturally wished to make good. And how modest +and unselfish she had been to make the attempt to exalt another +author when she herself was so much greater. Wilbur fully exonerated +Margaret for what she did in the case of Martha Wallingford in the +light of this revelation. His modest, generous, noble wife had +honestly endeavoured to do the girl a favour, to assist her in spite +of herself and she had received nothing save rudeness, ingratitude, +and humiliation in return. Now, she was asserting herself. She was +showing all Fairbridge that she was the one upon whom honour should +be showered. She was showing him and rightfully. He remembered with +compunction his severity toward her on account of the Martha +Wallingford affair, his beautiful, gifted Margaret! Why, even then +she might have electrified that woman's club by making the revelation +which she had won to-night and reading this same selection from her +own book. He had not read Martha Wallingford's <i>Hearts Astray</i>. +He thought that the title was enough for him. He knew that it must be +one of the womanish, hysterical, sentimental type of things which he +despised. But Margaret had been so modest that she had held back from +the turning on the search-light of her own greater glory. She had +made the effort which had resulted so disastrously to obtain a lesser +one, and he had condemned her. He knew that women always used +circuitous ways toward their results, just as men used sledge-hammer +ones. Why should a man criticise a woman's method any more than a +woman criticise a man's? Wilbur, blushing like a girl with pride and +delight, listened to his wife and fairly lashed himself. He was +wholly unworthy of such a woman, he knew.</p> + +<p>When the reading was over and people crowded around Margaret and +congratulated her, he stood aloof. He felt that he could not speak of +this stupendous thing with her until they were alone. Then Doctor +Sturtevant's great bulk pressed against him and his sonorous voice +said in his ear, “By Jove, old man, your wife has drawn a lucky +number. Congratulations.” Wilbur gulped as he thanked him. +Then Sturtevant went on talking about a matter which was rather dear +to Wilbur's own ambition and which he knew had been tentatively +discussed: the advisability of his running for State Senator in the +autumn. Wilbur knew it would be a good thing for him professionally, +and at the bottom of his heart he knew that his wife's success had +been the last push toward his own. Other men came in and began +talking, leading from his wife's success toward his own, until Wilbur +realised himself as dazzled.</p> + +<p>He did not notice what Von Rosen noticed, because he had kept his +attention upon the girl, that Annie Eustace had turned deadly pale +when Margaret had begun her reading and that Alice Mendon who was +seated beside her had slipped an arm around her and quietly and +unobtrusively led her out of the room. Von Rosen thought that Miss +Eustace must have turned faint because of the heat, and was conscious +of a distinct anxiety and disappointment. He had, without directly +acknowledging it to himself, counted upon walking home with Annie +Eustace, but yet he hoped that she might return, that she had not +left the home. When the refreshments were served, he looked for her, +but Annie was long since at Alice Mendon's house in her room. Alice +had hurried her there in her carriage.</p> + +<p>“Come home with me, dear,” she had whispered, +“and we can have a talk together. Your people won't expect you +yet.”</p> + +<p>Therefore, while Karl von Rosen, who had gone to this annual +meeting of the Zenith Club for the sole purpose of walking home with +Annie, waited, the girl sat in a sort of dumb and speechless state in +Alice Mendon's room. It seemed to her like a bad dream. Alice herself +stormed. She had a high temper, but seldom gave way to it. Now she +did. There was something about this which roused her utmost powers of +indignation.</p> + +<p>“It is simply an outrage,” declared Alice, marching up +and down the large room, her rich white gown trailing behind her, her +chin high. “I did not think her capable of it. It is the worst +form of thievery in the world, stealing the work of another's brain. +It is inconceivable that Margaret Edes could have done such a +preposterous thing. I never liked her. I don't care if I do admit it, +but I never thought she was capable of such an utterly ignoble deed. +It was all that I could do to master myself, not to stand up before +them all and denounce her. Well, her time will come.”</p> + +<p>“Alice,” said a ghastly little voice from the stricken +figure on the couch, “are you sure? Am I sure? Was that from my +book?”</p> + +<p>“Of course it was from your book. Why, you know it was from +your book, Annie Eustace,” cried Alice and her voice sounded +high with anger toward poor Annie herself.</p> + +<p>“I hoped that we might be mistaken after all,” said +the voice, which had a bewildered quality. Annie Eustace had a nature +which could not readily grasp some of the evil of humanity. She was +in reality dazed before this. She was ready to believe an untruth +rather than the incredible truth. But Alice Mendon was merciless. She +resolved that Annie should know once for all.</p> + +<p>“We are neither of us mistaken,” she said. +“Margaret Edes read a chapter from your book, <i>The Poor +Lady</i>, and without stating in so many words that she was the +author, she did what was worse. She made everybody think so. Annie, +she is bad, bad, bad. Call the spade a spade and face it. See how +black it is. Margaret Edes has stolen from you your best +treasure.”</p> + +<p>“I don't care for that so much,” said Annie Eustace, +“but—I loved her, Alice.”</p> + +<p>“Then,” said Alice, “she has stolen more than +your book. She has stolen the light by which you wrote it. It is +something hideous, hideous.”</p> + +<p>Annie gave a queer little dry sob. “Margaret could not have +done it,” she moaned.</p> + +<p>Alice crossed swiftly to her and knelt beside her. +“Darling,” she said, “you must face it. It is +better. I do not say so because I do not personally like Margaret +Edes, but you must have courage and face it.”</p> + +<p>“I have not courage enough,” said Annie and she felt +that she had not, for it was one of the awful tasks of the world +which was before her: The viewing the mutilated face of love +itself.</p> + +<p>“You must,” said Alice. She put an arm around the +slight figure and drew the fair head to her broad bosom, her maternal +bosom, which served her friends in good stead, since it did not +pillow the heads of children. Friends in distress are as children to +the women of her type.</p> + +<p>“Darling,” she said in her stately voice from which +the anger had quite gone. “Darling, you must face it. Margaret +did read that chapter from your book and she told, or as good as told +everybody that she had written it.”</p> + +<p>Then Annie sobbed outright and the tears came.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” she cried, “Oh, Alice, how she must want +success to do anything like that, poor, poor Margaret! Oh, +Alice!”</p> + +<p>“How she must love herself,” said Alice firmly. +“Annie, you must face it. Margaret is a self-lover; her whole +heart turns in love toward her own self, instead of toward those whom +she should love and who love her. Annie, Margaret is bad, bad, with a +strange degenerate badness. She dates back to the sins of the First +Garden. You must turn your back upon her. You must not love her any +more.”</p> + +<p>“No, I must not love her any more,” agreed Annie, +“and that is the pity of it. I must not love her, Alice, but I +must pity her until I die. Poor Margaret!”</p> + +<p>“Poor Annie,” said Alice. “You worked so hard +over that book, dear, and you were so pleased. Annie, what shall you +do about it?”</p> + +<p>Annie raised her head from Alice's bosom and sat up straight, with +a look of terror.</p> + +<p>“Alice,” she cried, “I must go to-morrow and see +my publishers. I must go down on my knees to them if +necessary.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean,” asked Alice slowly, “never to +tell?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, never, never, never!” cried Annie.</p> + +<p>“I doubt,” said Alice, “if you can keep such a +matter secret. I doubt if your publishers will consent.”</p> + +<p>“They must. I will never have it known! Poor +Margaret!”</p> + +<p>“I don't pity her at all,” said Alice. “I do +pity her husband who worships her, and there is talk of his running +for State Senator and this would ruin him. And I am sorry for the +children.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody shall ever know,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>“But how can you manage with the publishers?”</p> + +<p>“I don't know. I will.”</p> + +<p>“And you will have written that really wonderful book and +never have the credit for it. You will live here and see Margaret +Edes praised for what you have done.”</p> + +<p>“Poor Margaret,” said Annie. “I must go now. I +know I can trust you never to speak.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, but I do not think it right.”</p> + +<p>“I don't care whether it is right or not,” said Annie. +“It must never be known.”</p> + +<p>“You are better than I am,” said Alice as she rang the +bell, which was presently answered. “Peter has gone home for +the night, Marie said,” Alice told Annie, “but Marie and +I will walk home with you.”</p> + +<p>“Alice, it is only a step.”</p> + +<p>“I know, but it is late.”</p> + +<p>“It is not much after ten, and—I would rather go +alone, if you don't mind, Alice. I want to get settled a little +before Aunt Harriet sees me. I can do it better alone.”</p> + +<p>Alice laughed. “Well,” she said, “Marie and I +will stand on the front porch until you are out of sight from there +and then we will go to the front gate. We can see nearly to your +house and we can hear if you call.”</p> + +<p>It was a beautiful night. The moon was high in a sky which was +perceptibly blue. In the west was still a faint glow, which was like +a memory of a cowslip sunset. The street and the white house-front +were plumy with soft tree shadows wavering in a gentle wind. Annie +was glad when she was alone in the night. She needed a moment for +solitariness and readjustment since one of the strongest +readjustments on earth faced her—the realisation that what she +had loved was not. She did not walk rapidly but lingered along the +road. She was thankful that neither of her aunts had been to the +annual meeting. She would not need to account for her time so +closely. Suddenly she heard a voice, quite a loud voice, a man's, +with a music of gladness in it. Annie knew instinctively whose it +was, and she stepped quickly upon a lawn and stood behind a clump of +trees. A man and woman passed her—Margaret Edes and her +husband—and Wilbur was saying in his glad, loving voice, +“To think you should have done such a thing, Margaret, my dear, +you will never know how proud I am of you.”</p> + +<p>Annie heard Margaret's voice in a whisper hushing Wilbur. +“You speak so loud, dear,” said Margaret, +“everybody will hear you.”</p> + +<p>“I don't care if they do,” said Wilbur. “I +should like to proclaim it from the housetops.” Then they +passed and the rose scent of Margaret's garments was in Annie's face. +She was glad that Margaret had hushed her husband. She argued that it +proved some little sense of shame, but oh, when all alone with her +own husband, she had made no disclaimer. Annie came out from her +hiding and went on. The Edes ahead of her melted into the shadows but +she could still hear Wilbur's glad voice. The gladness in it made her +pity Margaret more. She thought how horrible it must be to deceive +love like that, to hear that joyful tone, and know it all undeserved. +Then suddenly she heard footsteps behind and walked to one side to +allow whoever it was to pass, but a man's voice said: “Good +evening, Miss Eustace,” and Von Rosen had joined her. He had in +truth been waiting like any village beau near Alice Mendon's house +for the chance of her emerging alone.</p> + +<p>Annie felt annoyed, and yet her heart beat strangely.</p> + +<p>“Good evening, Mr. von Rosen,” she said and still +lingered as if to allow him to pass, but he slowed his own pace and +sauntered by her side.</p> + +<p>“A fine evening,” he remarked tritely.</p> + +<p>“Very,” agreed Annie.</p> + +<p>“I saw you at the evening club,” said Von Rosen +presently.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Annie, “I was there.”</p> + +<p>“You left early.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I left quite early with Alice. I have been with her +since.”</p> + +<p>Annie wondered if Mr. von Rosen suspected anything but his next +words convinced her that he did not.</p> + +<p>“I suppose that you were as much surprised as the rest of +us, although you are her intimate friend, at Mrs. Edes' announcement +concerning the authorship of that successful novel,” said +he.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Annie faintly.</p> + +<p>“Of course you had no idea that she had written +it?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Have you read it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“What do you think of it? I almost never read novels but I +suppose I must tackle that one. Did you like it?”</p> + +<p>“Quite well,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>“Tell me what is it all about?”</p> + +<p>Annie could endure no more. “It will spoil the book for you +if I tell you, Mr. von Rosen,” said she, and her voice was at +once firm and piteous. She could not tell the story of her own book +to him. She would be as deceitful as poor Margaret, for all the time +he would think she was talking of Margaret's work and not of her +own.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen laughed. After all he cared very little indeed about the +book. He had what he cared for: a walk home with this very sweet and +very natural girl, who did not seem to care whether he walked home +with her or not.</p> + +<p>“I dare say you are right,” he said, “but I +doubt if your telling me about it would spoil the book for me, +because it is more than probable that I shall never read it after +all. I may if it comes in my way because I was somewhat surprised. I +had never thought of Mrs. Edes as that sort of person. However, so +many novels are written nowadays, and some mighty queer ones are +successful that I presume I should not be surprised. Anybody in +Fairbridge might be the author of a successful novel. You might, Miss +Eustace, for all I know.”</p> + +<p>Annie said nothing.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you are,” said Von Rosen. He had not the +least idea of the thinness of the ice. Annie trembled. Her +truthfulness was as her life. She hated even evasions. Luckily Von +Rosen was so far from suspicion that he did not wait for an +answer.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Edes reads well,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Very well indeed,” returned Annie eagerly.</p> + +<p>“I suppose an author can read more understandingly from her +own work,” said Von Rosen. “Don't you think so, Miss +Eustace?”</p> + +<p>“I think she might,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>“I don't know but I shall read that book after all,” +said Von Rosen. “I rather liked that extract she gave us. It +struck me as out of the common run of women's books. I beg your +pardon, Miss Eustace. If you were a writer yourself I could not speak +so, but you are not, and you must know as well as I do, that many of +the books written by women are simply sloughs of oversweetened +sentiment, and of entirely innocent immorality. But that chapter did +not sound as if it could belong to such a book. It sounded altogether +too logical for the average woman writer. I think I will read it. +Then after I have read it, you will not refuse to discuss it with me, +will you?”</p> + +<p>“I do not think so,” replied Annie tremulously. Would +he never talk of anything except that book? To her relief he did, to +her relief and scarcely acknowledged delight.</p> + +<p>“Are you interested in curios, things from Egyptian tombs, +for instance?” he inquired with brutal masculine disregard of +sequence.</p> + +<p>Annie was bewildered, but she managed to reply that she thought +she might be. She had heard of Von Rosen's very interesting +collection.</p> + +<p>“I happened to meet your aunt, Miss Harriet, this +afternoon,” said Von Rosen, “and I inquired if she were +by any chance interested and she said she was.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Annie. She had never before dreamed that +her Aunt Harriet was in the least interested in Egyptian tombs.</p> + +<p>“I ventured to ask if she and her sister, Miss Susan, and +you also, if you cared to see it, would come some afternoon and look +at my collection,” said Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>Nobody could have dreamed from his casual tone how carefully he +had planned it all out: the visit of Annie and her aunts, the +delicate little tea served in the study, the possible little stroll +with Annie in his garden. Von Rosen knew that one of the aunts, Miss +Harriet, was afflicted with rose cold, and therefore, would probably +not accept his invitation to view his rose-garden, and he also knew +that it was improbable that both sisters would leave their aged +mother. It was, of course, a toss-up as to whether Miss Harriet or +Miss Susan would come. It was also a toss-up as to whether or not +they might both come, and leave little Annie as companion for the old +lady. In fact, he had to admit to himself that the latter contingency +was the more probable. He was well accustomed to being appropriated +by elder ladies, with the evident understanding that he preferred +them. He would simply have to make the best of it and show his +collection as gracefully as possible and leave out the rose-garden +and the delicious little tête-à-tête with this +young rose of a girl and think of something else. For Karl von Rosen +in these days was accustoming himself to a strange visage in his own +mental looking-glass. He had not altered his attitude toward women +but toward one woman, and that one was now sauntering beside him in +the summer moonlight, her fluffy white garments now and then blowing +across his sober garb. He was conscious of holding himself in a very +tight rein. He wondered how long men were usually about their +love-making. He wished to make love that very instant, but he feared +lest the girl might be lost by such impetuosity. In all likelihood, +the thought of love in connection with himself had never entered her +mind. Why should it? Karl in love was very modest and saw himself as +a very insignificant figure. Probably this flower-like young creature +had never thought of love at all. She had lived her sweet simple +village life. She had obeyed her grandmother and her aunts, done her +household tasks and embroidered. He remembered the grimy bit of linen +which he had picked up and he could not see the very slightest +connection between that sort of thing and love and romance. Of +course, she had read a few love stories and the reasoning by analogy +develops in all minds. She might have built a few timid air castles +for herself upon the foundations of the love stories in fiction, and +this brought him around to the fatal subject again almost +inevitably.</p> + +<p>“Do you know, Miss Eustace,” he said, “that I am +wishing a very queer thing about you?”</p> + +<p>“What, Mr. von Rosen?”</p> + +<p>“I am wishing, you know that I would not esteem you more +highly, it is not that, but I am wishing that you also had written a +book, a really good sort of love story, novel, you know.”</p> + +<p>Annie gasped.</p> + +<p>“I don't mean because Mrs. Edes wrote <i>The Poor Lady</i>. +It is not that. I am quite sure that you could have written a book +every whit as good as hers but what I do mean is—I feel that a +woman writer if she writes the best sort of book must obtain a +certain insight concerning human nature which requires a long time +for most women.” Von Rosen was rather mixed, but Annie did not +grasp it. She was very glad that they were nearing her own home. She +could not endure much more.</p> + +<p>“Is <i>The Poor Lady</i> a love story?” inquired Von +Rosen.</p> + +<p>“There is a little love in it,” replied Annie +faintly.</p> + +<p>“I shall certainly read it,” said Von Rosen. He shook +hands with Annie at her gate and wanted to kiss her. She looked up in +his face like an adorably timid, trustful little child and it seemed +almost his duty to kiss her, but he did not. He said good-night and +again mentioned his collection of curios.</p> + +<p>“I hope you will feel inclined to come and see them,” +he said, “with—your aunts.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” replied Annie, “I shall be very +glad to come, if both Aunt Harriet and Aunt Susan do not. That would +of course oblige me to stay with grandmother.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” assented Von Rosen, but he said inwardly, +“Hang Grandmother.”</p> + +<p>In his inmost self, Von Rosen was not a model clergyman. He, +however, had no reason whatever to hang grandmother, but quite the +reverse, although he did not so conclude, as he considered the matter +on his way home. It seemed to him that this darling of a girl was +fairly hedged in by a barbed wire fence of feminine relatives.</p> + +<p>He passed the Edes' house on his way and saw that a number of the +upper windows were still lighted. He even heard a masculine voice +pitched on a high cadence of joy and triumph. He smiled a little +scornfully. “He thinks his wife is the most wonderful woman in +the world,” he told himself, “and I dare say that a novel +is simply like an over-sweetened ice-cream, with an after taste of +pepper, out of sheer deviltry.” Had he known it, Margaret Edes +herself was tasting pepper, mustard and all the fierce condiments +known, in her very soul. It was a singular thing that Margaret had +been obliged to commit an ignoble deed in order to render her soul +capable of tasting to the full, but she had been so constituted. As +Karl von Rosen passed that night, she was sitting in her room, clad +in her white silk negligee and looking adorable, and her husband was +fairly on his knees before her, worshipping her, and she was +suffering after a fashion hitherto wholly uncomprehended by her. +Margaret had never known that she could possibly be to blame for +anything, that she could sit in judgment upon herself. Now she knew +it and the knowledge brought a torture which had been unimaginable by +her. She strove not to make her shrinking from her husband and his +exultation—her terrified shrinking—evident.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Margaret, you are simply wonderful beyond words,” +said Wilbur, gazing up into her face. “I always knew you were +wonderful, of course, darling, but this! Why, Margaret, you have +gained an international reputation from that one book! And the +reviews have been unanimous, almost unanimous in their praise. I have +not read it, dear. I am so ashamed of myself, but you know I never +read novels, but I am going to read my Margaret's novel. Oh, my dear, +my wonderful, wonderful dear!” Wilbur almost sobbed. “Do +you know what it may do for me, too?” he said. “Do you +know, Margaret, it may mean my election as Senator. One can never +tell what may sway popular opinion. Once, if anybody had told me that +I might be elected to office and my election might possibly be due to +the fact that my wife had distinguished myself, I should have been +humbled to the dust. But I cannot be humbled by any success which may +result from your success. I did not know my wonderful Margaret +then.” Wilbur kissed his wife's hands. He was almost +ridiculous, but it was horribly tragic for Margaret.</p> + +<p>She longed as she had never longed for anything in her life, for +the power to scream, to shout in his ears the truth, but she could +not. She was bound hard and fast in the bands of her own falsehood. +She could not so disgrace her husband, her children. Why had she not +thought of them before? She had thought only of herself and her own +glory, and that glory had turned to stinging bitterness upon her +soul. She was tasting the bitterest medicine which life and the whole +world contains. And at the same time, it was not remorse that she +felt. That would have been easier. What she endured was +self-knowledge. The reflection of one's own character under unbiased +cross-lights is a hideous thing for a self-lover. She was thinking, +while she listened to Wilbur's rhapsodies. Finally she scarcely heard +him. Then her attention was suddenly keenly fixed. There were +horrible complications about this which she had not considered. +Margaret's mind had no business turn. She had not for a moment +thought of the financial aspect of the whole. Wilbur was different. +What he was now saying was very noble, but very disconcerting. +“Of course, I know, darling, that all this means a pile of +money, but one thing you must remember: it is for yourself alone. Not +one penny of it will I ever touch and more than that it is not to +interfere in the least with my expenditures for you, my wife, and the +children. Everything of that sort goes on as before. You have the +same allowance for yourself and the children as before. Whatever +comes from your book is your own to do with as you choose. I do not +even wish you to ask my advice about the disposal of it.”</p> + +<p>Margaret was quite pale as she looked at him. She remembered now +the sum which Annie had told her she was to receive. She made no +disclaimer. Her lips felt stiff. While Wilbur wished for no +disclaimer, she could yet see that he was a little surprised at +receiving none, but she could not speak. She merely gazed at him in a +helpless sort of fashion. The grapes which hung over her friend's +garden wall were not very simple. They were much beside grapes. +Wilbur returned her look pityingly.</p> + +<p>“Poor girl,” he said, kissing her hands again; +“she is all tired out and I must let her go to bed. Standing on +a pedestal is rather tiresome, if it is gratifying, isn't it, +sweetheart?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Margaret, with a weary sigh from her +heart. How little the poor man knew of the awful torture of standing +upon the pedestal of another, and at the same time holding before +one's eyes that looking-glass with all the cross-lights of existence +full upon it!</p> + +<p>Margaret went to bed, but she could not sleep. All night long she +revolved the problem of how she should settle the matter with Annie +Eustace. She did not for a second fear Annie's betrayal, but there +was that matter of the publishers. Would they be content to allow +matters to rest?</p> + +<p>The next morning Margaret endeavoured to get Annie on the +telephone but found that she had gone to New York. Annie's Aunt +Harriet replied. She herself had sent the girl on several +errands.</p> + +<p>Margaret could only wait. She feared lest Annie might not return +before Wilbur and in such a case she could not discuss matters with +her before the next day. Margaret had a horrible time during the next +six hours. The mail was full of letters of congratulation. A local +reporter called to interview her. She sent word that she was out, but +he was certain that he had seen her. The children heard the news and +pestered her with inquiries about her book and wondering looks at +her. Callers came in the afternoon and it was all about her book. +Nobody could know how relieved she was after hearing the four-thirty +train, to see little Annie Eustace coming through her gate. Annie +stood before her stiffly. The day was very warm and the girl looked +tired and heated.</p> + +<p>“No, thank you,” she said, “I can not sit down. +I only stopped to tell you that I have arranged with the publishers. +They will keep the secret. I shall have rather a hard task arranging +about the checks, because I fear it will involve a little deceit and +I do not like deceit.”</p> + +<p>Annie, as she spoke, looked straight at Margaret and there was +something terrible in that clear look of unsoiled truth. Margaret put +out a detaining hand.</p> + +<p>“Sit down for a minute, please,” she said cringingly. +“I want to explain?”</p> + +<p>“There is nothing whatever to explain,” replied Annie. +“I heard.”</p> + +<p>“Can you ever forgive me?”</p> + +<p>“I do not think,” said Annie, “that this is an +ordinary offence about which to talk of forgiveness. I do pity you, +Margaret, for I realise how dreadfully you must have wanted what did +not belong to you.”</p> + +<p>Margaret winced. “Well, if it is any satisfaction to you, I +am realising nothing but misery from it,” she said in a low +voice.</p> + +<p>“I don't see how you can help that,” replied Annie +simply. Then she went away.</p> + +<p>It proved Margaret's unflinching trust in the girl and Annie's +recognition of no possibility except that trust, that no request nor +promise as to secrecy had been made. Annie, after she got home, +almost forgot the whole for a time, since her Aunt Harriet, and Aunt +Harriet was the sister who was subject to rose-colds, announced her +determination to call at Mr. von Rosen's the next afternoon with +Annie and see his famous collection.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said she, “the invitation was meant +particularly for me, since I am one of his parishioners, and I think +it will be improving to you, Annie, to view antiquities.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Harriet,” said Annie. She was wondering if +she would be allowed to wear her pale blue muslin and the turquoise +necklace which was a relic of her grandmother's girlhood. Aunt Susan +sniffed delicately.</p> + +<p>“I will stay with Mother,” she said with a virtuous +air.</p> + +<p>The old lady, stately in her black satin, with white diamonds +gleaming on her veinous hands, glanced acutely at them. The next day, +when her daughter Harriet insisted that the cross barred muslin was +not too spoiled to wear to the inspection of curios, she declared +that it was simply filthy, and that Annie must wear her blue, and +that the little string of turquoise beads was not in the least too +dressy for the occasion.</p> + +<p>It therefore happened that Annie and her Aunt Harriet set forth at +three o'clock in the afternoon, Annie in blue, and her aunt in thin +black grenadine with a glitter of jet and a little black bonnet with +a straight tuft of green rising from a little wobble of jet, and a +black-fringed parasol tilted well over her eyes. Annie's charming +little face was framed in a background of white parasol. Margaret saw +them pass as she sat on her verandah. She had received more +congratulatory letters that day, and the thief envied the one from +whom she had taken. Annie bowed to Margaret, and her Aunt Harriet +said something about the heat, in a high shrill voice.</p> + +<p>“She is a wonderful woman, to have written that successful +novel,” said Aunt Harriet, “and I am going to write her a +congratulatory note, now you have bought that stationery at +Tiffany's. I feel that such a subject demands special paper. She is a +wonderful woman and her family have every reason to be proud of +her.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>“It is rather odd, and I have often thought so,” said +Aunt Harriet, moving alongside with stately sweeps of black skirts, +“that you have shown absolutely no literary taste. As you know, +I have often written poetry, of course not for publication, and my +friends have been so good as to admire it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Aunt Harriet,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>“I realise that you have never appreciated my poems,” +said Aunt Harriet tartly.</p> + +<p>“I don't think I understand poetry very well,” little +Annie said with meekness.</p> + +<p>“It does require a peculiar order of mind, and you have +never seemed to me in the least poetical or imaginative,” said +her aunt in an appeased voice. “For instance, I could not +imagine your writing a book like Mrs. Edes, and <i>The Poor Lady</i> +was anonymous, and anybody might have written it as far as one knew. +But I should never have imagined her for a moment as capable of doing +it.”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>Then they had come to the parsonage and Jane Riggs, as rigid as +starched linen could make a human being, admitted them, and presently +after a little desultory conversation, the collection, which was +really a carefully made one, and exceedingly good and interesting, +was being displayed. Then came the charming little tea which Von +Rosen had planned; then the suggestion with regard to the rose-garden +and Aunt Harriet's terrified refusal, knowing as she knew the agony +of sneezes and sniffs sure to follow its acceptance; and then Annie, +a vision in blue, was walking among the roses with Von Rosen and both +were saying things which they never could remember +afterward—about things in which neither had the very slightest +interest. It was only when they had reached the end of the pergola, +trained over with climbers, and the two were seated on a rustic bench +therein, that the conversation to be remembered began.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter VIII</h4> + +<p>The conversation began, paradoxically, with a silence. Otherwise, +it would have begun with platitudes. Since neither Von Rosen nor +Annie Eustace were given usually to platitudes, the silence was +unavoidable. Both instinctively dreaded with a pleasurable dread the +shock of speech. In a way this was the first time the two had been +alone with any chance of a seclusion protracted beyond a very few +minutes. In the house was Aunt Harriet Eustace, who feared a rose, as +she might have feared the plague, and, moreover, as Annie comfortably +knew, had imparted the knowledge to Von Rosen as they had walked down +the pergola, that she would immediately fall asleep.</p> + +<p>“Aunt Harriet always goes to sleep in her chair after a cup +of tea,” Annie had said and had then blushed redly.</p> + +<p>“Does she?” asked Von Rosen with apparent +absent-mindedness but in reality, keenly. He excused himself for a +moment, left Annie standing in the pergola and hurried back to the +house, where he interviewed Jane Riggs, and told her not to make any +noise, as Miss Eustace in the library would probably fall asleep, as +was her wont after a cup of tea. Jane Riggs assented, but she looked +after him with a long, slow look. Then she nodded her head stiffly +and went on washing cups and saucers quietly. She spoke only one +short sentence to herself. “He's a man and it's got to be +somebody. Better be her than anybody else.”</p> + +<p>When the two at the end of the pergola began talking, it was +strangely enough about the affair of the Syrian girl.</p> + +<p>“I suppose, have always supposed, that the poor young +thing's husband came and stole his little son,” said Von +Rosen.</p> + +<p>“You would have adopted him?” asked Annie in a shy +voice.</p> + +<p>“I think I would not have known any other course to +take,” replied Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>“It was very good of you,” Annie said. She cast a +little glance of admiration at him.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen laughed. “It is not goodness which counts to one's +credit when one is simply chucked into it by Providence,” he +returned.</p> + +<p>Annie laughed. “To think of your speaking of Providence as +‘chucking.’”</p> + +<p>“It is rather awful,” admitted Von Rosen, “but +somehow I never do feel as if I need be quite as straight-laced with +you.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. von Rosen, you have talked with me exactly twice, and I +am at a loss as to whether I should consider that remark of yours as +a compliment or not.”</p> + +<p>“I meant it for one,” said Von Rosen earnestly. +“I should not have used that expression. What I meant was I +felt that I could be myself with you, and not weigh words or split +hairs. A clergyman has to do a lot of that, you know, Miss Eustace, +and sometimes (perhaps all the time) he hates it; it makes him feel +like a hypocrite.”</p> + +<p>“Then it is all right,” said Annie rather vaguely. She +gazed up at the weave of leaves and blossoms, then down at the +wavering carpet of their shadows.</p> + +<p>“It is lovely here,” she said.</p> + +<p>The young man looked at the slender young creature in the blue +gown and smiled with utter content.</p> + +<p>“It is very odd,” he said, “but nothing except +blue and that particular shade of blue would have +harmonised.”</p> + +<p>“I should have said green or pink.”</p> + +<p>“They would surely have clashed. If you can't melt into +nature, it is much safer to try for a discord. You are much surer to +chord. That blue does chord, and I doubt if a green would not have +been a sort of swear word in colour here.”</p> + +<p>“I am glad you like it,” said Annie like a school +girl. She felt very much like one.</p> + +<p>“I like you,” Von Rosen said abruptly.</p> + +<p>Annie said nothing. She sat very still.</p> + +<p>“No, I don't like you. I love you,” said Von +Rosen.</p> + +<p>“How can you? You have talked with me only twice.”</p> + +<p>“That makes no difference with me. Does it with +you?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Annie, “but I am not at all sure +about—”</p> + +<p>“About what, dear?”</p> + +<p>“About what my aunts and grandmother will say.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think they will object to me?”</p> + +<p>“No-o.”</p> + +<p>“What is it makes you doubtful? I have a little fortune of +my own. I have an income besides my salary. I can take care of you. +They can trust you to me.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked at him with a quick flush of resentment. “As if +I would even think of such a thing as that!”</p> + +<p>“What then?”</p> + +<p>“You will laugh, but grandmother is very old, although she +sits up so straight, and she depends on me, and—”</p> + +<p>“And what?”</p> + +<p>“If I married you, I could not, of course, play pinocle with +grandmother on Sunday.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, you could. I most certainly should not +object.”</p> + +<p>“Then that makes it hopeless.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen looked at her in perplexity. “I am afraid I don't +understand you, dear little soul.”</p> + +<p>“No, you do not. You see, grandmother is in reality very +good, almost too good to live, and thinking she is being a little +wicked playing pinocle on Sunday when Aunt Harriet and Aunt Susan +don't know it, sort of keeps her going. I don't just know why myself, +but I am sure of it. Now the minute she was sure that you, who are +the minister, did not object, she would not care a bit about pinocle +and it would hurt her.”</p> + +<p>Annie looked inconceivably young. She knitted her candid brows and +stared at him with round eyes of perplexity. Karl von Rosen shouted +with laughter.</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, if that is all,” he said, “I object +strenuously to your playing pinocle with your grandmother on Sunday. +The only way you can manage will be to play hookey from +church.”</p> + +<p>“I need not do that always,” said Annie. “My +aunts take naps Sunday afternoons, but I am sure grandmother could +keep awake if she thought she could be wicked.”</p> + +<p>“Well, you can either play hookey from church, or run away +Sunday afternoons, or if you prefer and she is able, I will drive +your grandmother over here and you can play pinocle in my +study.”</p> + +<p>“Then I do think she will live to be a hundred,” said +Annie with a peal of laughter.</p> + +<p>“Stop laughing and kiss me,” said Von Rosen.</p> + +<p>“I seldom kiss anybody.”</p> + +<p>“That is the reason.”</p> + +<p>When Annie looked up from her lover's shoulder, a pair of topaz +eyes were mysteriously regarding her.</p> + +<p>“The cat never saw me kiss anybody,” said Von +Rosen.</p> + +<p>“Do you think the cat knows?” asked Annie, blushing +and moving away a little.</p> + +<p>“Who knows what any animal knows or does not know?” +replied Von Rosen. “When we discover that mystery, we may have +found the key to existence.”</p> + +<p>Then the cat sprang into Annie's blue lap and she stroked his +yellow back and looked at Von Rosen with eyes suddenly reflective, +rather coolly.</p> + +<p>“After all, I, nor nobody else, ever heard of such a thing +as this,” said she. “Do you mean that you consider this +an engagement?” she asked in astonishment.</p> + +<p>“I most certainly do.”</p> + +<p>“After we have only really seen and talked to each other +twice!”</p> + +<p>“It has been all our lives and we have just found it +out,” said Von Rosen. “Of course, it is unusual, but who +cares? Do you?”</p> + +<p>“No, I don't,” said Annie. They leaned together over +the yellow cat and kissed each other.</p> + +<img src="images/bh3.jpg" width="725" height="1098" +alt="[Illustration: They leaned together over the yellow cat and +kissed each other]"> + +<p>“But what an absurd minister's wife I shall be,” said +Annie. “To think of your marrying a girl who has staid at home +from church and played cards with her grandmother!”</p> + +<p>“I am not at all sure,” said Von Rosen, “that +you do not get more benefit, more spiritual benefit, than you would +have done from my sermons.”</p> + +<p>“I think,” said Annie, “that you are just about +as funny a minister as I shall be a minister's wife.”</p> + +<p>“I never thought I should be married at all.”</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“I did not care for women.”</p> + +<p>“Then why do you now?”</p> + +<p>“Because you are a woman.”</p> + +<p>Then there was a sudden movement in front of them. The +leaf-shadows flickered; the cat jumped down from Annie's lap and ran +away, his great yellow plume of tail waving angrily, and Margaret +Edes stood before them. She was faultlessly dressed as usual. A woman +of her type cannot be changed utterly by force of circumstances in a +short time. Her hat was loaded with wisteria. She wore a wisteria +gown of soft wool. She held up her skirts daintily. A great amethyst +gleamed at her throat, but her face, wearing a smile like a painted +one, was dreadful. It was inconceivable, but Margaret Edes had +actually in view the banality of confessing her sin to her minister. +Of course, Annie was the one who divined her purpose. Von Rosen was +simply bewildered. He rose, and stood with an air of polite +attention.</p> + +<p>“Margaret,” cried Annie, “Margaret!”</p> + +<p>The man thought that his sweetheart was simply embarrassed, +because of discovery. He did not understand why she bade him +peremptorily to please go in the house and see if Aunt Harriet were +awake, that she wished to speak to Mrs. Edes. He, however, went as +bidden, already discovering that man is as a child to a woman when +she is really in earnest.</p> + +<p>When he was quite out of hearing, Annie turned upon her friend. +“Margaret,” she said, “Margaret, you must +not.”</p> + +<p>Margaret turned her desperate eyes upon Annie. “I did not +know it would be like this,” she said.</p> + +<p>“You must not tell him.”</p> + +<p>“I must.”</p> + +<p>“You must not, and all the more now.”</p> + +<p>“Why, now?”</p> + +<p>“I am going to marry him.”</p> + +<p>“Then he ought to know.”</p> + +<p>“Then he ought not to know, for you have drawn me into your +web of deceit also. He has talked to me about you and the book. I +have not betrayed you. You cannot betray me.”</p> + +<p>“It will kill me. I did not know it would be like this. I +never blamed myself for anything before.”</p> + +<p>“It will not kill you, and if it does, you must bear it. You +must not do your husband and children such an awful harm.”</p> + +<p>“Wilbur is nominated for Senator. He would have to give it +up. He would go away from Fairbridge. He is very proud,” said +Margaret in a breathless voice, “but I must tell.”</p> + +<p>“You cannot tell.”</p> + +<p>“The children talk of it all the time. They look at me so. +They wonder because they think I have written that book. They tell +all the other children. Annie, I must confess to somebody. I did not +know it would be like this.”</p> + +<p>“You cannot confess to anybody except God,” said +Annie.</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell my husband. I cannot tell poor Wilbur, but I +thought Mr. von Rosen would tell him.”</p> + +<p>“You can not tell Mr. von Rosen. You have done an awful +wrong, and now you can not escape the fact that you have done it. You +cannot get away from it.”</p> + +<p>“You are so hard.”</p> + +<p>“No, I am not hard,” said Annie. “I did not +betray you there before them all, and neither did Alice.”</p> + +<p>“Did Alice Mendon know?” asked Margaret in an awful +voice.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I had told Alice. She was so hurt for me that I think +she might have told.”</p> + +<p>“Then she may tell now. I will go to her.”</p> + +<p>“She will not tell now. And I am not hard. It is you who are +hard upon yourself and that nobody, least of all I, can help. You +will have to know this dreadful thing of yourself all your life and +you can never stop blaming yourself. There is no way out of it. You +can not ruin your husband. You can not ruin your children's future +and you cannot, after the wrong you have done me, put me in the +wrong, as you would do if you told. By telling the truth, you would +put me to the lie, when I kept silence for your sake and the sakes of +your husband and children.”</p> + +<p>“I did not know it would be like this,” said Margaret +in her desperate voice. “I had done nothing worth doing all my +life and the hunger to do something had tormented me. It seemed easy, +I did not know how I could blame myself. I have always thought so +well of myself; I did not know. Annie, for God's sake, let me tell. +You can't know how keenly I suffer, Annie. Let me tell Mr. von Rosen. +People always tell ministers. Even if he does not tell Wilbur, but +perhaps he can tell him and soften it, it would be a relief. People +always tell ministers, Annie.”</p> + +<p>It seemed improbable that Margaret Edes in her wisteria costume +could be speaking. Annie regarded her with almost horror. She pitied +her, yet she could not understand. Margaret had done something of +which she herself was absolutely incapable. She had the right to +throw the stone. She looked at a sinner whose sin was beyond her +comprehension. She pitied the evident signs of distress, but her +pity, although devoid of anger, was, in spite of herself, coldly +wondering. Moreover, Margaret had been guilty in the eyes of the girl +of a much worse sin than the mere thievery of her book; she had +murdered love. Annie had loved Margaret greatly. No, she loved her no +longer, since the older woman had actually blasphemed against the +goddess whom the girl had shrined. Had Margaret stolen from another, +it would have made no difference. The mere act had destroyed herself +as an image of love. Annie, especially now that she was so happy, +cared nothing for the glory of which she had been deprived. She had, +in truth, never had much hunger for fame, especially for herself. She +did not care when she thought how pleased her lover would have been +and her relatives, but already the plan for another book was in her +brain, for the child was a creator, and no blow like this had any +lasting power over her work. What she considered was Margaret's +revelation of herself as something else than Margaret, and what she +did resent bitterly was being forced into deception in order to +shield her. She was in fact hard, although she did not know it. Her +usually gentle nature had become like adamant before this. She felt +unlike herself as she said bitterly:</p> + +<p>“People do not always tell ministers, and you cannot tell +Mr. von Rosen, Margaret. I forbid it. Go home and keep +still.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot bear it.”</p> + +<p>“You must bear it.”</p> + +<p>“They are going to give me a dinner, the Zenith Club,” +said Margaret.</p> + +<p>“You will have to accept it.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot, Annie Eustace, of what do you think me capable? I +am not as bad as you think. I cannot and will not accept that dinner +and make the speech which they will expect and hear all the +congratulations which they will offer. I cannot.”</p> + +<p>“You must accept the dinner, but I don't see that you need +make the speech,” said Annie, who was herself aghast over such +extremity of torture.</p> + +<p>“I will not,” said Margaret. She was very pale and her +lips were a tight line. Her eyes were opaque and lustreless. She was +in reality suffering what a less egotistical nature could not even +imagine. All her life had Margaret Edes worshipped and loved Margaret +Edes. Now she had done an awful thing. The falling from the pedestal +of a friend is nothing to hurling oneself from one's height of +self-esteem and that she had done. She stood, as it were, over the +horrible body of her once beautiful and adored self. She was not +actually remorseful and that made it all the worse. She simply could +not evade the dreadful glare of light upon her own imperfections; she +who had always thought of herself as perfect, but the glare of +knowledge came mostly from her appreciation of the attitude of her +friends and lovers toward what she had done. Suppose she went home +and told Wilbur. Suppose she said, “I did not write that book. +My friend, Annie Eustace, wrote it. I am a thief, and worse than a +thief.” She knew just how he would look at her, his wife, his +Margaret, who had never done wrong in his eyes. For the first time in +her life she was afraid, and yet how could she live and bear such +torture and not confess? Confession would be like a person ill unto +death, giving up, and seeking the peace of a sick chamber and the +rest of bed and the care of a physician. She had come to feel like +that and yet, confession would be like a fiery torture. Margaret had +in some almost insane fashion come to feel that she might confess to +a minister, a man of God, and ease her soul, without more. And she +had never been religious, and would have formerly smiled in serene +scorn at her own state of mind. And here was the other woman whom she +had wronged, forbidding her this one little possibility of +comfort.</p> + +<p>She said again humbly, “Let me tell him, Annie. He will only +think the more of you because you shielded me.”</p> + +<p>But Annie was full of scorn which Margaret could not understand +since her nature was not so fine. “Do you think I wish him +to?” she said, but in a whisper because she heard voices and +footsteps. “You cannot tell him, Margaret.”</p> + +<p>Then Von Rosen and Aunt Harriet, whose eyes were dim with recent +sleep, came in sight, and Harriet Eustace, who had not seen Margaret +since the club meeting, immediately seized upon her two hands and +kissed her and congratulated her.</p> + +<p>“You dear, wonderful creature,” she said, “we +are all so proud of you. Fairbridge is so proud of you and as for us, +we can only feel honoured that our little Annie has such a friend. We +trust that she will profit by your friendship and we realise that it +is such a privilege for her.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Margaret. She turned her head aside. +It was rather dreadful, and Annie realised it.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen stood by smiling. “I am glad to join in the +congratulations,” he said. “In these days of many books, +it is a great achievement to have one singled out for special notice. +I have not yet had the pleasure of reading the book, but shall +certainly have it soon.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you,” said Margaret again.</p> + +<p>“She should give you an autograph copy,” said Harriet +Eustace.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Margaret. She drew aside Annie and +whispered, “I shall tell my husband then. I shall.”</p> + +<p>Then she bade them good afternoon in her usually graceful way; +murmured something about a little business which she had with Annie +and flitted down the pergola in a cloud of wisteria.</p> + +<p>“It does seem wonderful,” said Harriet Eustace, +“that she should have written that book.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen glanced at Annie with an inquiring expression. He +wondered whether she wished him to announce their engagement to her +aunt. The amazing suddenness of it all had begun to daunt him. He was +in considerable doubt as to what Miss Harriet Eustace, who was a most +conservative lady, who had always done exactly the things which a +lady under similar circumstances might be expected to do, who always +said the things to be expected, would say to this, which must, of +course, savour very much of the unexpected. Von Rosen was entirely +sure that Miss Harriet Eustace would be scarcely able to conceive of +a marriage engagement of her niece especially with a clergyman +without all the formal preliminaries of courtship, and he knew well +that preliminaries had hardly existed, in the usual sense of the +term. He felt absurdly shy, and he was very much relieved when +finally Miss Harriet and Annie took their leave and he had said +nothing about the engagement. Miss Harriet said a great deal about +his most interesting and improving collection. She was a woman of a +patronising turn of mind and she made Von Rosen feel like a little +boy.</p> + +<p>“I especially appreciate the favour for the sake of my +niece,” she said. “It is so desirable for the minds of +the young to be improved.” Von Rosen murmured a polite +acquiescence. She had spoken of his tall, lovely girl as if she were +in short skirts. Miss Harriet continued:</p> + +<p>“When I consider what Mrs. Edes has done,” she +said,—“written a book which has made her famous, I +realise how exceedingly important it is for the minds of the young to +be improved. It is good for Annie to know Mrs. Edes so intimately, I +think.”</p> + +<p>For the first time poor Annie was conscious of a distinct sense of +wrath. Here she herself had written that book and her mind, in order +to have written it, must be every whit as improved as Margaret Edes' +and her Aunt Harriet was belittling her before her lover. It was a +struggle to maintain silence, especially as her aunt went on talking +in a still more exasperating manner.</p> + +<p>“I always considered Mrs. Wilbur Edes as a very unusual +woman,” said she, “but of course, this was unexpected. I +am so thankful that Annie has the great honour of her friendship. Of +course, Annie can never do what Mrs. Edes has done. She herself knows +that she lacks talent and also concentration. Annie, you know you +have never finished that daisy centre piece which you begun surely +six months ago. I am quite sure that Mrs. Edes would have finished it +in a week.”</p> + +<p>Annie did lose patience at that. “Margaret just loathes +fancy work, Aunt Harriet,” said she. “She would never +even have begun that centre piece.”</p> + +<p>“It is much better never to begin a piece of work than never +to finish it,” replied Aunt Harriet, “and Mrs. Edes, my +dear, has been engaged in much more important work. If you had +written a book which had made you famous, no one could venture to +complain of your lack of industry with regard to the daisy centre +piece. But I am sure that Mrs. Edes, in order to have written that +book of which everybody is talking, must have displayed much industry +and concentration in all the minor matters of life. I think you must +be mistaken, my dear. I am quite sure that Mrs. Edes has not +neglected work.”</p> + +<p>Annie made no rejoinder, but her aunt did not seem to notice +it.</p> + +<p>“I am so thankful, Mr. von Rosen,” said she, +“that my niece has the honour of being counted among the +friends of such a remarkable woman. May I inquire if Mrs. Edes has +ever seen your really extraordinary collection, Mr. von +Rosen.”</p> + +<p>“No, she has not seen it,” replied Von Rosen, and he +looked annoyed. Without in the least understanding the real trend of +the matter, he did not like to hear his sweetheart addressed after +such a fashion, even though he had no inkling of the real state of +affairs. To his mind, this exquisite little Annie, grimy daisy centre +piece and all, had accomplished much more in simply being herself, +than had Margaret Edes with her much blazoned book.</p> + +<p>“I trust that she will yet see it,” said Miss Harriet +Eustace. Harriet Eustace was tall, dull skinned and wide mouthed, and +she had a fashion, because she had been told from childhood that her +mouth was wide, of constantly puckering it as if she were eating +alum.</p> + +<p>“I shall be of course pleased to show Mrs. Edes my +collection at any time,” said Von Rosen politely.</p> + +<p>“I hope she will see it,” said Harriet, puckering, +“it is so improving, and if anything is improving to the +ordinary mind, what must it be to the mind of genius?”</p> + +<p>The two took leave then, Annie walking behind her aunt. The +sidewalk which was encroached upon by grass was very narrow. Annie +did not speak at all. She heard her aunt talking incessantly without +realising the substance of what she said. Her own brain was +overwhelmed with bewilderment and happiness. Here was she, Annie +Eustace, engaged to be married and to the right man. The combination +was astounding. Annie had been conscious ever since she had first +seen him, that Karl von Rosen dwelt at the back of her thoughts, but +she was rather a well disciplined girl. She had not allowed herself +the luxury of any dreams concerning him and herself. She had not +considered the possibility of his caring for her, not because she +underestimated herself, but because she overestimated him. Now, she +knew he cared, he cared, and he wanted to marry her, to make her his +wife. After she had reached home, when they were seated at the tea +table, she did not think of telling anybody. She ate and felt as if +she were in a blissful crystal sphere of isolation. It did not occur +to her to reveal her secret until she went into her grandmother's +room rather late to bid her good night. Annie had been sitting by +herself on the front piazza and allowing herself a perfect feast in +future air-castles. She could see from where she sat, the lights from +the windows of the Edes' house, and she heard Wilbur's voice, and now +and then his laugh. Margaret's voice, she never heard at all. Annie +went into the chamber, the best in the house, and there lay her +grandmother, old Ann Maria Eustace, propped up in bed, reading a +novel which was not allowed in the Fairbridge library. She had bidden +Annie buy it for her, when she last went to New York.</p> + +<p>“I wouldn't ask a girl to buy such a book,” the old +lady had said, “but nobody will know you and I have read so +many notices about its wickedness, I want to see it for +myself.”</p> + +<p>Now she looked up when Annie entered. “It is not wicked at +all,” she said in rather a disappointed tone. “It is much +too dull. In order to make a book wicked, it must be, at least, +somewhat entertaining. The writer speaks of wicked things, but in +such a very moral fashion that it is all like a sermon. I don't like +the book at all. At the same time a girl like you had better not read +it and you had better see that Harriet and Susan don't get a glimpse +of it. They would be set into fits. It is a strange thing that both +my daughters should be such old maids to the bone and marrow. You can +read it though if you wish, Annie. I doubt if you understand the +wickedness anyway, and I don't want you to grow up straight-laced +like Harriet and Susan. It is really a misfortune. They lose a +lot.”</p> + +<p>Then Annie spoke. “I shall not be an old maid, I +think,” said she. “I am going to be married.”</p> + +<p>“Married! Who is going to marry you? I haven't seen a man in +this house except the doctor and the minister for the last twenty +years.”</p> + +<p>“I am going to marry the minister, Mr. von Rosen.”</p> + +<p>“Lord,” said Annie's grandmother, and stared at her. +She was a queer looking old lady propped up on a flat pillow with her +wicked book. She had removed the front-piece which she wore by day +and her face showed large and rosy between the frills of her night +cap. Her china blue eyes were exceedingly keen and bright. Her mouth +as large as her daughter Harriet's, not puckered at all, but frankly +open in an alarming slit, in her amazement.</p> + +<p>“When for goodness sake has the man courted you?” she +burst forth at last.</p> + +<p>“I don't know.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don't know, if you don't. You haven't been meeting +him outside the house. No, you have not. You are a lady, if you have +been brought up by old maids, who tell lies about spades.”</p> + +<p>“I did not know until this afternoon,” said Annie. +“Mr. von Rosen and I went out to see his rose-garden, while +Aunt Harriet—”</p> + +<p>Then the old lady shook the bed with mirth.</p> + +<p>“I see,” said she. “Harriet is scared to death +of roses and she went to sleep in the house and you got your chance. +Good for you. I am thankful the Eustace family won't quite sputter +out in old maids.” The old lady continued to chuckle. Annie +feared lest her aunts might hear. Beside the bed stood a table with +the collection of things which was Ann Maria Eustace's nightly +requirement. There were a good many things. First was a shaded +reading lamp, then a candle and a matchbox; there was a plate of thin +bread and butter carefully folded in a napkin. A glass of milk, +covered with a glass dish; two bottles of medicine; two spoons; a +saucer of sugared raspberries; exactly one square inch of American +cheese on a tiny plate; a pitcher of water, carefully covered; a +tumbler; a glass of port wine and a bottle of camphor. Old Ann Maria +Eustace took most of her sustenance at night. Night was really her +happy time. When that worn, soft old bulk of hers was ensconsed among +her soft pillows and feather bed and she had her eatables and +drinkables and literature at hand, she was in her happiest mood and +she was none the less happy from the knowledge that her daughters +considered that any well conducted old woman should have beside her +bed, merely a stand with a fair linen cloth, a glass of water, a +candle and the Good Book, and that if she could not go immediately to +sleep, she should lie quietly and say over texts and hymns to +herself. All Ann Maria's spice of life was got from a hidden +antagonism to her daughters and quietly flying in the face of their +prejudices, and she was the sort of old lady who could hardly have +lived at all without spice.</p> + +<p>“Your Aunt Harriet will be hopping,” said the perverse +old lady with another chuckle.</p> + +<p>“Why, grandmother?”</p> + +<p>“Harriet has had an eye on him herself.”</p> + +<p>Annie gasped. “Aunt Harriet must be at least twenty-five +years older,” said she.</p> + +<p>“Hm,” said the old lady, “that doesn't amount to +anything. Harriet didn't put on her pearl breast-pin and crimp her +hair unless she had something in her mind. Susan has given up, but +Harriet hasn't given up.”</p> + +<p>Annie still looked aghast.</p> + +<p>“When are you going to get married?” asked the old +lady.</p> + +<p>“I don't know.”</p> + +<p>“Haven't settled that yet? Well, when you do, there's the +white satin embroidered with white roses that I was married in and my +old lace veil. I think he's a nice young man. All I have against him +is his calling. You will have to go to meeting whether you want to or +not and listen to the same man's sermons. But he is good looking and +they say he has money, and anyway, the Eustaces won't peter out in +old maids. There's one thing I am sorry about. Sunday is going to be +a pretty long day for me, after you are married, and I suppose +before. If you are going to marry that man, I suppose you will have +to begin going to meeting at once.”</p> + +<p>Then Annie spoke decidedly. “I am always going to play +pinocle with you Sunday forenoons as long as you live, +grandmother,” said she.</p> + +<p>“After you are married?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am.”</p> + +<p>“After you are married to a minister?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, grandmother.”</p> + +<p>The old lady sat up straight and eyed Annie with her delighted +china blue gaze.</p> + +<p>“Mr. von Rosen is a lucky man,” said she. +“Enough sight luckier than he knows. You are just like me, +Annie Eustace, and your grandfather set his eyes by me as long as he +lived. A good woman who has sense enough not to follow all the rules +and precepts and keep good, isn't found every day, and she can hold a +man and holding a man is about as tough a job as the Almighty ever +set a woman. I've got a pearl necklace and a ring in the bank. +Harriet has always wanted them but what is the use of a born old maid +decking herself out? I always knew Harriet and Susan would be old +maids. Why, they would never let their doll-babies be seen without +all their clothes on, seemed to think there was something indecent +about cotton cloth legs stuffed with sawdust. When you see a little +girl as silly as that you can always be sure she is cut out for an +old maid. I don't care when you get married—just as soon as you +want to—and you shall have a pretty wedding and you shall have +your wedding cake made after my old recipe. You are a good girl, +Annie. You look like me. You are enough sight better than you would +be if you were better, and you can make what you can out of that. +Now, you must go to bed. You haven't told Harriet and Susan yet, have +you?”</p> + +<p>“No, grandmother.”</p> + +<p>“I'll tell them myself in the morning,” said the old +lady with a chuckle which made her ancient face a mask of mirth and +mischief. “Now, you run along and go to bed. This book is dull, +but I want to see how wicked the writer tried to make it and the +heroine is just making an awful effort to run away with a married +man. She won't succeed, but I want to see how near she gets to it. +Good-night, Annie. You can have the book to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Annie went to her own room but she made no preparation for bed. +She had planned to work as she had worked lately until nearly +morning. She was hurrying to complete another book which she had +begun before Margaret Edes' announcement that she had written <i>The +Poor Lady</i>. The speedy completion of this book had been the +condition of secrecy with her publishers. However, Annie, before she +lit the lamp on her table could not resist the desire to sit for a +minute beside her window and gaze out upon the lovely night and revel +in her wonderful happiness. The night was lovely enough for anyone, +and for a girl in the rapture of her first love, it was as beautiful +as heaven. The broad village gleaming like silver in the moonlight +satisfied her as well as a street of gold and the tree shadows waved +softly over everything like wings of benediction. Sweet odours came +in her face. She could see the soft pallor of a clump of lilies in +the front yard. The shrilling of the night insects seemed like the +calls of prophets of happiness. The lights had gone out of the +windows of the Edes' house, but suddenly she heard a faint, very +faint, but very terrible cry and a white figure rushed out of the +Edes' gate. Annie did not wait a second. She was up, out of her room, +sliding down the stair banisters after the habit of her childhood and +after it.</p> + +<h4 align="center">Chapter IX</h4> + +<p>Margaret Edes, light and slender and supple as she was, and +moreover rendered swift with the terrible spur of hysteria, was no +match for Annie Eustace who had the build of a racing human, being +long-winded and limber. Annie caught up with her, just before they +reached Alice Mendon's house, and had her held by one arm. Margaret +gave a stifled shriek. Even in hysteria, she did not quite lose her +head. She had unusual self-control.</p> + +<p>“Let me go,” she gasped. Annie saw that Margaret +carried a suit-case, which had probably somewhat hindered her +movements. “Let me go, I shall miss the ten-thirty +train,” Margaret said in her breathless voice.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going?”</p> + +<p>“I am going.”</p> + +<p>“Where?”</p> + +<p>“Anywhere,—away from it all.”</p> + +<p>The two struggled together as far as Alice's gate, and to Annie's +great relief, a tall figure appeared, Alice herself. She opened the +gate and came on Margaret's other side.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“I am going to take the ten-thirty train,” said +Margaret.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going?”</p> + +<p>“To New York.”</p> + +<p>“Where in New York?”</p> + +<p>“I am going.”</p> + +<p>“You are not going,” said Alice Mendon; “you +will return quietly to your own home like a sensible woman. You are +running away, and you know it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am,” said Margaret in her desperate voice. +“You would run away if you were in my place, Alice +Mendon.”</p> + +<p>“I could never be in your place,” said Alice, +“but if I were, I should stay and face the situation.” +She spoke with quite undisguised scorn and yet with pity.</p> + +<p>“You must think of your husband and children and not +entirely of yourself,” she added.</p> + +<p>“If,” said Margaret, stammering as she spoke, “I +tell Wilbur, I think it will kill him. If I tell the children, they +will never really have a mother again. They will never forget. But if +I do not tell, I shall not have myself. It is a horrible thing not to +have yourself, Alice Mendon.”</p> + +<p>“It is the only way.”</p> + +<p>“It is easy for you to talk, Alice Mendon. You have never +been tempted.”</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Alice, “that is quite true. I have +never been tempted because—I cannot be tempted.”</p> + +<p>“It is no credit to you. You were made so.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that is true also. I was made so. It is no credit to +me.”</p> + +<p>Margaret tried to wrench her arm free from Annie's grasp.</p> + +<p>“Let me go, Annie Eustace,” she said. “I hate +you.”</p> + +<p>“I don't care if you do,” replied Annie. “I +don't love you any more myself. I don't hate you, but I certainly +don't love you.”</p> + +<p>“I stole your laurels,” said Margaret, and she seemed +to snap out the words.</p> + +<p>“You could have had the laurels,” said Annie, +“without stealing, if I could have given them to you. It is not +the laurels that matter. It is you.”</p> + +<p>“I will kill myself if it ever is known,” said +Margaret in a low horrified whisper. She cowered.</p> + +<p>“It will never be known unless you yourself tell it,” +said Annie.</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell,” said Margaret. “I have thought +it all over. I cannot tell and yet, how can I live and not +tell?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose,” said Alice Mendon, “that always +when people do wrong, they have to endure punishment. I suppose that +is your punishment, Margaret. You have always loved yourself and now +you will have to despise yourself. I don't see any way out of +it.”</p> + +<p>“I am not the only woman who does such things,” said +Margaret, and there was defiance in her tone.</p> + +<p>“No doubt, you have company,” said Alice. “That +does not make it easier for you.” Alice, large and fair in her +white draperies, towered over Margaret Edes like an embodied +conscience. She was almost unendurable, like the ideal of which the +other woman had fallen short. Her mere presence was maddening. +Margaret actually grimaced at her.</p> + +<p>“It is easy for you to preach,” said she, “very +easy, Alice Mendon. You have not a nerve in your whole body. You have +not an ungratified ambition. You neither love nor hate yourself, or +other people. You want nothing on earth enough to make the lack of it +disturb you.”</p> + +<p>“How well you read me,” said Alice and she smiled a +large calm smile as a statue might smile, could she relax her +beautiful marble mouth.</p> + +<p>“And as for Annie Eustace,” said Margaret, “she +has what I stole, and she knows it, and that is enough for her. Oh, +both of you look down upon me and I know it.”</p> + +<p>“I look down upon you no more than I have always +done,” said Alice; but Annie was silent because she could not +say that truly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know you have always looked down upon me, Alice +Mendon,” said Margaret, “and you never had +reason.”</p> + +<p>“I had the reason,” said Alice, “that your own +deeds have proved true.”</p> + +<p>“You could not know that I would do such a thing. I did not +know it myself. Why, I never knew that Annie Eustace could write a +book.”</p> + +<p>“I knew that a self-lover could do anything and everything +to further her own ends,” said Alice in her inexorable voice, +which yet contained an undertone of pity.</p> + +<p>She pitied Margaret far more than Annie could pity her for she had +not loved her so much. She felt the little arm tremble in her clasp +and her hand tightened upon it as a mother's might have done.</p> + +<p>“Now, we have had enough of this,” said she, +“quite enough. Margaret, you must positively go home at once. I +will take your suit-case, and return it to you to-morrow. I shall be +out driving. You can get in without being seen, can't you?”</p> + +<p>“I tell you both, I am going,” said Margaret; “I +cannot face what is before me.”</p> + +<p>“All creation has to face what is before. Running makes no +difference,” said Alice. “You will meet it at the end of +every mile. Margaret Edes, go home. Take care of your husband, and +your children and keep your secret and let it tear you for your own +good.”</p> + +<p>“They are to nominate Wilbur for Senator,” said +Margaret. “If they knew, if he knew, Wilbur would not run. He +has always had ambition. I should kill it.”</p> + +<p>“You will not kill it,” said Alice. “Here, give +me that suit-case, I will set it inside the gate here. Now Annie and +I will walk with you and you must steal in and not wake anybody and +go to bed and to sleep.”</p> + +<p>“To sleep,” repeated Margaret bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Then not to sleep, but you must go.”</p> + +<p>The three passed down the moon-silvered road. When they had +reached Margaret's door, Alice suddenly put an arm around her and +kissed her.</p> + +<p>“Go in as softly as you can, and to bed,” she +whispered.</p> + +<p>“What made you do that, Alice?” asked Annie in a small +voice when the door had closed behind Margaret.</p> + +<p>“I think I am beginning to love her,” whispered Alice. +“Now you know what we must do, Annie?”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“We must both watch until dawn, until after that train to +New York which stops here at three-thirty. You must stand here and I +will go to the other door. Thank God, there are only two doors, and I +don't think she will try the windows because she won't suspect our +being here. But I don't trust her, poor thing. She is desperate. You +stay here, Annie. Sit down close to the door and—you won't be +afraid?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no!”</p> + +<p>“Of course, there is nothing to be afraid of,” said +Alice. “Now I will go to the other door.”</p> + +<p>Annie sat there until the moon sank. She did not feel in the least +sleepy. She sat there and counted up her joys of life and almost +forgot poor Margaret who had trampled hers in the dust raised by her +own feet of self-seeking. Then came the whistle and roar of a train +and Alice stole around the house.</p> + +<p>“It is safe enough for us to go now,” said she. +“That was the last train. Do you think you can get in your +house without waking anybody?”</p> + +<p>“There is no danger unless I wake grandmother. She wakes +very early of herself and she may not be asleep and her hearing is +very quick.”</p> + +<p>“What will she say?”</p> + +<p>“I think I can manage her.”</p> + +<p>“Well, we must hurry. It is lucky that my room is away from +the others or I should not be sure of getting there unsuspected. +Hurry, Annie.”</p> + +<p>The two sped swiftly and noiselessly down the street, which was +now very dark. The village houses seemed rather awful with their dark +windows like sightless eyes. When they reached Annie's house Alice +gave her a swift kiss. “Good-night,” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“Alice.”</p> + +<p>“Well, little Annie?”</p> + +<p>“I am going to be married, to Mr. Von Rosen.”</p> + +<p>Alice started ever so slightly. “You are a lucky +girl,” she whispered, “and he is a lucky man.”</p> + +<p>Alice flickered out of sight down the street like a white moonbeam +and Annie stole into the house. She dared not lock the door behind +her lest she arouse somebody. She tip-toed upstairs, but as she was +passing her grandmother's door, it was opened, and the old woman +stood there, her face lit by her flaring candle.</p> + +<p>“You just march right in here,” said she so loud that +Annie shuddered for fear she would arouse the whole house. She +followed her grandmother into her room and the old woman turned and +looked at her, and her face was white.</p> + +<p>“Where have you been, Miss?” said she. “It is +after three o'clock in the morning.”</p> + +<p>“I had to go, grandmother, and there was no harm, but I +can't tell you. Indeed, I can't,” replied Annie, trembling.</p> + +<p>“Why can't you? I'd like to know.”</p> + +<p>“I can't, indeed, I can't, grandmother.”</p> + +<p>“Why not, I'd like to know. Pretty doings, I call +it.”</p> + +<p>“I can't tell you why not, grandmother.”</p> + +<p>The old woman eyed the girl. “Out with a man—I don't +care if you are engaged to him—till this time!” said +she.</p> + +<p>Annie started and crimsoned. “Oh, grandmother!” she +cried.</p> + +<p>“I don't care if he is a minister. I am going to see him +to-morrow, no, to-day, right after breakfast and give him a piece of +my mind. I don't care what he thinks of me.”</p> + +<p>“Grandmother, there wasn't any man.”</p> + +<p>“Are you telling me the truth?”</p> + +<p>“I always tell the truth.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think you always have since that time when you were +a little girl and I spanked you for lying,” said the old woman. +“I rather think you do tell the truth, but sometimes when a +girl gets a man into her head, she goes round like a top. You haven't +been alone, you needn't tell me that.”</p> + +<p>“No, I haven't been alone.”</p> + +<p>“But, he wasn't with you? There wasn't any man?”</p> + +<p>“No, there was not any man, grandmother.”</p> + +<p>“Then you had better get into your own room as fast as you +can and move still or you will wake up Harriet and Susan.”</p> + +<p>Annie went.</p> + +<p>“I am thankful I am not curious,” said the old woman +clambering back into bed. She lit her lamp and took up her novel +again.</p> + +<p>The next morning old Ann Maria Eustace announced her +granddaughter's engagement at the breakfast table. She waited until +the meal was in full swing, then she raised her voice.</p> + +<p>“Well, girls,” she said, looking first at Harriet, +then at Susan, “I have some good news for you. Our little Annie +here is too modest, so I have to tell you for her.”</p> + +<p>Harriet Eustace laughed unsuspiciously. “Don't tell us that +Annie has been writing a great anonymous novel like Margaret +Edes,” she said, and Susan laughed also. “Whatever news +it may be, it is not that,” she said. “Nobody could +suspect Annie of writing a book. I myself was not so much surprised +at Margaret Edes.”</p> + +<p>To Annie's consternation, her grandmother turned upon her a long, +slow, reading look. She flushed under it and swallowed a spoonful of +cereal hastily. Then her grandmother chuckled under her breath and +her china blue eyes twinkled.</p> + +<p>“Annie has done something a deal better than to write a +book,” said she, looking away from the girl, and fixing +unsparing eyes upon her daughters. “She has found a nice man to +marry her.”</p> + +<p>Harriet and Susan dropped their spoons and stared at their +mother.</p> + +<p>“Mother, what are you talking about?” said Harriet +sharply. “She has had no attention.”</p> + +<p>“Sometimes,” drawled the old lady in a way she +affected when she wished to be exasperating, “sometimes, a +little attention is so strong that it counts and sometimes attention +is attention when nobody thinks it is.”</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” asked Harriet in rather a hard voice. +Susan regarded Annie with a bewildered, yet kindly smile. Poor Susan +had never regarded the honey pots of life as intended for herself, +and thus could feel a kindly interest in their acquisition by +others.</p> + +<p>“My granddaughter is engaged to be married to Mr. von +Rosen,” said the old lady. Then she stirred her coffee +assiduously.</p> + +<p>Susan rose and kissed Annie. “I hope you will be happy, very +happy,” she said in an awed voice. Harriet rose, to follow her +sister's example but she looked viciously at her mother.</p> + +<p>“He is a good ten years older than Annie,” she +said.</p> + +<p>“And a good twenty-five younger than you,” said the +old lady, and sipped her coffee delicately. “He is just the +right age for Annie.”</p> + +<p>Harriet kissed Annie, but her lips were cold and Annie wondered. +It never occurred to her then, nor later, to imagine that her Aunt +Harriet might have had her own dreams which had never entirely ended +in rainbow mists. She did not know how hardly dreams die. They are +sometimes not entirely stamped out during a long lifetime.</p> + +<p>That evening Von Rosen came to call on Annie and she received him +alone in the best parlour. She felt embarrassed and shy, but very +happy. Her lover brought her an engagement ring, a great pearl, which +had been his mother's and put it on her finger, and Annie eyed her +finger with a big round gaze like a bird's. Von Rosen laughed at the +girl holding up her hand and staring at the beringed finger.</p> + +<p>“Don't you like it, dear?” he said.</p> + +<p>“It is the most beautiful ring I ever saw,” said +Annie, “but I keep thinking it may not be true.”</p> + +<p>“The truest things in the world are the things which do not +seem so,” he said, and caught up the slender hand and kissed +the ring and the finger.</p> + +<p>Margaret on the verandah had seen Von Rosen enter the Eustace +house and had guessed dully at the reason. She had always thought +that Von Rosen would eventually marry Alice Mendon and she wondered a +little, but not much. Her own affairs were entirely sufficient to +occupy her mind. Her position had become more impossible to alter and +more ghastly. That night Wilbur had brought home a present to +celebrate her success. It was something which she had long wanted and +which she knew he could ill afford:—a circlet of topazes for +her hair. She kissed him and put it on to please him, but it was to +her as if she were crowned because of her infamy and she longed to +snatch the thing off and trample it. And yet always she was well +aware that it was not remorse which she felt, but a miserable +humiliation that she, Margaret Edes, should have cause for remorse. +The whole day had been hideous. The letters and calls of +congratulation had been incessant. There were brief notices in a few +papers which had been marked and sent to her and Wilbur had brought +them home also. Her post-office box had been crammed. There were +requests for her autograph. There were requests for aid from +charitable institutions. There were requests for advice and +assistance from young authors. She had two packages of manuscripts +sent her for inspection concerning their merits. One was a short +story, and came through the mail; one was a book and came by express. +She had requests for work from editors and publishers. Wilbur had +brought a letter of congratulation from his partner. It was +absolutely impossible for her to draw back except for that ignoble +reason: the reinstatement of herself in her own esteem. She could not +possibly receive all this undeserved adulation and retain her self +esteem. It was all more than she had counted upon. She had opened +Pandora's box with a vengeance and the stinging things swarmed over +her. Wilbur sat on the verandah with her and scarcely took his eyes +of adoring wonder from her face. She had sent the little girls to bed +early. They had told all their playmates and talked incessantly with +childish bragging. They seemed to mock her as with peacock eyes, +symbolic of her own vanity.</p> + +<p>“You sent the poor little things to bed very early,” +Wilbur said. “They did so enjoy talking over their mother's +triumph. It is the greatest day of their lives, you know, +Margaret.”</p> + +<p>“I am tired of it,” Margaret said sharply, but +Wilbur's look of worship deepened.</p> + +<p>“You are so modest, sweetheart,” he said and Margaret +writhed. Poor Wilbur had been reading <i>The Poor Lady</i> instead of +his beloved newspapers and now and then he quoted a passage which he +remembered, with astonishing accuracy.</p> + +<p>“Say, darling, you are a marvel,” he would remark +after every quotation. “Now, how in the world did you ever +manage to think that up? I suppose just this minute, as you sit there +looking so sweet in your white dress, just such things are floating +through your brain, eh?”</p> + +<p>“No, they are not,” replied Margaret. Oh, if she had +only understood the horrible depth of a lie!</p> + +<p>“Suppose Von Rosen is making up to little Annie?” said +Wilbur presently.</p> + +<p>“I don't know.”</p> + +<p>“Well, she is a nice little thing, sweet tempered, and +pretty, although of course her mental calibre is limited. She may +make a good wife, though. A man doesn't expect his wife always to set +the river on fire as you have done, sweetheart.”</p> + +<p>Then Wilbur fished from his pockets a lot of samples. +“Thought I must order a new suit, to live up to my wife,” +he said. “See which you prefer, Margaret.”</p> + +<p>“I should think your own political outlook would make the +new suit necessary,” said Margaret tartly.</p> + +<p>“Not a bit of it. Get more votes if you look a bit shabby +from the sort who I expect may get me the office,” laughed +Wilbur. “This new suit is simply to enable me to look worthy, +as far as my clothes are concerned, of my famous wife.”</p> + +<p>“I think you have already clothes enough,” said +Margaret coldly.</p> + +<p>Wilbur looked hurt. “Doesn't make much difference how the +old man looks, does it, dear?” said he.</p> + +<p>“Let me see the samples,” Margaret returned with an +effort. There were depths beyond depths; there were bottomless +quicksands in a lie. How could she have known?</p> + +<p>That night Wilbur looked into his wife's bedroom at midnight. +“Awake?” he asked in his monosyllabic fashion.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Say, old girl, Von Rosen has just this minute gone. Guess +it's a match fast enough.”</p> + +<p>“I always thought it would be Alice,” returned +Margaret wearily. Love affairs did seem so trivial to her at this +juncture.</p> + +<p>“Alice Mendon has never cared a snap about getting married +any way,” returned Wilbur. “Some women are built that +way. She is.”</p> + +<p>Margaret did not inquire how he knew. If Wilbur had told her that +he had himself asked Alice in marriage, it would have been as if she +had not heard. All such things seemed very unimportant to her in the +awful depths of her lie. She said good-night in answer to Wilbur's +and again fell to thinking. There was no way out, absolutely no way. +She must live and die with this secret self-knowledge which abased +her, gnawing at the heart. Wilbur had told her that he believed that +her authorship of <i>The Poor Lady</i> might be the turning point of +his election. She was tongue-tied in a horrible spiritual sense. She +was disfigured for the rest of her life and she could never once turn +away her eyes from her disfigurement.</p> + +<p>The light from Annie Eustace's window shone in her room for two +hours after that. She wondered what she was doing and guessed Annie +was writing a new novel to take the place of the one of which she had +robbed her. An acute desire which was like a pain to be herself the +injured instead of the injurer possessed her. Oh, what would it mean +to be Annie sitting there, without leisure to brood over her new +happiness, working, working, into the morning hours and have nothing +to look upon except moral and physical beauty in her mental +looking-glass. She envied the poor girl, who was really working +beyond her strength, as she had never envied any human being. The +envy stung her, and she could not sleep. The next morning she looked +ill and then she had to endure Wilbur's solicitude.</p> + +<p>“Poor girl, you overworked writing your splendid +book,” he said. Then he suggested that she spend a month at an +expensive seashore resort and another horror was upon Margaret. +Wilbur, she well knew, could not afford to send her to such a place, +but was innocently, albeit rather shamefacedly, assuming that she +could defray her own expenses from the revenue of her book. He would +never call her to account as to what she had done with the wealth +which he supposed her to be reaping. She was well aware of that, but +he would naturally wonder within himself. Any man would. She said +that she was quite well, that she hated a big hotel, and much +preferred home during the hot season, but she heard the roar of these +new breakers. How could she have dreamed of the lifelong disturbance +which a lie could cause?</p> + +<p>Night after night she saw the light in Annie's windows and she +knew what she was doing. She knew why she was not to be married until +next winter. That book had to be written first. Poor Annie could not +enjoy her romance to the full because of over-work. The girl lost +flesh and Margaret knew why. Preparing one's trousseau, living in a +love affair, and writing a book, are rather strenuous, when +undertaken at the same time.</p> + +<p>It was February when Annie and Von Rosen were married and the +wedding was very quiet. Annie had over-worked, but her book was +published, and was out-selling <i>The Poor Lady</i>. It also was +published anonymously, but Margaret knew, she knew even from the +reviews. Then she bought the book and read it and was convinced. The +book was really an important work. The writer had gone far beyond her +first flight, but there was something unmistakable about the style to +such a jealous reader as Margaret. Annie had her success after all. +She wore her laurels, although unseen of men, with her orange +blossoms. Margaret saw in every paper, in great headlines, the notice +of the great seller. The best novel for a twelve-month—<i>The +Firm Hand</i>. Wilbur talked much about it. He had his election. He +was a Senator, and was quietly proud of it, but nothing mattered to +him as much as Margaret's book. That meant more than his own +success.</p> + +<p>“I have read that novel they are talking so much about and +it cannot compare with yours,” he told her. “The +publishers ought to push yours a little more. Do you think I ought to +look in on them and have a little heart-to-heart talk?”</p> + +<p>Margaret's face was ghastly. “Don't do anything of the +sort,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Well, I won't if you don't want me to, +but—”</p> + +<p>“I most certainly don't want you to.” Then Margaret +never had a day of peace. She feared lest Wilbur, who seemed nightly +more incensed at the flaming notices of <i>The Firm Hand</i> might, +in spite of her remonstrances, go to see the publishers, and would +they keep the secret if he did?</p> + +<p>Margaret continued to live as she had done before. That was part +of the horror. She dared not resign from the Zenith Club. However, +she came in time to get a sort of comfort from it. Meeting all those +members, presiding over the meetings, became a sort of secret +flagellation, which served as a counter irritation, for her tormented +soul. All those women thought well of her. They admired her. The +acute torture which she derived from her knowledge of herself, as +compared with their opinion of her, seemed at times to go a little +way toward squaring her account with her better self. And the club +also seemed to rouse within her a keener vitality of her better self. +Especially when the New Year came and Mrs. Slade was elected +president in her stead. Once, Margaret would have been incapable of +accepting that situation so gracefully. She gave a reception to Mrs. +Slade in honour of her election, and that night had a little return +of her lost peace. Then during one of the meetings, a really good +paper was read, which set her thinking. That evening she played +dominoes with Maida and Adelaide, and always after that a game +followed dinner. The mother became intimate with her children. She +really loved them because of her loss of love for herself, and +because the heart must hold love. She loved her husband too, but he +realised no difference because he had loved her. That coldness had +had no headway against such doting worship. But the children +realised.</p> + +<p>“Mamma is so much better since she wrote that book that I +shall be glad when you are old enough to write a book too,” +Adelaide said once to Maida.</p> + +<p>But always Margaret suffered horribly, although she gave no sign. +She took care of her beauty. She was more particular than ever about +her dress. She entertained, she accepted every invitation, and they +multiplied since Wilbur's flight in politics and her own reputed +authorship. She was Spartan in her courage, but she suffered, because +she saw herself as she was and she had so loved herself. It was not +until Annie Eustace was married that she obtained the slightest +relief. Then she ascertained that the friend whom she had robbed of +her laurels had obtained a newer and greener crown of them. She went +to the wedding and saw on a table, Annie's new book. She glanced at +it and she knew and she wondered if Von Rosen knew. He did not.</p> + +<p>Annie waited until after their return from their short wedding +journey when they were settled in their home. Then one evening, +seated with her husband before the fire in the study, with the yellow +cat in her lap, and the bull terrier on the rug, his white skin rosy +in the firelight, she said:</p> + +<p>“Karl, I have something to tell you.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen looked lovingly at her. “Well, dear?”</p> + +<p>“It is nothing, only you must not tell, for the publishers +insist upon its being anonymous, I—wrote <i>The Firm +Hand</i>.”</p> + +<p>Von Rosen made a startled exclamation and looked at Annie and she +could not understand the look.</p> + +<p>“Are you displeased?” she faltered. “Don't you +like me to write? I will never neglect you or our home because of it. +Indeed I will not.”</p> + +<p>“Displeased,” said Von Rosen. He got up and +deliberately knelt before her. “I am proud that you are my +wife,” he said, “prouder than I am of anything else in +the world.”</p> + +<p>“Please get up, dear,” said Annie, “but I am so +glad, although it is really I who am proud, because I have you for my +husband. I feel all covered over with peacock's eyes.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot imagine a human soul less like a peacock,” +said Von Rosen. He put his arms around her as he knelt, and kissed +her, and the yellow cat gave an indignant little snarl and jumped +down. He was jealous.</p> + +<p>“Sit down,” said Annie, laughing. “I thought the +time had come to tell you and I hoped you would be pleased. It is +lovely, isn't it? You know it is selling wonderfully.”</p> + +<p>“It is lovely,” said Von Rosen. “It would have +been lovely anyway, but your success is a mighty sweet morsel for +me.”</p> + +<p>“You had better go back to your chair and smoke and I will +read to you,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>“Just as if you had not written a successful novel,” +said Von Rosen. But he obeyed, the more readily because he knew, and +pride and reverence for his wife fairly dazed him. Von Rosen had been +more acute than the critics and Annie had written at high pressure, +and one can go over a book a thousand times and be blind to things +which should be seen. She had repeated one little sentence which she +had written in <i>The Poor Lady</i>. Von Rosen knew, but he never +told her that he knew. He bowed before her great, generous silence as +he would have bowed before a shrine, but he knew that she had written +<i>The Poor Lady</i>, and had allowed Margaret Edes to claim +unquestioned the honour of her work.</p> + +<p>As they sat there, Annie's Aunt Susan came in and sat with them. +She talked a good deal about the wedding presents. Wedding presents +were very wonderful to her. They were still spread out, most of them +on tables in the parlour because all Fairbridge was interested in +viewing them. After a while Susan went into the parlour and gloated +over the presents. When she came back, she wore a slightly disgusted +expression.</p> + +<p>“You have beautiful presents,” said she, “but I +have been looking all around and the presents are not all on those +tables, are they?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Annie.</p> + +<p>Von Rosen laughed. He knew what was coming, or thought that he +did.</p> + +<p>“I see,” said Aunt Susan, “that you have +forty-two copies of Margaret Edes' book, <i>The Poor Lady</i>, and I +have always thought it was a very silly book, and you can't exchange +them for every single one is autographed.”</p> + +<p>It was quite true. Poor Margaret Edes had autographed the +forty-two. She had not even dreamed of the incalculable depths of a +lie.</p> + +<p align="center">THE END</p> + +<p> +[Transcriber's note: +</p> + +<p> +The following spelling inconsistencies were present in the original +and were not corrected in this etext: +</p> + +<p> +wordly<br /> +ensconsed/ensconced] +</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Butterfly House, by Mary E. 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