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diff --git a/40495-8.txt b/40495-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bb8e746..0000000 --- a/40495-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11602 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Ordeal of Elizabeth, by Elizabeth Von Arnim - -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 Ordeal of Elizabeth - -Author: Elizabeth Von Arnim - -Release Date: August 13, 2012 [EBook #40495] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ORDEAL OF ELIZABETH *** - - - - -Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -Transcriber's Note: - - Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original book have - been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. - The book frequently omits punctuation before quotes. The punctuation - has been retained as in the original. The length and spacing of - ellipses (...) has also been retained as printed. - - There is no Chapter IV. - - Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. - - - - - [Illustration: _Elizabeth_.] - - - - - THE - ORDEAL OF - ELIZABETH - - - NEW YORK - GROSSET & DUNLAP - PUBLISHERS - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY - J. F. TAYLOR AND - COMPANY, NEW YORK - - - - - THE ORDEAL - OF - ELIZABETH - - - - -_Chapter I_ - - -The Van Vorst Homestead stands close to the road-side; a dark, -low-built, gloomy old place. The horse-shoe on the door, testifies to -its age, and the devout superstition of the Van Vorst who built it. -However effectual against witches, the horse-shoe cannot be said to -have brought much luck otherwise. The Van Vorsts who lived there, a -junior branch of the old colonial house, did not prosper in worldly -matters, but sank more and more as time went on, in general respect -and consideration. - -There was a break in the deterioration, and apparently a revival of -old glories, when Peter Van Vorst married his cousin, a brilliant -beauty from town, who had refused, as tradition asserts, half the -eligible men of her day, and accepted Peter for what seemed a sudden -and mysterious caprice. The marriage was a nine days' wonder; but -whatever the reasons that prompted her strange choice--whether love, -indifference, or some feeling more complicated and subtle; Elizabeth -Van Vorst made no effort to avert its consequences, but settled down -in silence to a life of monotonous poverty. She did not even try, as -less favored women have done under harder circumstances, to keep in -touch with the world she had given up. She never wrote to her old -friends, never recalled herself, by her presence in town, to her -former admirers. As for the Homestead, it wore, under the inert -indifference of her rule, the same neglected look which had prevailed -for years. The foliage grew in rank profusion about the house till it -shut out not only the sunlight, but all view of the river. Perhaps -Madam Van Vorst, as people called her, disliked the idea of change; or -perhaps she grudged the cost of a day's labor to cut the trees; or it -might be that she liked the gloom and the feeling of confinement, and -had no desire to feast her eyes on the river, after the fashion of the -Neighborhood. It reminded her too much, perhaps, of the outside world. - -She was a stately, handsome old lady, and made an imposing appearance -when she came into church on Sunday, in the black silk gown which -rustled with an old-time dignity, and her puffs of snow-white hair -standing out against the rim of her widow's bonnet. Her daughters, -following timidly behind her, seemed to belong to a different sphere; -dull, faded women, in shabby gowns which the village girls would have -disdained. If you spoke to them after church, when the whole -Neighborhood exchanges greetings and discusses the news of the week, -they would answer you shyly, in embarrassed monosyllables. Still, in -some intangible way, you felt the innate breeding, which lurked behind -all the uncouthness of voice and manner. - -Their life, under their mother's training, had been one long lesson in -self-effacement; they never even drove to the village without -consulting her, or bought a spool of cotton without her permission. -The stress of poverty, as time went on, grew less stringent at the -Homestead; but with Madam Van Vorst the penury which had been first -the result of necessity, had grown to be second nature. She let the -money accumulate and made no change in their manner of life. Her -daughters had no books, no teachers; no occupation but house-work; no -interest beyond the petty gossip of the country-side. - -With Peter, the son, the downward process was more evident and had -taken deeper root. His voice was more uncouth than that of his sisters -and his manner less refined; it was hard to distinguish him if you saw -him in church, from any farmer, ill at ease in his Sunday clothes. He -spent his days at work on the farm, and his evenings, more often than -his mother dreamed of, at the bar in the village. Like his sisters, he -bowed beneath her iron rod and lived in mortal fear of her -displeasure. Yet he had his plans, well defined, and frequently -boasted (at least at the village bar) of what he should do when he -became his own master. - -With the sisters a certain inborn delicacy of feeling prevented them -from formulating, even to themselves, those hopes and aspirations -which, nevertheless, lay dormant, needing only a sudden shock to call -them into life. When that shock came, and it was known all over the -Neighborhood that Madam Van Vorst was dead, the news brought a mild -sense of loss, the feeling of a landmark removed; and people hastened -at once to the Homestead with sincere condolences and offers of -assistance to the daughters. Cornelia and Joanna were stunned, but not -entirely with sorrow; rather with the sort of feeling that a prisoner -might experience, who finds himself by a sudden blow, released from a -chain which habit has rendered bearable, and almost second nature, yet -none the less a chain. - -It was not till the evening after the funeral that this stifled -feeling found expression. The day had been fraught with a ghastly -excitement that seemed to give for the moment to these poor crushed -beings a fictitious importance. All the Neighborhood had come to the -funeral; some grand relations even had journeyed up from town to do -honor to the woman whom they had ignored in her lifetime; these last -lingered for a solemn meal at the Homestead. The whole affair seemed -to bring the Van Vorst women more in contact with the outside world -than any event since their father's death, many years before. Sitting -that evening, talking it all over, it might have been some festivity -that they were discussing, were it not for their crape-laden gowns, -and the tears they were still shedding half mechanically, though with -no conscious insincerity. - -"It was kind of the Schuyler Van Vorsts to come up," said Cornelia, -wistfully. "I thought they had quite forgotten us--they are such fine -people, you know--but they were really very kind, quite as if they -took an interest." - -"I'm glad the cake was so good," said the practical Joanna. "I took -special pains with it, for I thought some of them might stay." - -"It went off very nicely," said Cornelia, tearfully, "very nicely -indeed. Mrs. Schuyler Van Vorst spoke of the cream being so good." - -"She ate a good deal of it, I noticed." - -"One thing I was sorry for," said Cornelia, reluctantly. "I saw her -looking at the furniture. You know poor Mamma never would have -anything done to it." - -The sisters looked mechanically about the familiar room whose -deficiencies had never been so glaringly apparent. The Homestead -drawing-room had been re-furnished, with strict regard to economy many -years ago, after a fashion too antiquated to be beautiful, and too -modern to be interesting. The chairs and sofa were covered with -horse-hair, and decorated, at intervals, with crochet anti-macassars. -In the centre of the room stood a marble-topped table, upon which were -ranged, at stiff angles, the Pilgrim's Progress, Paradise Lost, and -several books of sermons. There were no other books and no pretty -knick-knacks; but some perennially blooming wax flowers, religiously -preserved beneath a glass case, contrasted with the chill marble of -the mantel-piece. Above them hung one of the few relics of the past--a -hideous sampler worked by a colonial ancestress. The room was much the -worse for wear, the wall-paper was dingy, the carpet faded to an -indefinite hue, some of the chairs were notoriously unsafe, and the -sofa had lacked one foot for years. - -"I think," said Cornelia, with sudden energy, as if roused at last to -the truth of a self-evident proposition, "I think it is about time -that the room was done over." - -Joanna attempted no denial; but after a moment she remarked -tentatively, as if balancing the claims of beauty against those of -economy; "Some pretty sateen, I suppose, for a covering would not cost -much." - -Cornelia shook her head with melancholy decision. "It would be quite -useless to do anything with the furniture," she declared, "if we -didn't first change the carpet and the wall-paper." - -Joanna was silent in apparent acquiescence; and Cornelia, after a -moment's hesitation, brought out a still bolder proposition. "I've -been thinking," she said "that we ought to have a piano. Of course I -can't--we can't either of us play," she went on in hurried deprecation -of Joanna's astonished looks, "poor Mamma would never let us take -lessons; but people have them whether they play or not, and--it would -give such a nice, musical look to the room." - -Joanna sat lost for a moment in awe over this radical suggestion. "It -would be very expensive," she said, practically "and--there are a -great many things we need more." - -But the more imaginative Cornelia refused to be daunted. "What if it -is expensive!" she said boldly "and if we don't actually need it, -that's all the more reason why it would be nice to have it. We've -never spent money on a single thing in all our lives except for just -what was necessary. Couldn't we for once have something that isn't -necessary, that would be only--pleasant?" - -Thus Cornelia struck the key-note of resistance to that doctrine of -utility which had enslaved their lives, and Joanna, after the first -shock of surprise, followed willingly in her lead. It was decided that -the piano should be bought at once, and in discussing this and other -changes, time passed rapidly, and they went to bed in a state of duly -suppressed, but undoubted cheerfulness. It was altogether quite the -pleasantest evening that they had spent for many years, though they -would not have admitted this for the world, and sincerely believed -themselves in great affliction. There was another being in the house -who rejoiced in his freedom and meant to make the most of it. - -The next morning at breakfast the sisters might have perceived had -they been less engrossed in their own thoughts, that Peter was -meditating some communication, which he found it hard to express. His -words, when he spoke at last, chimed in oddly with his sisters' -wishes. "I never," he said, speaking very deliberately and looking -about him in great disgust, "I never saw a place that needed doing -over so badly as this does." - -There was a moment's pause of astonishment; and then Cornelia looked -up in glad surprise. "Why, Peter," she said, "I had no idea that you -would care"-- - -"Care!" said Peter, importantly. "Of course I care. I've always meant -to have the place fixed up when--well, she couldn't live for ever, you -know" he broke off half apologetically, as he caught the look of mute -protest on his sisters' faces. "It did all very well for her and for -you," he went on, coolly, "but it's not the sort of place I can bring -my wife to." The last words came out with an air of indifference, that -might have befitted the most commonplace announcement. - -Upon Peter's hearers, however, they fell like a thunderbolt. It was -several minutes before Cornelia repeated, in a very low voice: - -"Your--your _wife_, Peter?" - -"Yes, my wife." Peter rose and faced his sisters squarely, his hands -in his pockets. He thrust out his under lip, and his florid Dutch face -wore an expression of mingled defiance, exultation and embarrassment. -"Why, I've been married some time," he said. "You didn't suppose I was -going to stay single all my life, did you?" - -"But who--who"--Cornelia's mind, moving with unusual rapidity, had -already passed in review and rejected as improbable all the eligible -young women of the Neighborhood, with none of whom she had ever seen -Peter exchange two words. "Who can it be, Peter?" she concluded, -lamely. - -"Is it--any one we know?" chimed in Joanna, hopefully. - -Peter looked them full in the face; he had always held his sisters in -some contempt. "You know her well enough," he said, deliberately "or -if you don't--you ought to. She's a young lady who lives near here, -and her name is Malvina Jones." - -There was a dead silence. The old Dutch clock on the mantel-piece, -which had kept its place undisturbed through the trials and changes of -several generations, seemed to beat in the stillness loudly and -fiercely, almost as if it shared the consternation of Peter's sisters, -who stared at him aghast. Cornelia was the first to speak. "Malvina -Jones!" she repeated, slowly. "You don't mean the--the girl whose -father keeps the bar?" - -Peter flushed angrily. "There's only one Malvina Jones that I know of" -he declared, "and she's my wife and will be the mistress of this -house. And so, if you don't like it, you can leave--that's all I have -to say." - -With this conclusive remark Peter betook himself to his usual -avocations, and his sisters were left to resign themselves to the -situation as best they might. - -"Malvina Jones!" Joanna repeated, still lost in astonishment. - -"One of the village girls!" said Cornelia, bitterly, "a--a -bar-keeper's daughter." - -Joanna seemed to hesitate. "That isn't the worst of it," she said at -last. "There are some very nice girls in the village, you know, but -Malvina Jones is not--I'm afraid she really is _not_ a very nice -girl." - -Cornelia was silent. She knew enough of the petty gossip of the -village to be aware that Joanna was stating the case mildly. Before -her mental vision there rose a picture of Malvina as she had often -seen her on Sunday, with her glaring red hair, her smart attire and -her look of bold assurance, undisturbed by the disapproving eyes of -the congregation. Then she thought of her mother, the stately old dame -whom they had been so proud of, even while they feared her. She looked -at the breakfast-table, at the quaint, old-fashioned shapes of the -glistening silver and the Dutch willow-ware which had been in the -family since time immemorial; she thought with affection even of the -old horsehair furniture, which must surely be preferable to such -improvements as Malvina might suggest, and she pictured the -bar-keeper's daughter entertaining her friends in the room where Madam -Van Vorst had received with old-world stateliness the visits of the -Neighborhood. To poor Cornelia the family dignity--what little there -was left of it--seemed to be crumbling to ashes. - -"I don't think we need to bother now about--about the piano," she -said, and the words died away in a sob. - - - - -_Chapter II_ - - -It was a June morning twenty years later, and Elizabeth's hands were -full of June roses. - -"Look," she said, holding them out "how beautiful!" She placed them in -a flat china dish and proceeded to arrange them, humming, as she did -so, a gay little tune from some favorite opera of the day. The Misses -Van Vorst, her aunts, who had been talking rather seriously before the -girl entered, broke off in their conversation and brightened as they -watched her. - -There had been times in Elizabeth's childhood when the heart of each -sister had been contracted by a secret fear, which they concealed even -from one another, when they had offered up in seclusion fervent -prayers that certain hereditary characteristics might not be revived -in this treasure which fortune had unexpectedly bestowed upon them. -These prayers had been to all appearance more than answered. Elizabeth -did not look like her mother. It was true that the beautiful, wavy -hair, which grew in soft ripples on her forehead, showed in the full -glare of the sunshine or the firelight a trace, a suspicion of the -deep red which in her mother's locks had been unpleasantly vivid; but -with Elizabeth, it was a warm Titian shade which would delight an -artist. In other respects, it was her grandmother whom she resembled, -as very old people in the Neighborhood would sometimes inform you, -wondering to see the beauty and distinction which had perversely -skipped one generation, reproduced in this bar-maid's daughter. -Certainly it was from Madam Van Vorst that the girl inherited the -haughty turn of the head and the instinctive pride of carriage. The -older woman's beauty may have been more perfect. Elizabeth's features -were admittedly far from classical. Her nose tilted slightly, the chin -was too square, the red, pouting lips were perhaps a trifle too full. -But her skin was dazzlingly fair and fresh, and there was a glow of -color and wealth of outline about her which disarmed criticism. The -eyes, under their long lashes, were large and lustrous. Like her hair, -they varied in different lights, or perhaps it was in different moods. -They seemed a clear gray when she was thoughtful, blue when she -smiled, and they grew, in moments of grief or acute emotion, -singularly deep and dark. But such moments had, at this period of her -life, been rare. - -To her aunts, as they watched her that morning, she was the visible -embodiment of all those stifled aspirations, to which Peter's marriage -had apparently given a fatal blow. They could think now without -bitterness of that great humiliation, and if they spoke of their -brother's wife, it was with due propriety as "poor Malvina." They owed -her after all, a debt of gratitude, since she was Elizabeth's mother, -who had died most opportunely when Elizabeth was a baby. - -The girl had been their sole charge from the first, for Peter -concerned himself little about his motherless child. His death, when -she was still very young, could hardly be considered an unmitigated -affliction. As for Elizabeth, it was chiefly remarkable in being the -occasion of her first black frock, on the strength of which she gave -herself airs towards her less afflicted playmates. - -Thus the Misses Van Vorst were free to carry out certain cherished -plans in regard to their niece's future, which they had formed when, -hanging over her cradle, they had fondly traced a resemblance to the -grandmother after whom she had been named, through some odd, -remorseful freak of Peter's. Impelled, as she grew older, by a wistful -consciousness of all that they had missed, they heroically resigned -themselves to part with her for a while that she might enjoy the -advantages of a very select and extremely expensive school in town. -And after five years she returned to them, not over-burdened by much -abstruse knowledge, but with a graceful carriage, a charming -intonation, a considerable stock of accomplishments, and the prettiest -gowns of any girl in the Neighborhood. - -Her return was the signal for the changes at the Homestead, which now -made the old house a cheerful place to live in. The sunlight, no -longer excluded by the overgrown foliage, flooded the drawing-room, -and from the long French windows, opening out on the well-kept lawn, -you caught a charming glimpse of the river. The fire-place was -decorated in white and gold, the polished floor was strewn with rugs. -Amid the profusion of modern chairs and tables and bric-à-brac were -old heirlooms which had mouldered in the attic for generations, -un-thought of and despised, till Elizabeth routed them out and placed -them, rather to her aunts' surprise, in a conspicuous position. The -walls were hung with fine engravings, books and magazines were -scattered here and there. Across one corner stood the much-coveted -piano. - -The improvement was not confined to the furniture. The Misses Van -Vorst, too, seemed to have progressed and assumed a more modern air, -in harmony with their present surroundings. They were old women now, -and people of the present generation placed carefully the prefix -"Miss" before their Christian names; but in many ways, they were -younger and certainly far happier than they were twenty years before. -It was Elizabeth who had made the change, it was she who had filled -their narrow lives with a wonderful new interest. And yet, it was on -her account that they felt just then the one anxiety which disturbed -their satisfaction in the warmth of her youth and beauty, nay, was -rather intensified because of it. - -"We were saying, dear," Miss Cornelia could not help observing after a -moment "just as you came in, that it is a pity the Neighborhood is so -dull. There is so little amusement for a young girl." - -"We used to think it quite gay when we were young," said Miss Joanna, -her knitting-needles clicking cheerfully as she talked. "There was -always a lawn-party at the Van Antwerps', and Mrs. Courtenay was at -home every Saturday, and then the fair for the church." - -"But Mrs. Courtenay doesn't stay at home any longer," said Miss -Cornelia, dejectedly, "and the Van Antwerps haven't given a thing for -ever so long, and as for the fair--the church has everything it needs -now--steeple, font, everything, so there is no object in having a -fair." - -"And so few people to buy if there were," sighed Miss Joanna, becoming -despondent in her turn. "I quite miss it--I used to enjoy making -things for it. Really now, if it were not for knitting socks for Mrs. -Anderton's new babies, I should be quite at a loss for something to -do." - -Elizabeth, who had turned and stared from one to the other, as if in -surprise at the introduction of a new subject, here broke in with a -soft little laugh. "Well, auntie, Mrs. Anderton certainly keeps you -busy," she said, consolingly "and as for the fair--why, I don't know -that it would be such wild dissipation." Insensibly at the last words, -her mouth drooped at the corners, the eyes, which an instant before -had sparkled with amusement, grew thoughtful. A slight cloud of -discontent seemed to drift over the buoyant freshness of her mood. - -Miss Cornelia observed it and continued to lament. "Well, at least, a -fair would be _something_," she insisted "and then in old times there -used to be dances. If you went out to tea--oftener, my dear--even that -would be a diversion." - -The cloud on Elizabeth's face deepened. She bent down with elaborate -care to place the last rose in position. "Oh, I don't know that it -matters much," she said, and there was a sudden hardness in her tone. -"There are no men for a dance, and as for the tea-parties--they don't -amuse me very much. There are always the Andertons, or Johnstons, or -both; and they talk about Mrs. Anderton's babies, of Mrs. Johnston's -rheumatism, or the way the village girls dress; and the Rector asks me -to take a class in Sunday-school, and looks shocked when I refuse; -and--and it is all stupid and tiresome. I--I s--sometimes--I hate this -place, and all the people in it," Elizabeth broke off, with a sound -not unlike a sob. - -Her aunts were paralyzed. This outburst of revolt was to them an -entirely new phase in the girl's development. They did not attempt any -response, or rebuke, and Elizabeth, after a moment, went over and -kissed them each remorsefully. "There, don't mind me," she said. "I'm -a horrid, discontented wretch." Then, as if to put an end to the -subject, she added quickly: "I'm going to drive to Bassett Mills. Is -there anything I can do for you?" - -Her aunts gladly accepted the change of mood. - -"It's a lovely morning for a drive, dear," said Miss Joanna, "and will -do you good. But I wish, if you go, you would stop at the Rectory--the -baby is ill, so the butcher tells me, and I have some beef-tea I'd -like you to take." - -Elizabeth's smile again lit up her face into its former brilliance. -"What would you do without the butcher, Aunt Joanna?" she asked. -"He's a perfect mine of information. Did he have any other news this -morning?" - -"Only that he had just come from the Van Antwerps'--they are up at -last for the summer." - -"Are they," said Elizabeth, carelessly. "Ah, well, they don't make -much difference, one way or the other." She seemed to reflect a -moment, while again her face clouded. "If I go to the Rectory," she -said abruptly, "I suppose I must stop to see Aunt Rebecca. She will -see me pass, and she is always complaining that I neglect her." - -The Misses Van Vorst again looked distressed. The aunt of whom -Elizabeth spoke, Malvina's sister-in-law, kept a small dry-goods shop, -much patronized by the Neighborhood, and had risen considerably above -the original position of the family. Yet the older ladies of the -Homestead could never be reminded of her existence without a sharp -recollection of a painful chapter in the family history. Had they -consulted only their wishes, Elizabeth would never have been informed -of the connection. They were just women, however, and admitted the -claims of Elizabeth's only relation on her mother's side, and one who -had a daughter, too, of about the girl's own age. - -"Of course, my dear," Miss Cornelia said at last, reluctantly, "we -wouldn't have you neglect your aunt." - -"No, poor thing," said Joanna "we wouldn't have you hurt her feelings -for the world. So perhaps you would better stop there, my dear; and -if you do, will you get me some sewing-silk from the store?" - -This proved by no means the only commission with which Elizabeth was -burdened when she started, half an hour later; for Miss Joanna had had -time to remember several other things she wanted from the store, to -say nothing of the beef-tea for the Rector's wife, and numerous -messages of advice and sympathy, which the girl was earnestly charged -not to forget. Miss Cornelia had no commissions, and merely asked -Elizabeth to remember, when she came home, every one whom she had -seen, to inquire of the Johnstons, if she met them, how their -grandmother was, and to notice, if she saw the Van Antwerps, if they -had their new carriage, and what Mrs. Bobby had on. At last Elizabeth -drove off, in the old-fashioned pony-chaise, behind the fat white pony -whose age was wrapped in obscurity, and who trod, with the leisurely -indifference of a well-bred carriage-horse, the road which he knew by -heart. - -It was a pleasant, shady road, that ran between stone fences, across -which you caught the scent of honey-suckle. Beyond were fine places, -once the pride of the Neighborhood, now for the most part neglected, -or turned into pasturage for cows. The trees interlacing, formed an -arch over-head, through which the sunlight flickered in long, slanting -rays; the air was very still, except for the soft hum of bees, and a -gentle wind that occasionally rustled the foliage and caressed the -petals of the wild-roses, which grew in careless profusion along the -road-side. Here and there, in sheltered nooks, wild violets still -lingered, and the fresh green grass in the fields was thickly strewn -with buttercups and daisies. But for all this beauty of the early -summer Elizabeth seemed to have no eyes. Her brows were knit and her -face clouded, and now and then she gave a vicious pull to the white -pony's reins more as a relief to her own feelings than from any hope -of hastening the movements of that dignified animal. - -Her thoughts matched the day as little as her looks. Her mind still -reverted with remorse to the outburst of an hour before. Why had she -displayed that childish petulance, and given audible expression to the -discontent which had smouldered unsuspected for many months? To speak -of it was useless and only distressed her aunts; it was not their -fault if the place was dull. And then she could, as a rule, amuse -herself well enough. There were always drives and walks, the garden -and the flowers, her books and her music, a hundred resources in which -she found unceasing pleasure. There was even to her warm vitality a -delight just then in the mere physical fact of living. And yet the -times were growing more frequent day by day, when all this would fail -her, when she would long passionately for novelty, for excitement, for -something--she hardly knew what. There were desperate moments when it -seemed to her that she would welcome any change whatsoever, when she -thought that even storm and stress might be preferable to dull -monotony. - -After all, it was not the dullness of the place which lay at the root -of her discontent. There was another trouble which went far deeper of -which she never spoke; yet it affected her whole attitude towards the -world, and more especially the Neighborhood. She did not feel at home -in the small, charmed circle of those who knew each other so well, not -even with the girls with whom she had played as a child. There had -always been a tacit assumption of superiority on their part, which -Elizabeth instinctively felt and resented. The most disagreeable -episode in her life was a quarrel with one of her playmates, in which -the latter had won the last word by an angry taunt against Elizabeth's -mother, who was "a horrid, common woman, whom no one in the -Neighborhood, would speak to--_her_ mother had said so." Elizabeth, -paralyzed, could think of no retort, but walked home in silence, -shedding bitter tears of rage and mortification. She did not repeat -the remark to her aunts--it was too painful and she somehow suspected -too true; but that night she cried herself to sleep and had consoling -dreams of a time when she should be a great personage, and able to -turn the tables on her tormentors. This was a long time ago; but the -old wound still rankled, and she held herself proudly aloof from her -former playmates. They, on their part pronounced her hard to get on -with, and their mothers made no effort to encourage the intimacy. In -the conservative society of the Neighborhood, Peter's marriage was -still vividly remembered, and could not easily be forgiven. Elizabeth -was pretty and to all appearance, well-bred, but still people thought -of her antecedents and maintained towards her an attitude of doubt. -It was the perception of this fact, the consciousness of having begun -life at a disadvantage, which embittered Elizabeth's thoughts as she -drove through the country lanes that June morning. - -The sun was high in the heavens when she reached Bassett Mills, a -nondescript place, neither town nor village, and much over-shadowed by -the glories of Cranston, not ten miles away. "The Mills" is not very -prosperous, but it has its factory, and the mill-stream, dashing -precipitously through its midst, lends some picturesqueness to the -squalid houses on its banks. There was a certain life and movement -this morning about the steep High Street, down which the white pony -took his leisurely way. A stream of factory people passed by to their -noon-day dinner; the street was full of wagons and carriages from the -Neighborhood. Elizabeth saw the Van Antwerp dog-cart standing in front -of the hardware shop, and caught a smile and bow from Mrs. Bobby, -which surprised her by their graciousness. Later on she met the -Courtenays, whom she knew better, but who greeted her more coldly. -Elizabeth's own bow was stiff, and the cloud which Mrs. Bobby's -cordiality had dispelled, again darkened her face. - -She went on to the Rectory, but here she found that the baby's illness -had developed into measles, and she could deposit her beef-tea at the -door and take her leave with a clear conscience. Outside she stood in -the hot sun debating if she should or should not stop to see her aunt -and cousin. It was a long time since she had been there, and her aunt -would be sure to assail her with reproaches. Amanda, too, would feel -injured, and look the spiteful things which she never actually said. -But then Elizabeth could usually rise superior to any spitefulness -that Amanda might display. She felt on the whole very kindly towards -her cousin, she liked to show her pretty gowns, and her good-nature -had even stood the test of several bungling attempts on Amanda's part -to imitate them. There were moments when, in the dearth of society, -Elizabeth would turn with a certain affection to this uncongenial -cousin, who at other times jarred upon her greatly. - -It was the remembrance of Miss Joanna's commissions that on this -occasion turned the scale in favor of the intended visit. Elizabeth -left the white pony, who would stand an indefinite time, and entered -the small dry-goods shop, where her aunt or Amanda generally presided. -It was empty. Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then she crossed the hall -that led to the living-rooms of the family. Here she paused in -astonishment. From behind the closed door of the parlor came the sound -of a man's voice; a rich, barytone voice singing from Tannhäuser the -song of the Evening Star. Elizabeth waited till it was over; then she -opened the door and went in. - - - - -_Chapter III_ - - -The young man who had just sung was still at the piano, softly playing -variations on the same air. She gave him one hurried glance. He was -tall and fair, with blue eyes and a silky blonde moustache, and he -wore a velveteen coat, much the worse for wear, and a turn-down collar -that showed to advantage the fine outlines of his throat and the -graceful poise of his head. These details Elizabeth grasped at once -before her gaze wandered to her aunt and Amanda, who were sitting idle -as she had never before seen them in the morning, with eyes intent on -the young man at the piano. Elizabeth noticed that Amanda had on her -Sunday frock and her hair very much frizzed. - -The girl had entered so softly that the three people already in the -room did not at first notice her presence. When they at last did so, -it seemed to cause something of a shock. Her aunt and Amanda stared at -her in silence, and Amanda turned a trifle pale. The young man rose -from the piano and looked at her intently for a moment with his bright -blue eyes; then he re-seated himself and went on playing, but much -more softly, and as if hardly conscious of what he did. - -Elizabeth's aunt was the first to recover herself, and upon second -thought it occurred to her that her niece had arrived at an opportune -moment--when she and Amanda had on their best clothes, and were -entertaining company. This reflection tempered the usual austerity of -her greeting. "Why, Elizabeth, is that you? You're quite a stranger. -It isn't often you honor us with your company." - -"You know," said Elizabeth, quite used to the formula of reproach and -excuse, with which these visits invariably opened "the white pony has -been lame, and I have driven out very little." - -"And you couldn't come on your wheel, I suppose? Nothing short of a -carriage would do for you. I wonder you don't insist on a groom in -top-boots. But well, never mind," Aunt Rebecca went on, feeling that -she had sufficiently maintained her dignity "you're very welcome now, -I'm sure, and you're just in time to hear some music. This is Paul -Halleck, who has been kind enough to sing for us. Mr. Halleck, this is -Amanda's cousin Elizabeth, whom you've heard us speak of." There was -an odd note of grudging satisfaction in her voice as she made the -introduction. Mrs. Jones's feeling towards her niece was a complex -one, characterized on the one hand, by an involuntary sense of -resentment at the elevation of Malvina's girl, on the other, by an -equally involuntary pride in the connection. The latter sensation -predominated when she introduced Elizabeth to a stranger whom she -wished to impress. - -Elizabeth's chief feeling was one of annoyance, and it brought an -angry flush to her cheek. Then she caught the look in the young man's -eyes, as he rose and bowed with much deference; and her own eyes fell -and again she blushed, but not with anger. - -"I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Van Vorst before," said Paul -Halleck, "though she has not, of course, noticed me." - -"Why, yes, of course," said Elizabeth's aunt, still in high good -humor, "you've seen her when you were out sketching. You see, -Elizabeth, he's a painter as well as a singer; he's quite a genius, -altogether. We find him a great acquisition to our parties here at The -Mills. And to think that he was born here, and lived here part of his -life! You remember the Hallecks that went West when you were a child? -They settled in Chicago, you know. He only came to New York awhile -ago, and thought he'd look up his folks in this place. But there, -Elizabeth, sit down, and perhaps Mr. Halleck will give us another -tune." - -Elizabeth silently took the chair the young man placed for her, while -her aunt still talked on volubly. The girl was bewildered by what she -heard. She could not imagine this handsome young singer, with his air -of picturesque Bohemia, as an acquisition to the parties of Bassett -Mills; nor did he seem at home in her aunt's parlor. She glanced about -the commonplace, gaudy little room, every detail of which impressed -itself upon her with a new sense of its crudeness; the plush-covered -furniture, staring wall-paper, the lace anti-macassars, the -photographs of the family, the men in high hats, the women simpering -in their Sunday clothes. It did not seem the fit atmosphere for an -artist. And then, with a sudden, sharp misgiving, Elizabeth looked at -Amanda, and asked herself for a moment if she could be the attraction. -The doubt vanished instantly. Poor Amanda was not pretty at the best -of times, and there was a sullen look on her face just then that made -her appear at her worst. She had a dull, pasty skin and very light -eyes. All the color seemed to be concentrated in her hair, which was a -deep, dark red, all the more striking for the contrast to her pale -face. The gown she wore, of a bright yellow, was peculiarly successful -in bringing out the faded tints of her complexion and the jarring -vividness of her hair. - -Amanda at that moment felt to the full the unkindness of fate. She had -not shared for an instant her mother's gratification at Elizabeth's -entrance. It was hard, she thought, that, having arrayed herself in -her best, and struggled long to look beautiful, she should be -completely over-shadowed by Elizabeth in the cool white gown and shady -hat, which had a provoking air of not being her best, but merely her -natural and everyday attire. Amanda had seen, as well as Elizabeth, -the look in Paul's eyes. Was it fair, she asked herself, that she -should share her good things with Elizabeth, who had so many of her -own? And so Amanda sat silent and sullen, while her mother talked on, -and Halleck ran his fingers over the keys, as if he would fain be -playing. - -"What shall I sing?" he asked abruptly, in the first pause, and -looking at Elizabeth as if her wishes alone were of any consequence. - -"Oh, the Evening Star again," she responded eagerly. "I only heard the -end of it, and it brought up so many delightful memories." - -So Halleck sang the song again. A voice, artistically modulated, -filled the little room, which vanished for Elizabeth. She saw pilgrims -filing past in slow procession, Tannhäuser struggling against the -power of the Venusberg, Elizabeth kneeling in her penitent's dress -before the cross. The whole Wagnerian drama unrolled itself before her -eyes while the song lasted. And then, as the last note died away, she -came back to the present with a start, and realized that the young man -who had just afforded her this pleasure was handsomer far than any -Wolfram she had ever seen before. - -"Ah, thank you," she said, drawing a long breath. "That is so -beautiful. It is so long since I have heard any music." - -"You are fond of it?" said Halleck, eagerly. - -"Yes," she responded, earnestly. - -"Ah, I saw it--I was sure of it," he declared. "You have the artistic -temperament. I saw it in your face at once." - -Elizabeth blushed for the third time that morning, and now with a -distinct sense of pleasure. Amanda, too, flushed a dull red. She was -not quite certain what the artistic temperament might be, but it was -clearly one of those good things of which Elizabeth had an unfair -monopoly. - -"You play or sing yourself, of course?" Halleck went on. - -"Oh, I play a little," Elizabeth pouted out her full under-lip, in -charming deprecation of her own powers. "I am ashamed, before a real -musician, to say that I play at all." - -"I am not a real musician, alas!" said Halleck, "only a dabbler in -music, as I am in art." A thoughtful look came into his blue eyes, and -he went on absently playing fragments from Tannhäuser. "I am glad you -like that," he said, abruptly. "You remember the heroine was called -Elizabeth." - -"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember." It gave her an odd little thrill -of pleasure to hear him pronounce her name, and yet she wondered if -his remark were not too personal to be in good taste. "But I don't -think I am at all like that Elizabeth," she added, after a moment, -following out his suggestion in spite of this doubt. - -"No, perhaps not," said Halleck, regarding her with a calm scrutiny, -in which he seemed to appraise her no longer as a woman, but purely -from an artistic point of view. "You are not exactly that type; you -have more life and color, less spirituality, perhaps; but you are -fair, and your hair would do admirably. You would make a beautiful -picture with your hair unbound, kneeling before the cross." - -"I have never had my picture painted," Elizabeth murmured, trying to -imagine herself in a penitent's garb. - -"Will you let me try it?" - -Elizabeth smiled and assented, deciding that no long acquaintance was -necessary, when it was a question of having her picture painted, in a -costume which she was quite determined should be becoming. She sat -mentally reviewing the resources of her wardrobe, while Halleck struck -sonorous chords on the piano, and asked if she recognized this or that -Wagnerian theme, upon which he proceeded to extemporize. Amanda and -her mother were distinctly left out, and the latter began to repent of -her first satisfaction in her niece's visit. She broke in at last, -brusquely, upon the very midst of the love-music from "Tristan and -Isolde." "Well, I don't think much of this Wagner," she said. "His -music all sounds the same--a lot of queer noises, with no tune to -them. What I like now is 'Home, Sweet Home,' or 'Nancy Lee'--something -real nice and catchy." - -"I can play those, too," said Halleck, good-humoredly, and immediately -played the first mentioned air, with variations of his own -improvisation. At the end of it he rose from the piano. "Won't you -play for me now," he said to Elizabeth. - -"Oh, no, not after you." Elizabeth shook her head and rose to her -feet, with a sudden recollection of the white pony and her aunt's -dinner-hour. "Some other day," she said, "I'll be very glad to play -for you, but really now I have not the time--or the courage." She -spoke with a pretty, smiling deference, and she held out her hand, -which he took in a long, lingering grasp. There was a soft glow of -color in her cheeks, her eyes were cast down till he could see only -her long lashes. "Thank you so much," she said "for the music." Then -she drew her hand away from his and kissed her aunt and Amanda, with -an unwonted display of affection. She felt an odd sense of excitement, -a wish to be friendly with all the world. - -Neither her aunt nor Amanda seemed to share it. They did not try to -detain her, and Halleck, though he looked disappointed, said nothing. -They all three escorted her to the door of the shop, where the white -pony stood patiently enduring the heat and the flies. Elizabeth -lingered over her farewells. She wished to ask her new acquaintance to -come to see her, but disliked doing so before her aunt and cousin. It -was he who finally said, leaning over her as he placed the reins in -her hand: "And--a--how about that picture? May I come to see you about -it?" - -Elizabeth's eyes were still hidden as she answered demurely: "I am -sure I--we shall be very glad to see you at the Homestead." - -And then she drove off, and the others stood for a moment and looked -after her in silence. - -"She--she's pretty--isn't she," said Amanda, suddenly speaking for the -first time since Elizabeth had appeared. Her voice, even to herself, -sounded harsh and grating. Her lips were very dry. - -Halleck started and looked at her as if reminded of her existence. -Then a smile stole over his face and sparkled in his handsome blue -eyes. - -"Yes, she's rather pretty," he answered, carelessly "but--a little -disappointing on a close view. However, she'll do very well as a -model--she's picturesque, at least." - -Amanda drew a long breath of sudden and intense relief. - - - - -_Chapter V_ - - -"And so you say this young man lives at The Mills, my dear?" Miss -Cornelia paused, the heavy, elaborately chased tea-pot suspended in -her hand. Her gentle, near-sighted eyes looked anxiously across the -table at Elizabeth. - -It was the first time that the girl had spoken of her new -acquaintance, though it was now some time since her return from -Bassett Mills, and she had told at once of the measles at the Rectory. -This piece of news, however, had lasted them well through dinner, and -in the country it is improvident to use up all one's information at -once. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of this; or it might be that the other -item did not strike her as of any special importance. She only -mentioned it very casually at tea-time; but her aunts' anxiety was -easily aroused at any suggestion of new acquaintances at Bassett -Mills. - -"I don't think he lives at The Mills," Elizabeth made answer now -reluctantly to Miss Cornelia's question. "I think he--he is just -staying there--I believe Aunt Rebecca said something about his coming -from Chicago. But his family used to live at The Mills." - -"You don't mean those Hallecks who went West a long time ago?" -exclaimed Miss Joanna. "Do you remember, sister?--the man was in jail -the most of the time. The children used to play on the road behind the -church--poor little neglected things, I was quite worried about them. -It was a relief, I remember, when they all went away." - -Elizabeth found this piece of ancient history peculiarly inopportune. - -"Well, that was a long time ago, Aunt Joanna," she said. "It doesn't -matter, I suppose, so much what people's parents were like. Mr. -Halleck is very nice himself. He is an artist, and he wants to paint -my picture." She brought out this last information, which she had been -longing to tell for some time, with a certain triumph; but it fell -unexpectedly flat. - -"An artist!" Miss Joanna repeated. "Dear me! One of those little -Hallecks who used to play in the road." - -"To paint your picture, my dear?" repeated Miss Cornelia still more -doubtfully. "When he has only met you once! I am afraid he is rather a -pushing young man. But of course, dear, you won't encourage him." - -Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her plate; her cheeks were painfully -flushed and she bit her lips to keep back the scalding tears that rose -to her eyes. "I don't think he is pushing," she murmured, but she said -no more. How could she explain to her aunts the vast difference that -existed between this young man and any other friend of Amanda's? They -were dear, good women, but so hopelessly narrow and antiquated, with -their little old-fashioned ideas of propriety, their distinctions -founded on the conventional laws of the Neighborhood. Elizabeth, too, -was not without an involuntary respect for these distinctions. She had -her full share of the pride of birth which was instinctive in every -Van Vorst, even in the most ignorant country lout that had ever borne -the family name and lowered the family credit. With Elizabeth it was -only intensified, perhaps, by a doubt of her own position. But then -she belonged to the new generation; and there was a side of her nature -that recognized the futility of these old traditions. Elizabeth did -not analyze her feelings; she was only conscious of a vague sense of -revolt, a desire to beat her wings as it were, against the cages of -conventional distinctions, and test her powers of flight. - -But she did not put all this into words. Her aunts would not have -understood. She did not understand herself. She rose from the -tea-table presently, with a murmured excuse, leaving the food on her -plate untasted, to Miss Joanna's great distress, and wandered into the -drawing-room and sat down at the piano. The keys seemed to respond -with unusual readiness to her touch, the music expressed in some vague -way what she could not put into words. She played on restlessly, -feverishly, for more than an hour, passing from one thing to another; -Chopin nocturnes, waltzes, Hungarian dances, fragments from Wagner; -anything she could remember. - -The drawing-room remained dim for the sake of coolness; it was -unlighted except for a lamp at a corner-table, beside which Miss -Joanna sat with her knitting. As Elizabeth played she nodded -comfortably and presently fell asleep. This was always the effect of -Elizabeth's playing; she said she found it very soothing. Miss -Cornelia sat upright in an old-fashioned, high-backed chair close to -the piano. She moved her head in time to the music, and the thin -little silvery curls that framed in her worn, delicate face seemed to -sway in unison with the melody. She wore a black gown, a trifle -antiquated in fashion but falling about her in graceful folds, and -some rich old lace softened the outlines of her throat. There was a -gentle, tremulous dignity about her nowadays. Miss Cornelia was very -happy in moments like these. It was touching to see the pride she took -in Elizabeth's music. But after awhile this evening the girl let her -hands drop on the keys, and said impatiently: "Oh, it's no use, I -can't say what I want to say. The music's in me, but it won't come -out. If you could have heard that man to-day at Aunt Rebecca's." - -"Do you mean that young Halleck, my dear?" said Miss Cornelia in -surprise, and pronouncing his name with evident distaste. "I didn't -know that he played." - -"He can do anything," Elizabeth declared. "He paints, he can improvise -by the hour, he sings as well as any opera-singer, and--he is very -handsome. He would make a superb Lohengrin or Tristan," she added, -thoughtfully "only, unfortunately, his voice is barytone. I wonder why -Wagner showed such partiality to tenors." - -"But he is not--going on the stage, is he, my dear?" asked Miss -Cornelia, tentatively. She felt more anxiety than pleasure at hearing -of this paragon. - -"I don't know," said Elizabeth, "and it doesn't much matter. I am not -to know him, you see, because his people used to live in the village -years ago, and Aunt Joanna saw him playing on the road." She spoke -bitterly. - -"But, my dear, I--we never meant anything of the kind," protested Miss -Cornelia. But Elizabeth went on without heeding her. - -"Of course I know the rules of the Neighborhood. They would no more -think of knowing a young man from Bassett Mills than they would a -convict. But I don't really belong to the Neighborhood; I'm only on -the outskirts, as it were--tolerated for your sake and for -Grandmamma's. I'm tired of being a sort of nondescript--neither flesh, -fowl, nor good red herring." The girl's face was hard, but she spoke -quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if stating inevitable truths. - -Miss Cornelia sat mute, bewildered, her whole soul wrung by a -powerless resentment against fate. If by any sacrifice on her part she -could have provided for Elizabeth congenial society--the charming -young girls and attractive young men of whom she and her sister had -often dreamed--she would have made it thankfully; but with all her -love, there was nothing--or there seemed to her nothing that she could -do. They had given Elizabeth every advantage, she was beautiful and -charming; and the result of it all was that she felt herself to be "a -sort of nondescript, neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring." It -was a very bitter thought for Miss Cornelia. - -Elizabeth, seeing this, felt remorseful for the second time that day. -"Don't look so unhappy, auntie," she said, quickly. "It's not your -fault--no, nor mine either; and, I suppose, it's not the fault of the -Neighborhood. People can't help being narrow and conservative; they -were born so. But then, Aunt Cornelia, when--when I don't have so many -friends, you can't expect me to draw the line so awfully closely." -Something like a sob crept into the girl's voice, but she went on with -hardly a pause: "You mustn't think that I would want to know--any one. -This man isn't like the rest of Amanda's friends. Only wait till you -hear him sing--you would lose your heart, I'm sure, on the spot. And -now, confess, auntie, you would like me to have my picture painted. -The girls at school used to say that I would make a glorious picture. -Do _you_ think I would make a pretty picture, auntie?" She went over -to Miss Cornelia and put her arms around her, looking up into her face -with laughing, brilliant eyes, from which all bitterness had -disappeared. - -"My darling." Miss Cornelia, bewildered by the quick change of mood, -could not find words. She thought that Elizabeth would make the -prettiest picture in the world; but to have told her so would have -been to run counter to all her ideas of propriety. So she finally -said, with due regard for accepted formulas: "You shouldn't think so -much about looks, Elizabeth. If you are good, that's the main thing." - -"Of course, it's the main thing," Elizabeth assented, "but I'm afraid -if it came to a choice, I'd rather be pretty, auntie, and so would -most people." She ended with a light little laugh, and Miss Cornelia, -in spite of her principles, attempted no rebuke. - -The look of gaiety soon faded from Elizabeth's face. With a quick, -impatient little sigh, she walked over to the window, and looked out -into the night. It was still and sultry; heavy storm clouds were -gathering and obscured the sky. The old elm trees, growing close about -the house, cast sombre shadows; they seemed to keep out what little -air there was. Elizabeth, as she leaned her hot cheek against the cool -glass of the window-pane, felt again a sense of stifling, of being in -a cage. It was useless to beat her wings; life was outside, but she -could not reach it. "Oh, I would give anything in the world," she -thought "just to breathe, to be free, to know what life is." - -Suddenly she turned around with a start. There was a voice in the -hall; some one spoke her name. A moment later a young man was -advancing towards her across the dimly-lighted room. Mechanically she -went to meet him. She did not think of her aunts, she did not think of -anything but his presence. - -"Have I--come too soon?" Paul Halleck asked, as he took her hand. - - - - -_Chapter VI_ - - -Elizabeth drove again, a few weeks later, through shady, fragrant -lanes, on her way to Bassett Mills. It was early in the morning, but -the sun was already hot. The wild-roses along the road-side had mostly -departed, the grass in the fields had a parched look. It was a long -time since any rain had fallen, and the roads were thick with dust. -All the freshness of the early summer had faded. But for these signs -of premature blight and the scorching effect of the sun, Elizabeth -seemed to have no eyes. - -She drove along in a happy dream. There was a brilliant color in her -cheeks, a radiant light in her eyes. She bloomed like a rose that has -unfolded every petal to the summer sunshine. The fields through which -she passed were not the familiar pasture-lands and "places" that -skirted the road to Bassett Mills; they were the flowery meadows of -poetic Arcadia, on the road that led to Paradise. - -It was something of a bore, under the circumstances, that she must -first of all go to Bassett Mills, but Miss Joanna had intrusted her -with numerous commissions, that she could not very well refuse to -discharge. That was the reason why she had started so early. There was -a brook in a meadow near by; a brook shaded by weeping willow trees, -under which nowadays a young artist sat sketching for many hours at a -time. Elizabeth's drives, or walks had for the last few weeks led no -further. But to-day she had decided to go first to Bassett Mills, and -be back in time for the usual engagement, of which her aunts knew -nothing. - -The affair was not really so clandestine. There was no reason why she -should have kept it secret beyond a vague embarrassment, an -unwillingness to speak about the one subject that occupied her -thoughts. Miss Cornelia and Miss Joanna had, after the one protest, -yielded to the inevitable; they had not even discouraged young -Halleck's visits to their niece. They had gone so far as to admit, -when he had come to tea at the Homestead, and sung and played for them -afterwards for hours, that he was an extremely talented young man. It -had been a most successful evening, Miss Joanna had not even gone to -sleep. And yet, with it all, in both sisters there was some innate -distrust, some lingering prejudice perhaps, that prevented them from -succumbing entirely to the charm of his handsome face and beautiful -voice. They were civil to him--painfully civil; but they did not -welcome him as they would have welcomed young Frank Courtenay, who -used to stare at Elizabeth in church every Sunday, but had never -apparently mustered up courage to come and see her. He was much under -the influence of his mother, who considered Elizabeth's hair -"conspicuous" and had remarked that it was bad taste for a young girl -to be _too_ well dressed--a fault that could not in justice be -alleged against her own daughters. - -Elizabeth, too, might have welcomed the visits of young Courtenay. -There had been times when she had doubted, sadly, if she were really -so pretty as the girls at school had seemed to think. But these times -were past, and she had not a thought to spare for Frank Courtenay's -heavy, commonplace good looks. Paul Halleck had assured her many times -that she was beautiful, and had sketched her in every variety of pose, -in that impressionistic style which Elizabeth had secretly thought -rather ugly, before she learned to regard it as the last word in Art. - -Elizabeth had learned many other things in the last few weeks. Halleck -undertook her education in all artistic and literary matters, showing -her how little she had hitherto known of this or that great light. He -quoted Swinburne and Rossetti; he read her extracts from Maeterlinck -and Ibsen; he opened for her the treasures of that school which Nordau -calls degenerate. He had all the intellectual and artistic jargon of -the day at his tongue's end. She sat at his feet and devoutly learned -it all. - -She knew his history, now. It was very romantic, and it lost nothing -in the telling. He had a keen eye for artistic effect, and spared not -one sordid detail of his early surroundings which served to throw into -more brilliant relief his subsequent career. He told how the -possession of a lovely childish soprano had raised him literally from -the gutter, and procured him a position as boy soloist in a Chicago -church, and how, later on, a patron was found, who sent him abroad to -study. He had wandered from one European centre to another; learned to -play in Dresden and to paint in Paris, and developed a fine barytone -voice, of which great things were prophesied. In fact, he was a -universal genius, and could do anything, except apparently earn a -living, which indeed has been always hard for genius. And so at last -he drifted back to Chicago, where he sang for a while in the same -church where he had begun his career; but finally left for some reason -or another, and tried his fortune in New York. He was debating now -whether to go abroad again to study in earnest for the stage, and -meanwhile he was on a walking tour, sketching about the country. He -had come to Bassett Mills for the sake of old associations, and had -stayed--well, he left it to Elizabeth to imagine _why_ he stayed. - -All this was very interesting and romantic; far more so, Elizabeth -thought, than any ordinary affair could have been, with some -commonplace youth of the neighborhood. She had only one regret; she -could not help wishing in her heart that Paul's early surroundings had -been, if not more exalted, less familiar. She would have preferred him -to have no associations with, no friends at, Bassett Mills. The place -seemed to her, as she drove through it that morning, so hopelessly -common, so unusually prosaic. The ugly, sordid houses, the people with -their faces of dull stolidity, jarred upon the ecstatic tone of her -mood. She could not imagine that genius could be born in such -surroundings. - -The discordant note was still more striking when, having discharged -the greater part of her commissions, she entered the dry-goods shop, -and found Aunt Rebecca in her most trying humor. - -"So that's you, Elizabeth," she said, looking her niece severely up -and down, while her thin lips moved at the corners. "It seems to me -you're very much dressed up, driving round these dusty roads. The way -you wear white is a caution! But I suppose for a millionaire like you -it don't matter about the washing." - -Elizabeth bit her lip. "I'm not a millionaire, you know Aunt Rebecca," -she said, "but I like to wear white, and it's as cheap as anything in -the end. Is Amanda in?" she added quickly, anxious to stave off -further criticism. "I'll go back and see her if she is." - -"She's in the parlor," said Amanda's mother, shortly. "She's got a -headache. I guess she don't feel like seeing company," she added -hastily, but the words came too late. Elizabeth had already left the -shop, and was crossing the narrow, dark little hall that led to the -parlor. Her heart beat rapidly as she did so. She felt an odd, utterly -irrational desire to feast her eyes on the spot where she had first -experienced such new and delightful sensations. - -There was no music in the room now, no air of festivity. The -atmosphere was close and musty, the sun poured in at the window beside -which Amanda sat sewing. She bent closely over her work, her skin was -more pasty than ever and her eyes were red and swollen. Elizabeth -remembered her aunt's words about the headache; otherwise she might -have thought that her cousin had been crying. She went over and kissed -her with a friendliness born of her own superabundant joy. The lips -she touched were dry and hot. Amanda did not respond to the caress. -She stared stupidly at Elizabeth, as if half dazed by her sudden -entrance. - -"How are you, Amanda?" Elizabeth said. "I'm sorry you have a headache. -Perhaps it's the heat. It's a terribly hot day, and the roads are so -dusty. Aunt Rebecca implied that my dress showed that very plainly. It -was clean this morning--does it really look so badly?" She walked over -to the mirror and inspected herself critically, setting her hat -straight and adjusting the white ribbon about her throat. It was a -long narrow glass, framed in black walnut, and there was a shelf -underneath it, which supported a large sea-shell. The whole thing -reminded her of a similar arrangement at her dressmaker's in town, and -seemed in some way the crowning feature of the prosaic, painfully -respectable character of the room. She hated to look at herself -there--the glass brought out all one's defects. But to-day, in spite -of the trying glare of the sunshine, her own image flashed back at -her, so brilliantly fresh, in her white dimity gown, so redolent of -health and beauty, that she could not help smiling back at it, as at -some delightful apparition. Ah, yes, it was good to be young and -pretty, and to have a lover waiting for one near by. Her eyes -brightened unconsciously, and she gave a little caressing touch to -the shining masses of wavy hair which stood out, like red molten gold, -against the broad brim of her shady white hat. - -The other girl sat and watched her. - -"You like to look at yourself, don't you?" The words rang out harshly, -suddenly. Elizabeth started and turned around. It seemed to her for a -moment as if some third person had spoken--some one with a strange, -mocking voice that she had never heard before. But there was no one -else in the room. - -"Yes, you like to look at yourself." Amanda went on after a pause, -more quietly, "you think yourself a beauty, and a good many people, -perhaps, might agree with you. _He_ tells you so, I suppose. I daresay -he tells you your hair's picturesque--he used to tell me that about -mine. He was going to paint my picture, but it went out of his head -when he saw you. Most things did, I guess. He--he hasn't been here -since." The girl's voice broke in a quick, convulsive sob, and she -stopped for a moment, but went on almost immediately: "If you hadn't -come in that day, it would have been all right. We were keeping -company; every one in The Mills knew we were. All the girls were -jealous of me--as if he'd have looked at them! Some of them work in -the factory, there's many of them don't even have a piano and sit in -their kitchens. I know what's genteel, even if I can't talk all that -rubbish about music and Wagner that you learned at school. And what -good will all that do you when you're married? What do you know about -mending and sewing and cooking? What sort of a wife would you make -him? You'd ruin him in a month with your fine clothes. But men are -such fools!" She gave a short mirthless laugh, her eyes glittered -strangely. Elizabeth stared at her paralyzed, glued to the spot in -helpless fascination. She had never heard Amanda talk so much before. -Her words came quickly, fiercely, one upon another, like some -overwhelming torrent that had been suddenly let loose. - -"Why should you have so much more than me? Why should you have fine -clothes, and a carriage, and go to school in New York, and have the -swells in the neighborhood call on you? Was your mother any better -than mine, or a hundredth part as good? She wasn't even respectable; -no decent people at The Mills would speak to her before your father -married her--I know that for a fact. And then to give yourself airs!" -Amanda stopped short, panting, exhausted by her own vehemence. -Elizabeth still stood before her powerless. When Amanda spoke of her -mother the color rushed into her white face, and she made an effort to -speak; but the words seemed to die away on her lips. Amanda, after a -moment's pause, went on. - -"It isn't that I care so much about that; you might have had -everything else, if you hadn't taken--him. Why did you come in that -day looking like a dressed-up doll? You hadn't been here for weeks, -and I was glad. I didn't want him to know you--I wasn't afraid of the -other girls. But you who've got so much--couldn't you have had the -decency to leave him alone? Couldn't you see that he was mine?" - -"Amanda," Elizabeth gasped out. "I--I didn't know. I--I never -thought"--Her brain reeled, she stammered painfully, trying in vain -for words to vindicate herself from this shameful charge. Amanda -brushed her aside contemptuously. - -"You didn't think?--no, you never do, of anything but yourself, your -pretty face and pretty clothes! You're selfish and spoiled--every one -knows it; you've had every wish granted till you want everything, and -you won't be satisfied with less. But what's the good of saying all -this to you?" she broke off suddenly, with a sharp change of tone. "I -must be crazy; I've felt so, I'm sure, these last weeks. It won't make -any difference--nothing I say can bring him back. And yet he'd have -married me--if you hadn't come." She went to Elizabeth and gripped her -by the wrist. "He kissed me once," she said. "Has he kissed you yet?" - -"No," said Elizabeth, mechanically, "no." She shrank away a little and -set her teeth. Amanda's grasp was painful, but she would not have -cried out for worlds. - -"Well, when he does," Amanda said, "remember this--he kissed me first. -You can't take that away from me--I have the first claim." She let go -of Elizabeth's hands and fell back a step. There were two deep red -marks from her grasp. "Now go," she said, "go to him. I knew you were -going to him--I saw you thinking of it, and it made me hate you. Go -to him and tell him that I hope his love for you will last as long as -it did for me." She laughed again harshly and then suddenly burst into -violent weeping. "Oh, it's ignominious," she said, "it's contemptible. -No one can despise me more than I do myself. I haven't any pride. I -hate him--I hate him; yet I'd take him back now, if he'd come to me." -She sank down on the sofa and hid her face in the red plush cushions, -while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. - -Elizabeth stood still in the middle of the floor. Mechanically she -glanced at her reflection in the mirror; white, distraught, with -startled eyes--a ghastly parody of the brilliant vision which had -smiled back at her only a few minutes before. The hot sunlight, -flooding the commonplace little room, seemed to bring out, with -glaring vividness, all the tragic, sordid elements of the scene. A -quarrel between two women about a lover! Could anything be more -hopelessly vulgar and grotesque? - -It was the sting of this thought that finally roused Elizabeth to -speech. She raised her head with sudden haughtiness, and her words -came clearly and fluently. "I don't know what you mean, Amanda," she -said "by this scene. If there is any one whom you--you think I have -taken from you, you can have him back to-morrow so far as I am -concerned. I don't want any other woman's lover. It--it would be base. -Whatever else you think me, I'm not--that. If it is Paul Halleck whom -you mean, you can marry him, if you wish, to-morrow. At least you may -be sure of one thing, that I never will." Her low, vehement voice -died away, and she waited for an answer; but none came. Amanda only -sobbed on hysterically, her face buried in the sofa-cushions. - -Elizabeth stood looking at her for a moment, with a feeling in which -pity, anger and repulsion were strangely mingled; then she hastily -left the room by the door that led directly to the street. She had -presence of mind enough to avoid the shop and her aunt's unfriendly -eyes. She reached the carriage, and--un-heard-of thing--touched the -white pony with the whip. - - - - -_Chapter VII_ - - -They had left the last house behind; they were out in the open -country. Elizabeth dropped the reins and let her tears flow -unchecked--hot, blinding tears, the bitterest she had ever shed. At -each familiar tree and landmark she sobbed with redoubled violence. -Only an hour before she had driven along this same road in the -ecstatic glow of her first romance. Now all the bloom had been rubbed -from that romance, all the glory faded from the hero of her dreams; -she herself was a woman who had been insulted, humiliated, dragged in -the dust. - -By degrees a few coherent phrases detached themselves from the -confused mass of painful recollections, and stung more sharply than -the rest. "My mother better than yours--she wasn't even respectable; -no decent people would speak to her" ... Oh, it was too bad--too bad; -she had not thought it was so bad as that. Amanda must have -exaggerated--she would ask her aunts; but no, no she would never speak -of that interview to a soul. It was humiliating enough as it was.... -"He kissed me once. Has he kissed you yet?" No, thank Heaven! that -indignity had been spared her. They had hovered as yet on the -borderland of love; she had put off the inevitable declaration with -instinctive coquetry, a vague unwillingness to be won too easily. She -was glad now--glad and thankful; he did not know that she cared,--he -should never know. She had no love for the man who had kissed -Amanda.... "Selfish and spoiled--thinking only of herself?" Yes, she -might be all that; but at least she would not take another woman's -lover. The words "it would be base," rang in her ears. Had she spoken -them, or Amanda? At all events, they were true. It would be base to -marry Halleck now. In fact, she did not wish to marry him. It was he -who had involved her in this horrible, sordid misery. Her aunts were -right; there must be distinctions of classes. Had her father -remembered this, people would not have it in their power to insult his -daughter now. - -Through all her complex feelings ran a sharp sense of anger against -Amanda, mingled strangely with an involuntary pity, almost with an -understanding of her point of view. It was not based on justice, but -on fellow feeling. Amanda had resented her superiority; she, -Elizabeth, knew what that was. She had felt the same herself, when -smarting impotently under the patronizing friendliness of the other -girls in the Neighborhood, and then had turned, with unconscious -snobbery, to play the same part towards Amanda. The incongruous, -grotesque humor of the situation struck her suddenly, and she laughed -out loud in bitter irony. She had envied the other girls of the -Neighborhood, Amanda had envied her, the girls at Bassett Mills had -envied Amanda. Strange net-work of classes in a democratic country, -of distinctions the more galling for their intangibility. Of one thing -Elizabeth was convinced, that she could never herself "put on airs" as -Amanda had said, again; there was not a girl in the whole countryside, -blessed with a good mother, who could not look down on her, if she -pleased. - -Her tears were falling now so fast and blinding that she could not see -the road; she was not even conscious that they had reached the spot -where the white pony stopped now of his own accord. And even as he did -so, a young man stepped forward and grasped the reins which had fallen -from Elizabeth's nerveless hand; a tall, fair young man who had been -standing for the last half hour, scanning anxiously, with his bright -blue eyes, the glaring dusty road. - -"Elizabeth," said Halleck (he had called her that for five happy days) -"Elizabeth, why are you so late? And, for Heaven's sake, what's the -matter?" - -Elizabeth looked up and with great effort, stopped crying; but -otherwise she made no sign of pleasure in his presence or even of -recognition. She put up one hand, indeed, and straightened her hat, -but this was a purely mechanical concession to the force of habit. She -knew that her face was flushed and tear-stained, her eyes red and -swollen; she was sure that she looked an absolute fright, and she did -not care. She was past caring, at least for the moment. - -"Elizabeth," Halleck repeated, more and more bewildered, "what is the -matter? I've been waiting for you an hour. You've been crying," he -added, stating unnecessarily an obvious fact. "Won't you tell me what -it is?" - -"Nothing--nothing," Elizabeth answered at last, in a voice that was -still thick and choked with sobs. "I haven't been crying or," struck -by the futility of denial, she added hastily "if I have it--it's no -matter. Will you please let me pass?" She tried to take the reins from -his hands, but he grasped them firmly, and laid the other hand on the -bar of the wagon. - -"Won't you let me pass?" she repeated stubbornly. - -"Not till you tell me what's the matter." - -He eyed her coolly, determinedly, all the habit of power depicted on -the lines of his handsome face. She stared back at him defiantly, with -her tear-swollen eyes. Her whole attitude breathed the spirit of -rebellion; a spirit new in their intercourse. Halleck saw it, at the -same time that he noted the disfiguring marks of tears on her face. -Oddly enough, he had never admired her so much. - -Nevertheless, he was determined to remain master of the situation. He -glanced up and down the road; there were never many people passing, -but it was not safe to rely on this fact. - -"We can't talk here," he said. "Come into the field." - -"I don't wish to," she said, stubbornly. "I'm going home." - -He fixed his eyes upon her. "You shall not go home," he said quietly, -"till you have told me all about it." She sat immovable, her pouting -under lip thrust out in a way that she had sometimes, in moments of -obstinacy and displeasure. She did not meet his eyes. "Don't be -childish," Paul said, pleasantly, after a moment. "You know you must -tell me what it is." - -She looked up reluctantly, and met his steady gaze, under which she -turned first white, then red, and slowly, as if fascinated, rose from -her seat. Yet still her words were unyielding. "We may as well have it -out at once," she said, coldly. - -Halleck could not repress a thrill of triumph. It was sweet to test -his power over this beautiful, high-spirited girl, to feel her will, -her intellect, like wax in his hands. But he tried not to show this -consciousness in his face. She was in a strange mood; he did not -understand her. Gravely and respectfully he helped her to scale the -stone wall, which separated the meadow from the road. Her hand barely -rested on his, and her eyes were averted carefully, but he paid no -heed. He fastened the white pony to a tree, then slowly and -thoughtfully followed Elizabeth across the field. - -The noon-day sun beat down upon them in all its scorching brilliancy; -it was pleasant to gain the shade of their usual trysting-place. Here -the little brook, which had rippled and sparkled over stones and moss -all the way from the mill-stream, formed itself into a quiet pool, -over which weeping willows spread out long branches, and seemed to -admire their own reflection in the cool green mirror beneath. -Elizabeth took her usual seat on a fallen moss-covered log, drawing, -as she did so, her white skirts about her, with what seemed an -involuntary gesture of repulsion, and Halleck, who was about to place -himself beside her, flushed and bit his lip. After a moment's -hesitation, he threw himself down sullenly on the grass a little way -off. - -"Tell me," he said, in a tone that was the more determined for this -little episode "tell me now what the matter is." - -Elizabeth's eyes were fixed upon the cool, green water at her feet. "I -don't know why you think," she said, slowly "that it has anything to -do with you." - -"Not when you are a full hour late for our appointment? Not when you -treat me like an outcast? Oh, Elizabeth,"--the young man's voice -softened suddenly, skillfully--"how can you trifle with me so, when I -love you?" - -He caught, or thought he did, a quiver in her face, although her eyes -were still resolutely bent upon the pool. "Yes, I love you," he -repeated. "I've loved you, I believe, ever since the day you came into -that horrid, stuffy little room, looking like an angel--with that hair -and that skin--so different from Amanda."-- - -He stopped as an indignant wave of color flamed in Elizabeth's cheeks. -"How can you speak of Amanda--like that?" she broke out passionately, -"when you loved her too, or told her so at least, when you said the -same things no doubt to her that you are saying now to me?" - -A light broke in upon Paul. In his relief he laughed out loud. -"Amanda," he said. "Amanda! So she has been talking to you? And you -believed all the nonsense she told you? And that is why you acted so -strangely. I thought it was something serious!" And he laughed again -in sheer light-heartedness. So all this had been only jealous pique, -after all. - -The gloom on Elizabeth's face did not lighten. "You seem to find the -idea amusing," she said, coldly. "I do not." - -"Because you don't understand how absurd it is. I never made love to -Amanda--if she made love to me"--Paul stopped, warned by a curious -stiffening in Elizabeth's attitude that he was on dangerous ground. -She was not like other girls whom he had known--he had noticed this -before; she required special treatment. "My dear child," he said, in a -calm, argumentative tone "really you are a little hard on me. A man -can't measure every word he says to a girl. I may have paid Amanda a -few compliments, flirted with her a little, if you insist upon it, -but--that's not a crime, is it? And I never gave her a thought, I -hardly remembered her existence, after I had once--seen you." There -was unmistakable sincerity in his voice. "Look at me, Elizabeth," he -went on anxiously, "look at me, and tell me that you believe me." - -Elizabeth raised her troubled eyes to his. "I--I don't know," she -said, slowly. She did believe him--to some extent, at least. But what -he told her did not alter the fact that it was she who had taken him -away from Amanda, that, but for her, he might have been her cousin's -admirer still. And that, after all, had been the substance of Amanda's -accusation. - -"Tell me the truth," she said, suddenly "if I had not come in that -day--if you had never seen me, would you--would you have married -Amanda?" She fixed her eager eyes upon his face, and waited breathless -for his answer. He gave it with a light laugh. - -"Marry Amanda!" he declared, "well, hardly! Such an idea never entered -my head." - -"Then," said Elizabeth, slowly "you deceived her." - -He shrugged his shoulders. "She deceived herself, I think," he said. -"It's not my fault if she--imagined things. Why should I marry a girl -like that? She's not pretty, she's stupid, ignorant. Bah, don't talk -to me of Amanda." He disposed of the matter with a wave of the hand -and another light laugh. Elizabeth felt a sudden conviction of the -absurdity of her own behavior. The painful, scorching flush in her -cheeks was beginning to cool; the burning, angry shame in her heart -was dying away. The remembrance of Amanda's words grew fainter; Paul's -handsome face, his air of triumphant health and life, were again in -the ascendent. - -He saw the yielding in her eyes and brought out his most effective -argument. He took boldly the seat beside her on the log and though she -shrank away, it was not, he thought, entirely with aversion. "My -darling," he said, "don't let trifles come between us. I love you, you -love me; isn't that enough? Elizabeth, you are the most beautiful -woman in the world. Elizabeth, dearest" ... He put out his arm and -drew her towards him. She still shrank away, fascinated yet trembling, -frightened at this new delight, this thrill of pleasure in his touch. - -"Don't," she gasped out, "Amanda"--He stopped her protest with a kiss. - -And it was not till later, when she reached home, that she thought -again of Amanda's words: "Remember, he kissed me _first_." - - - - -_Chapter VIII_ - - -Miss Cornelia and Miss Joanna sat at the breakfast-table and looked -aghast at Elizabeth, who had just informed them of her engagement. The -old Dutch clock on the mantel-piece ticked loudly, the sunlight fell -in shining bars upon the snowy table-cloth, the old Dutch china, the -glistening silver. Miss Cornelia was reminded forcibly, painfully, of -a morning in that same room many years ago, when Peter had announced -his marriage. Now the shock was not so great, was not unexpected, -perhaps; but it brought with it, if less horror, an even greater -disappointment. - -"Well," Elizabeth said, after a moment, when her important -announcement had produced no response, and she looked proudly, yet -half wistfully, from one to the other. "Well," she repeated, "have you -nothing to say? Can't you--congratulate me?" Her voice faltered over -the last words. - -"My dear," Miss Cornelia tried bravely to respond to the appeal in the -girl's tone. "Of course, we--we wish you every happiness," she -stammered out. She stopped, for tears choked her voice. She looked -despairingly at her sister. Was this the moment that they had so often -talked of together, planning with delicious thrills of pleasure all -they would say and do? "This china must be Elizabeth's when--when she -marries, you know." "We must lay by a little for--for Elizabeth's -trousseau." This in demure whispers to each other, for they would not -for the world have suggested such a possibility to the girl herself. -Nice girls, of course, must not think of getting married till the time -came, but--with Elizabeth's beauty, that time could not be long -delayed, not even in the Neighborhood. The fairy prince would appear -some day; though he had never come to them, they believed devoutly -that he would come to Elizabeth. And now--and now--the fairy prince -had come, or Elizabeth thought so; but they were only conscious of an -overwhelming sense of doubt. - -"You know so little about him, my dear," Miss Cornelia could not help -at last protesting. - -Elizabeth opened her eyes wide in genuine surprise. "So little of -him," she repeated. "Why, I--I know everything, Aunt Cornelia." And -she smiled to herself in silent amusement. Had she not seen him, every -day and twice a day, for a matter of four weeks. How long did they -think, these older women, that it took to know a man? "I know that he -loves me," she said, after a moment, descending to further particulars -"and I love him, and that's enough." - -"But you can't live on love," urged Miss Joanna, practically. "You -must have some money, you know, and I shouldn't think he, poor young -man, had anything--at least, judging by his clothes. Those artists -never have, they say. And meat, and everything indeed, never was so -dear as it is now." - -"I didn't know you were so worldly, Aunt Joanna," said Elizabeth, -loftily. "Do you want me to marry for money?" Miss Joanna was crushed. -But as she reflected in her own justification, one had to have -something to eat, let lovers say what they would. - -"My dear," said Miss Cornelia, coming to the rescue with the little -air of dignity that she could sometimes assume "we certainly wouldn't -want you--not for the world--to marry for money. But one has to be--to -be prudent. We have brought you up in a way--perhaps it was -unwise--poor Mother would have thought so. But at any rate you know -nothing about economy, and--and you have only a little money, my dear, -and he, I suppose, has nothing." - -"He--he expects to make a great deal of money soon," faltered -Elizabeth, coming down a little from her heights of romance. All this -prudence was like a dash of cold water in the face. She felt -disconcerted, indignant, and yet conscious, through it all of some -reason in her aunts' objections. Yes, it was true--she had not been -brought up to economy, she was fond of luxury and pretty things. In -all her wishes for change, she had never thought that it would be -amusing to miss any of these. - -Miss Cornelia saw that she had produced some effect. "I think," she -went on, still speaking with unusual decision, "that the most -important thing is to find out something about him. You can't marry a -man whom we know nothing about, except that--that he was born at The -Mills. We must investigate his character." Miss Cornelia felt, as she -brought out this last sentence, that it sounded eminently practical, -and it received from Miss Joanna, indeed, its full meed of respectful -admiration. Elizabeth only smiled superior. - -"You can investigate as much as you like, Aunt Cornelia," she said. "I -know all about him." And so the matter rested. - -But how could two elderly and innocent spinsters, who had never in -their lives stirred two hundred miles from home, investigate the -character of a young man who had lived in Chicago and Paris and Vienna -and all the four quarters of the world apparently? They had no idea -how to set about it. In this perplexity Miss Cornelia again rose to -the occasion, and suggested that the Rector might be a fit substitute -for that invaluable possession "a man in the family," who is always -supposed to accomplish so much. And the Rector, when consulted, proved -unexpectedly resourceful. He had made Paul's acquaintance, and learned -the name of the church in Chicago where he had sung for so many years. -He had discovered, too, that the Rector of this church was an old -college friend of his, and he wrote to him at once, requesting full -and confidential information as to the young man's character, -antecedents, and prospects. - -The answer seemed to the poor ladies a long time in coming; as a -matter of fact, it arrived very promptly. The Rector of St. Anne's at -Chicago regretted to inform his old friend and colleague the Rector -of St. Mary's, at Bassett Mills, that he had no good account to give -of Paul Halleck, who had not long ago been dismissed from the choir of -his church, and had left behind him in Chicago many debts and a bad -reputation. The young man was believed to have, as the Rector added, -genuine musical talent; but like many artists and musicians, he was -morally irresponsible, dissipated and reckless. - -The Rector of St. Mary's repeated the verdict, as gently as he could, -to the older ladies at the Homestead. They bore it better than he -expected. There were compensations indeed in the very extent of its -severity. Had Halleck been less evidently and irredeemably a black -sheep, there might have been some doubts as to their own duty; but, as -it was, they felt that they must break off the dreadful match at once, -and at any cost. - -Yet the heart of each sister misgave her as they sat in a solemn -conclave, and summoned Elizabeth before it. She came, rosy, -bright-eyed, fresh from talks with her lover and happy dreams of a -brilliant future, which they were to share together. She stood -listening in apparent indifference, while Miss Cornelia faltered out -the painful result of their inquiries. And when the worst was told, -she had turned perhaps a trifle pale, but otherwise she seemed -unmoved. - -"I don't know why you tell me all this, auntie," she said, slowly. -"I--I am sorry to hear it, but it can make no difference." - -"No difference!" Miss Cornelia repeated, stupefied. "No difference, -Elizabeth?" - -"No, it can't change my love for him," she said, defiantly. "He told -me that he has enemies at Chicago, and that you would probably unearth -a lot of old scandals; and I promised that it should make no -difference. Perhaps some of them are true; I don't care. Auntie, I -can't--I can't give him up," she went on with a sudden change of tone -and clasping her hands appealingly. "I tried to once before, and--I -couldn't. If he were to go away now and leave me, I--I should die. I -couldn't bear to go on living without him." The girl's face was -flushed, her voice tremulous with feeling; it was evident that she -fully meant--or thought that she meant--what she said. Her aunts -looked at her in helpless perplexity. - -"My darling," Miss Cornelia faltered at last, "think how much better -it is to give him up now than to--to marry him and be unhappy. You -don't know--men are very bad;--one reads such things in the -newspapers. If he were to ill-treat you, desert you." - -"Ah, but he won't," said Elizabeth, smiling incredulously. "You -needn't worry, Aunt Cornelia; we shall be very happy. But even if we -were not," she concluded, with a sudden burst of defiance. "If I -thought that he would beat me, treat me like a dog--I don't care; I -should marry him to-morrow." - -And she thrust out her full under lip, and stood facing them, with a -look of obstinacy on her fair, girlish face, that for the moment bore -a strong resemblance to her father. - -To Miss Cornelia's mind there rose again, with startling vividness, -the events of twenty years before. The recollection seemed to endow -her with an unwonted and unnatural strength. She went over to where -Elizabeth stood and took both the girl's hot hands in hers. - -"Elizabeth," she said, desperately, "you don't know what you're -saying. You will be miserable if you marry that man. You don't know -what it is to live with a person who is beneath you, who--who drags -you down. We know, my darling, we have seen it. Be warned by us, and -give him up." - -Miss Cornelia had never in all her gentle life spoken with so much -vehemence. Elizabeth, in her astonishment, stood for a moment -absolutely passive. She stole a glance at Miss Joanna; she was weeping -quietly. Elizabeth's own face worked, her lip quivered. "I know whom -you mean," she broke out, suddenly, in a quick hard voice. "You're -thinking of my mother." And then, in the dismayed pause that followed, -she dragged her hands away from Miss Cornelia's grasp and fled from -the room. - -The two older women looked at one another in silence. - -"I didn't know," Miss Joanna said at last in a low, awe-struck tone -"that the child knew anything about--about poor Malvina." - - - - -_Chapter IX_ - - -"And so you let all this nonsense influence you?" Halleck asked this -bitterly, staring up with moody eyes into Elizabeth's face. They were -sitting under a wide-spreading tree, in a field not far from the -Homestead. It was late afternoon and the shadows were long and -peaceful. A ray from the sinking sun shot through the foliage overhead -lighting up the red tints of Elizabeth's hair. Halleck's artistic eye -rested upon them fascinated. He had never, as he told himself, been so -much in love before. - -"You give me up because of a little opposition?" he went on bitterly, -roused to increased irritation by the thought of losing her. - -"Why, what can I do?" The girl's voice was weary, and she threw out -her hands with a helpless gesture. "They will give in to me, I -suppose, if I insist; but it makes them too unhappy. I believe it -would kill them. If they were unkind, I shouldn't care; but they only -cry, and are so wretched, and I can't stand it. It makes me feel so -ungrateful." - -"And yet," said Halleck, anxiously, "you think they will give in in -the end?" - -"Oh, yes, they'll give in," said Elizabeth, wearily. "They'll give -in, if I insist; and that's the very reason why I--what makes it so -hard, you see." - -"No, I don't see," said Paul, bluntly. "If you think they will give -in, why are you so unhappy? But I understand how it is" he went on, -harshly, "you don't love me. I'm too far beneath you--a Bohemian and -an outcast. You are glad of an excuse to throw me over." - -"Paul!" The indignant color flushed into Elizabeth's face. "How can -you say such things," she asked reproachfully. "You know they are not -true. I told my aunts that I would never give you up; I told them -that--that I would marry you to-morrow, if I could." - -"You told them that?" Paul exclaimed exultantly. He put his arm around -her and drew her towards him. "Then keep your word, darling," he said. -"Marry me to-morrow." - -Elizabeth shrank away, startled. "Marry you," she repeated. -"To-morrow, how could I?" - -"Why not," said Paul, quietly. "Come up to Cranston and we will be -married. Then let them say what they please." - -Elizabeth was very pale. "I couldn't do that," she said in a low -voice. "I don't want to be married so soon; and besides--it would kill -my aunts." - -He laughed. "Nonsense! People soon resign themselves to what they -can't help. And then they needn't know--yet awhile. Listen, darling, -this is my plan. You know that I want to go abroad--well, I have had a -letter offering me a position in an opera company in Munich. If I -accept it I start this week." - -He stopped as Elizabeth gave a little cry and stared up at him with -reproachful eyes. "This week," she said. "You go away this week?" - -"Why, I can't stay here forever, you know," Paul said. "I've idled -away my time unconscionably already--but that is your fault, -Elizabeth. Now it is time I went to work. And that is why I say--marry -me before I go. Then, while I am away, nothing can separate us." - -Elizabeth, pale and thoughtful, seemed to ponder the suggestion. -"Marry you," she repeated, slowly. "Marry you--now at once?" - -"Yes, to-morrow," said Paul, boldly. - -"And--and keep it _secret_?" she went on, with a troubled look. - -"Yes, for a little while," said Paul, "for a few months, till I come -back. I shall have made my name and my fortune, darling, I hope, by -that time, and your aunts will be quite reconciled to me." - -"Then wouldn't it be better," said Elizabeth, with much reason, "to -wait till then?" - -"Are you willing to wait--in uncertainty all this time?" he asked, -reproachfully. "Ah, Elizabeth, it is evident that you don't love me as -I love you. Such an absence would be unbearable to me, if I felt that -some lover was likely to come along at any time and take you from me." - -Elizabeth could not help reflecting that the danger of such a -catastrophe did not seem imminent, in the present condition of the -Neighborhood; but she did not put the thought into words. She only -said, with some dignity: "I don't think that I am the sort of girl to -change so easily." - -"Ah, you can't tell," said Paul. "Women are fickle beings. I don't -trust you, Elizabeth. I have a feeling that, if you don't marry me -now, you never will. And why should you hesitate?" he went on eagerly. -"It isn't so much that I ask. I don't even say--come abroad with me -now; only give me the certainty that when I come back, I shall be able -to claim you." - -"You would have that certainty now," she still insisted. "I promise -that I will marry you when you come back." - -"Then why not marry me now," he asked, triumphantly. - -Elizabeth could give no good reason to the contrary. The idea was -vaguely alarming, yet it held for her a certain fascination. She sat -listening in troubled uncertainty, while Paul discoursed with -enthusiasm over the many advantages of his plan. He was exceedingly -anxious, as he had said, to make sure of this beautiful girl, who was, -he vaguely felt, a little above him--of a grade superior to that of -the other girls whom he had known and made love to, for the space of a -fortnight perhaps. He had been true to Elizabeth, now, for more than -double that time. He really believed that he should be true to her -always. There were other things that attracted him besides her beauty. -The thought that Elizabeth was Miss Van Vorst of the Homestead was not -unpleasant to him; the old house, the family silver, the family -traditions, appealed to his artistic sense of fitness. And then though -he was no fortune-hunter, and certainly would have made love to no -girl whom he did not for the moment at least sincerely admire, he -admitted to himself, frankly, that it was by no means inconvenient -that Elizabeth should have a little money of her own and the prospect -of more in the future. The Van Vorst property, while it was -insignificant enough when measured by the standard of the Van Antwerps -and other rich people in the Neighborhood, seemed by no means -contemptible to Paul, who measured it by the standard of -poverty-stricken Bohemia. - -Elizabeth's feelings were more complex, less frankly selfish, much -more anxious and uncertain. The money question did not enter into them -to any great extent, though she had an instinctive dread of poverty, -and she was convinced that, if once married to Paul, she would not be -able to have the pretty gowns, and other luxurious trifles, which had -hitherto seemed a necessity of life. But she was young and romantic, -and this thought did not weigh with her very much. What most -distressed her, and made her feel in some way vaguely in the wrong, -was the trouble this, her first love affair, seemed to bring to -others; to her aunts, to Amanda. She loved her aunts, and hated to run -counter to their wishes; she did not love Amanda, and yet the thought -of having injured her, though unconsciously, brought with it an -uncomfortable sense of guilt. - -She had not seen her since that terrible interview, which she still -could not recall without a feeling of humiliation; but she had seen -her aunt, who told her that Amanda was ill with some low -fever--typhoid malaria, probably; there was always a good deal of that -at The Mills. It was not considered wise that Elizabeth should see -her; and besides, Amanda was delirious, and did not recognize any one. -Elizabeth was more relieved than sorry to hear it. No doubt, she told -herself, Amanda was already out of her head when she uttered that -extraordinary outburst, and it was foolish to attach any importance to -what she said in her feverish excitement. Still, Elizabeth did not -like to think of it, much less of the promise she herself had given, -voluntarily, in such forcible words. She had been so absolutely -sincere in making it; she had broken it so completely within the hour. -The whole affair was unpleasant, and weighed upon her more than those -more serious charges against Paul, which had fallen vaguely upon her -ear, not seeming to make any deep impression. His conduct to Amanda -was at its worst a mere trifle in comparison. - -Still she could not give him up. That broken promise to Amanda only -proved this the more strongly. She could not face the prospect of life -without him. And yet she could not face without terrible misgivings -the prospect of further tears and remonstrances from her aunts. The -two claims struggled for the mastery; on the one hand, the claims of -the women who had brought her up, whose every thought for twenty years -had centred in her; on the other, the claims of the man who had loved -her in his light way some five weeks. Under these circumstances, it -was inevitable that the claims of the man should predominate. And yet -Elizabeth longed to satisfy them both. - -Paul's plan seemed to suggest a compromise. And Elizabeth had not yet -learned that compromise is never satisfactory to either side. - -"Listen," she said, looking at him intently, with eyes that seemed to -hold, even in the moment of yielding, a certain defiance of his power, -"If I do as you wish, if I--I marry you to-morrow, I am free to--to -come home at once, to go on with my life as if nothing were -changed--not to tell my aunts, not to tell any one, till you come -back? Do you promise this, on your word of honor?" - -For a moment Paul hesitated. He had hardly expected her to yield so -easily; perhaps if he pressed the matter she might be persuaded even -to go abroad with him at once. But there were financial reasons which -made that inexpedient just then. On the whole, Paul decided not to -test his power too far. - -"Upon my word of honor," he said, looking her steadily in the face "I -promise that you shall be free as air, to go on with your life as you -please, till I come back to claim you." - -And so the thing was settled. Paul was to go to Cranston early the -next morning to make all necessary arrangements; Elizabeth was to -follow him a little later. They were to be married at once. Then Paul -was to take an afternoon train for New York, Elizabeth was to return -home, the whole affair should remain a secret. - -Then Paul, radiantly triumphant, clasped Elizabeth in his arms, and -pressed his lips to hers. - -"To-morrow," he whispered, "to-morrow, my darling, at this -time--though the world won't know it--still you will be my wife." - -A strange feeling thrilled Elizabeth. She could not have told if it -were pleasure, or some involuntary presentiment. But aloud she -repeated mechanically: "Yes, I shall be your wife." - -"You won't fail me, dearest," he said, scanning her face eagerly. "You -won't break your word? You have promised--you won't fail me?" - -"No," Elizabeth answered, "I have promised--I won't fail you." - -And yet the thought crossed her mind irrelevantly, that she had broken -a promise once already. - -She left him and went home through the stillness and the fast -gathering shadows of the evening. The days were already growing -shorter. She noted the fact mechanically; noted too that the deep -glowing crimson of the sunset foretold a hot day for the morrow. She -entered the house and looked in at the dining-room; the table was set -out for tea with all the wonted care. Her aunts sat each at one end; -they were neither of them eating and both had red eyes. In the centre -of the table stood Elizabeth's favorite cake--the kind with the -raisins in it, which she used to beg for as a child, and which was -reserved either as a reward for virtue, or for consolation in some -childish trouble. Now in this trouble that was so far from childish, -poor Miss Joanna had bethought herself of the old attention, and -brought out the favorite cake as the only means of comfort within her -power. Elizabeth could not see it without a lump in her throat. - -She smoothed her ruffled hair before the glass and came in quietly to -her usual place at the table. They looked up nervously at her -entrance, but neither spoke; they did not reproach her with being late -or ask where she had been. Miss Joanna pressed upon her the various -dainties, reminding her that she had eaten no dinner; otherwise the -meal was a silent one. It was not till near the end of it that -Elizabeth spoke in a strained harsh voice unlike her own. - -"Paul is going away." That was what she said. "He--has an engagement -to go abroad. He goes to New York to-morrow. I--I hope you are -satisfied." - -And then she stopped, for the look of tremulous relief on both their -faces was almost more than she could bear. The raisins in her favorite -cake seemed suddenly to choke her. She began to doubt, after all, -whether she would go to Cranston the next day. - - - - -_Chapter X_ - - -This was Elizabeth's last thought that night; it was her first in the -morning. She dressed herself carefully, putting on white, according to -the custom which had aroused Aunt Rebecca's criticism; and all the -while she asked of the reflection that stared back at her with -perplexed eyes out of the mirror: "Shall I go, or shall I not?" She -put the question to a rose when she got down-stairs, repeating as she -ruthlessly destroyed each petal. "Yes, no, yes, no?" But the flower -answered with a "no," and she threw away the last petal in disgust. - -"I think I shall drive over to The Mills this morning," she announced -quietly at the breakfast-table. "There is some ribbon I want to -match." Her aunts looked up startled. They wondered simultaneously at -what hour Halleck was to leave for New York. Yet what if after all the -child wished for one last meeting? - -"You don't think it's--it's too hot to go over there to-day, my dear?" -Miss Cornelia ventured at last uncertainly. - -"No, I don't mind the heat," Elizabeth answered indifferently, as she -sat playing with her knife and fork. She was very pale and had no -appetite. This seemed to them only natural. They hoped that when the -young man were once out of the way, their darling would be herself -again. - -"We must take her to the sea-shore for a little while," Miss Cornelia -observed when Elizabeth had left the room. "She needs change of air." -Miss Joanna cheerfully assented. The idea and the sacrifice which it -involved (since to go away from home, even for a few weeks, seemed a -terrible undertaking) consoled them both greatly. - -And meanwhile Elizabeth went her own way. It was not till she was -seated in the carriage about to start on her drive, that she observed -as if by an afterthought: "Oh, by the way, if I can't match the ribbon -at The Mills, I may go to Cranston for it by the trolley, so don't be -worried if I don't come back till late, and don't wait dinner." Her -aunts looked at one another questioningly; but she drove off at once, -before they could offer any objections. - -And so Elizabeth drove towards Bassett Mills. The day was dry and hot, -as were most days that summer. The sun beat down out of a brazen sky, -the roads were white with dust, the grass in the fields was sere and -brown. The locusts all along the way kept up a loud, exultant song, -the burden of which was heat. - -To Elizabeth, as she drove on, there began to be something ominous in -it all; in the heat and the dust and the dazzling sunshine and the -locusts with their eternal noise. They seemed all part, and she with -them of some horrible nightmare; she was under some spell which -benumbed her, deprived her of the capacity for thought, of all but -the power to keep doggedly on the way to Bassett Mills. What she -should do when she got there she did not know; her brain was torpid, -there was a strange ringing in her ears. It was the sun, no doubt, -that was affecting her head; it would be wise to turn back, or she -might be ill. But still she kept on. - -It was not far from noon when she reached Bassett Mills. There was -little life about the place this hot morning; the mill-stream even -seemed to dash less tumultuously, and showed signs of running dry. A -group of men stood outside the drug-store, which was a great -meeting-place, and discussed the drought. It was decided that if it -continued the crops would be ruined; but hopes were founded on the -fact that prayers for rain were to be offered in all the churches on -Sunday. - -"But there's not much use praying for rain," said one skeptic, "when -the wind's due west." - -Elizabeth heard the words as she drove up, and, alighting tied the -white pony to a post and bribed a small boy to "keep an eye" on him. -Then she joined the group in front of the shop, who were some waiting -for the trolley, others merely passing the time of day. She did not go -into the dry-goods shop to try to match her ribbon; she knew that such -ribbon as she wanted was not to be had at Bassett Mills. She stood -idly listening to the men's conversation, and wondering if it were -indeed true, as the skeptic had declared, that it was useless to pray -for an event already determined by natural causes. She had been -brought up to believe implicitly in the efficacy of prayer, and had -added to her usual formula that morning a petition of unwonted fervor -that she might be enabled in this perplexing situation to decide for -the best. But perhaps there was no use in praying; perhaps one was not -a free agent. Fate, she thought, had evidently determined that she -should go to Cranston that morning to be married, since it was a thing -that might so easily have been prevented--by an objection from her -aunts, an offer of company on the expedition, even by the white pony -going lame; she would have yielded, or so she thought, to the merest -trifle, glad to have the decision taken out of her hands. But -everything had been made easy; it evidently was to be. And an implicit -believer in heredity might have observed that the matter had been -decided for her, by events and influences which had moulded her -character even before she was born. It was in just such clandestine -fashion as this that her parents had once gone up to Cranston to be -married; and it might be that some mysterious hereditary instinct, -some force over which she had no control, was now constraining their -daughter, under the same circumstances, to act in the same way. - -Elizabeth, fortunately or otherwise, did not think of this. She only -knew that she was standing outside the drug-store with the other -loiterers, straining her eyes along the dusty white road for a sight -of the trolley; and that, even while she doubted the wisdom of -waiting, some fascination held her rooted to the spot. When the -trolley came she took her seat at once. After all a trip to Cranston -meant nothing; she might simply buy her ribbon and come back. - -The trolley started off fast and jerkily, creating a teasing wind, -that seemed to blow from some fiery furnace. Elizabeth clutched her -hat with one hand, while with the other she tried to shield her eyes -from the flying dust and glare. Soon they were past the cemetery and -the straggling outskirts of Bassett Mills, out into the open country, -with rolling meadow and upland on either side, all withered, scorching -under the sun's fierce rays. An occasional wagon met them, wrapped in -a cloud of dust; the trolley was hailed now and then from some -solitary farm-house, and came to a sudden stop. The ride seemed -endless, but that they were approaching Cranston was at last made -evident by unmistakable signs; by the advertisements staring at them -from trunks of trees and the expanse of stone walls; by the asphalt -pavement that succeeded the rough country road, the increasing -quantity of bicycles, carriages and dust; and finally by the neat rows -of Queen Anne villas, with their gabled fronts and terraced gardens -sloping to the road. Then the car, with a last triumphant jerk, turned -a corner and landed its passengers squarely in the High Street of -Cranston. - -Elizabeth alighted rather limply, and stood looking about her in a -dazed sort of way. A country woman laden with parcels addressed her -timidly. "Excuse me miss," she said, "but would you tell me the best -place to go for stockings?" - -Elizabeth started and stared at her, as if the simple question had -been put in Hebrew. Then in a moment she recovered herself and -directed the woman very civilly. She watched her bustle off upon her -round of errands, then turned and slowly walked into the -confectioner's shop. It was there that she had promised to meet Paul. - -There was no one, as it happened, in the front part of the shop, where -candy and cake were sold; no one in the little restaurant at the back. -Elizabeth sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables; her head -was aching, her eyes blood-shot, she was conscious of nothing but a -feeling of pleasure in the coolness and darkness, of relief from the -outside glare. Mechanically, she glanced at the small mirror, that -hung at an unbecoming angle opposite on the wall, and felt a slight -shock at the sight of herself--pale, worn, with blood-shot eyes, her -white gown dusty and bedraggled. No, she did not look well--she had -never looked worse in her life. Her lips curled in an unmirthful -smile, as she thought irrelevantly of Aunt Rebecca, and of how she -might have held forth on the folly of wearing white for such a dusty -ride. And thereupon with a sudden pang, came the thought of -Amanda--Amanda, tossing no doubt just then in the delirium of fever. -The unpleasant idea struck Elizabeth of a resemblance between her own -white face in the mirror, and her cousin's face as she had last seen -it, with those staring, red-rimmed eyes. Certainly, there was a latent -family likeness; but it took unbecoming conditions such as these to -bring it out. She wondered languidly if any one else had ever noticed -it. - -Poor Amanda! Was she still, in her delirium, fretting over Paul? Or -was she, perhaps, secure in Elizabeth's promise, and the pleasure of -having separated them? What would she think if she knew that Elizabeth -was even now waiting for him here in Cranston--waiting to be married -to him? But with this thought the spell of indifference which had -rested upon Elizabeth seemed suddenly to fall away, and there swept -over her a sudden sense of revolt, of shame and repulsion. She started -impulsively to her feet. No, she could not be married--not in that -way; it was clandestine, disgraceful. There was still time to escape. -If only she could reach home, without seeing Paul! She made one quick, -blinded rush for the door, and then, a tall figure stood in her way, -and her hands were seized in a man's eager grasp. His handsome, -exultant face looked into hers. - -"My brave girl," he said. "So you have not failed me." - - - - -_Chapter XI_ - - -Elizabeth with a great effort wrenched her hands away from Paul's -grasp, and fell against one of the marble-topped tables. Her face was -white, her dull eyes looked up at him with a sort of terror. - -"I--I have failed you," she said, speaking slowly and thickly, with -parched lips. "I have come, but I--cannot stay. I was going when you -came in." - -"Elizabeth!" The look of exultant joy faded slowly and reluctantly -from Paul's face. "Elizabeth, what do you mean? Why did you come if -you don't mean to stay?" - -"Because I--was crazy." She was trembling now, and she clung to the -table for support; but still she was firm. "I--I didn't think what I -did. Now I--I know. It would be wrong to marry like this--so secretly. -I must go home. Let me pass." She spoke the last words quickly, -imperiously, and made a motion as if to brush past him; but he stood -motionless in the door and blocked her way. - -He was very angry; she had never seen him so before. The emotion lent -a curious brute strength to his fair, sensuous beauty. His face was as -white as hers, his full red lips were set in a curve of unwonted -determination. - -"Listen to me, Elizabeth." He had never spoken to her in such a tone -before. "I won't be trifled with like this. I have made all the -arrangements. I won't have you--jilt me now. You must come with me, or -I--I'll know the reason why." - -She met his gaze defiantly. "You can't compel me to come you know," -she said. And again she would have passed him, and again he stopped -her. She did not try a third time, but sank into a chair and put up -her hands to her face. A sudden faintness came over her; it might have -been the heat, or the sharp, conflicting play of emotion. He followed -her and gently took her hands from her face and looked into her eyes. - -"Don't be foolish, darling," he said, persuasively. "You know that you -love me, that you are only playing with me. You wouldn't really throw -me over now." - -She looked up reluctantly, fascinated as she had often been before, by -the mere physical attraction of his beauty. "I--I don't know," she -began slowly, and then stopped frightened at the sound of voices in -the shop. A dread flashed over her all at once of a scene in a place -like this. The trifling, frivolous consideration turned the scale in -Paul's favor. She rose, shook off his grasp, and gave a hasty glance -in the glass. - -"No, I won't throw you over," she said. "It's all wrong but--as you -say, it's too late now. Take care--some one is coming." She gave a -warning look at the door, as Paul pressed her hand. - -So the threatened scene was averted and Elizabeth's fate was sealed. -The people who, after buying candy in the shop, came into the little -back room for some ice cream, saw a young woman arranging her hair -before the glass, and a young man waiting for her--a not unusual -sight. - -What followed seemed in after life a dream to Elizabeth. There were -times when she tried to think that it had never happened; that the -whole thing was a mere figment of the imagination. But on that day she -was quite conscious that it was she herself, in very flesh and blood, -Elizabeth Van Vorst, who walked by Paul Halleck's side through the -glaring, sunny streets of Cranston, went with him into a dimly-lighted -church, let him place a ring upon her finger, spoke her share in the -marriage service, and wrote her maiden name for what should have been -the last time, in the parish register. The clergyman was very old and -mumbled over the service; the witnesses, two servants of his, were old -and feeble, also, and took but small interest. The church was damp -like a tomb after the heat without; Elizabeth found herself shivering -as from a chill. It was a relief to come out again into the heat which -had been so oppressive before. But on the church steps Elizabeth gave -a little cry. A funeral was slowly filing past, its black trappings -standing out in incongruous gloom against the noon-day brilliance. - -Elizabeth looked at Paul. He had turned very white, and he too was -shivering. "It is a bad omen," he said, in a low voice, as if to -himself. He said no more, but led the way carefully in the opposite -direction from that which the funeral had taken. - -They found themselves in a part of Cranston unknown to Elizabeth. The -road was bordered on either side by flowering hedges and led -apparently into the open country. There were no houses in sight; for -the moment, even no people. Halleck suddenly turned and clasped -Elizabeth almost roughly in his arms, while he pressed passionate -kisses upon her brow, her lips, her hair. - -"My darling," he cried "I can't--I can't give you up. I was mad to -promise it. Let everything go and come with me to New York." - -"No, no, I can't," she murmured faintly. "I can't." His vehemence -stunned, bewildered her; but instinctively she struggled against it. -"You promised," she cried out indignantly, "you promised that I should -be free--till you came back. I've kept my word, you must keep yours." - -He let her go and for a moment they eyed each other steadily. This -time the victory remained with her. "Did I really make that promise?" -he said at last with a sigh. "Well, if I did, I must keep it, I -suppose. But, Elizabeth, you must be made of ice--you can't love me, -or you wouldn't hold me to it." - -Elizabeth was chiefly conscious of an overpowering sense of relief. - -"I do love you," she said, soothingly, "but indeed it is better--much -better to let things be as we arranged them. I can't go to New York in -this dress"--she gave a little tremulous laugh, as she glanced at her -fluffy muslin skirts. "Only a man could suggest such a thing. And then -my aunts!--they would be distracted. No, no, I must go home at once. -You will be back in six months," she went on, trying to console him. -"They will pass very quickly." - -"Six months," he sighed. "It is an endless time." He was the picture -of gloom as they turned and walked steadily back to the busy part of -Cranston. And she, too, had her regrets. The compromise was -satisfactory to neither. - -At the corner of the High Street they parted. There was no opportunity -for more than a hand-clasp, a few hurried words of farewell. Then he -went his way to the railroad station, and she hurried to the trolley. -The country woman with the many parcels was there before her, and told -where she got the stockings, and how much she paid for them. - -Back again went the trolley, along the asphalted road past the Queen -Anne villas with their terraced gardens, past bicycles, carriages, -wagons, and always clouds of dust; out into the open country, with -rolling meadow and upland on either side, simmering in the heat of the -summer afternoon, to which the morning heat was as nothing; Elizabeth -sitting upright, shading her eyes from the glare, with aching head and -burning eyes, and throbbing brain that refused to take in the reality -of what she had done. This was her wedding journey. - -An hour later the white pony brought her home. - -"Did you--did you match your ribbon, dear?" Miss Joanna inquired -anxiously. Elizabeth stared blankly for a moment. - -"I--I never thought of the ribbon," she cried at last, and burst into -hysterical laughter. - - - - -_Chapter XII_ - - -It was that time of year when the Neighborhood, and the whole -riverside, are in their glory. Day after day dawned clear and frosty, -to warm at noon-day into a mellow brilliance. On every side stretched -wooded meadow and upland all aglow, resplendent in varied tints of -crimson and russet, magenta and scarlet, blending in a glorious scheme -of color, till they melted at last into the soft gray haze, which -rested, like a touch of regretful melancholy, on the tops of the -distant hills. Over the fields the golden-rod was still scattered -profusely, amidst the sober browns and purples of the bay, and the -pale lavender of the Michaelmas daisies. Red berries glistened on the -bushes, the ground was covered, every day deeper, with a carpeting of -fallen leaves and chestnut burrs. - -On one of these autumn days, when the light was fading into dusk, Mrs. -"Bobby" Van Antwerp came to call at the Homestead, and found no one at -home but Elizabeth, who was kneeling on the hearth-rug, staring into -the fire. - -Elizabeth's thoughts were not pleasant ones. She had refused to go to -Cranston with her aunts that afternoon, for she had never been near -the place since that hot July day, nearly three months before, when -she had forgotten to match her ribbon. What construction her aunts -placed upon the episode she never knew. They did not allude to it in -words, but treated her with added care and solicitude, as if she were -recovering from some illness. In pursuance of this theory, they took -her to a highly recommended and very dull seaside place, where she was -extremely bored. She returned in better health, though hardly better -spirits. She had now a new trouble, which increased as the autumn -advanced. Paul's letters, at first many and ardent, grew fewer and -colder, till they ceased altogether. Elizabeth's last letter remained -unanswered, and she was too proud to write again. No doubt, she told -herself, his thoughts were occupied by some new attraction. With a -sudden flash of intuition, she realized that for Paul there would -always be an attraction of some kind, and generally a new one. - -This unpleasant perception had one good result, at least; it lightened -her sense of remorse towards Amanda. She had long ago got over the -ordeal of seeing her cousin again, and the strange scene between them -had been relegated to a curious phase of unreality, covered up and -almost obliterated, as such scenes not infrequently are among -relations and intimate friends, by the thousand commonplace incidents -of every-day life. And yet some sort of apology had been proffered by -Amanda, as she sat up in her white wrapper, very pale and hollow-eyed, -with her red hair cut short, and just beginning to come in in soft -waves like Elizabeth's--a thing she had always desired. - -"You know," she said, in her weak voice "I was real sick that last -time you saw me. I was just coming down with the fever." - -"I know you were," Elizabeth said gently, conquering the thrill of -anger which swept over her at the recollection. - -"I guess I said some queer things," Amanda ventured next, and gave an -odd, furtive look from her light eyes. - -"You certainly did," said Elizabeth, coldly. Not all the pity she felt -for Amanda's weakness could avail to make her speak in any other way. - -"Well, I guess," Amanda said, after a moment and closing her eyes as -if wearied out, "people aren't accountable for what they say when -they're sick." - -"No," said Elizabeth, "I suppose not." And with this tacit apology and -its acceptance, this episode between the cousins might be considered -closed. Certainly, on Elizabeth's side, it was not only closed, but -forgotten, in the pressure of far more serious troubles. - -As she knelt that afternoon looking into the fire, a vision of her -future life--colorless, empty, without joy or love--seemed to stare -back at her from its glowing depths. The years stretched out before -her, a dreary waste--without Paul. She was sure that he would never -come back; the bond between them seemed the merest shadow. He had -forgotten her in three short months, while she was more in love than -ever, since she had never fully realized, at the time, the void that -he would leave behind him. For a short time her life had bloomed like -the summer; and now nothing was left to her but the fast-approaching -gray monotony of the November days, and the bleak cold of the winter. - -Upon these cheerful reflections entered Mrs. Bobby Van Antwerp, in a -short skirt somewhat the worse for wear, with dark eyes that shone -brilliantly beneath her battered hat, and her small piquante face -glowing with health and exercise. - -"Don't get up," she said. "What a beautiful blaze!" She sat down to it -at once and held out her small, gloveless hands to its pleasant -warmth. "I walked all the way," she announced, triumphantly, "and I -thought I would just drop in, and perhaps you'd give me a cup of tea." - -One must have lived in the Neighborhood to appreciate the informality -of all this. People paid calls in their carriages, with their -card-cases and their best Sunday gowns--it was not good form to come -on foot, even had the distances permitted. But the young woman always -spoken of as "Mrs. Bobby" though her claims to a more formal -designation had long since been established, was a law unto herself -and cared little what the Neighborhood's laws might be. Elizabeth had -already noticed that this great lady, the greatest lady in the -Neighborhood, treated her with more friendliness than other people of -less assured position with whom she was, theoretically, on more -intimate terms. This curious fact, and the cause of it, occupied her -thoughts while she rang the bell and ordered tea, a little flustered -inwardly, but outwardly calm, and comfortably conscious of the -becoming neatness of her serge skirt and velveteen blouse. Whatever -her troubles might be, she had not yet reached so great a pitch of -desperation as to neglect her appearance. - -"Aren't these autumn days beautiful!" said Mrs. Bobby, making herself -at home by unfastening her coat and tossing aside her hat, whereby she -disclosed to view a somewhat tousled halo of curly dark hair. "I tell -Bobby that just these few days in the autumn make up to us for the -bother of keeping the place, though in summer it is fearfully hot, and -unspeakably dull all the year round. It must be very dull for you," -said Mrs. Bobby, coming to a sudden pause. - -"Oh, yes, it's dull," Elizabeth admitted, with a little sigh. - -Mrs. Bobby laughed. - -"Why don't you say 'oh, but I am so fond of the place,' or 'but I'm -not at all dependent on society,' as the other girls in the -Neighborhood do?" - -"I don't know," said Elizabeth, reflectively. "I don't think, for one -thing, that I am so awfully fond of the place; and as for society--I -have never had any, so naturally I get on without it." - -"But you would enjoy it, if you had it?" - -A curious brightness shone for an instant in Elizabeth's eyes. "Ah, -yes, I should enjoy it," she said, quickly. "I'm sure I should." - -"I'm sure you would, too," said Mrs. Bobby. She seemed to reflect a -moment. "Don't you go away in August?" she asked at last. - -"Yes, this year we did," said Elizabeth. "We went to Borehaven. -It--it wasn't very amusing." She stopped short blushing as if the last -words had been wrung from her unawares; but Mrs. Bobby's smile seemed -to invite confidence. - -"Tell me all about it," she said. "Was it very terrible?" - -"Yes, very," said Elizabeth, frankly. "There were a good many girls -who used to promenade up and down, and a number of old ladies who sat -in rows on the piazza and criticized the people and grumbled about the -table; and they one and all treated us as if we had committed some -crime. We were quite distressed till we found out that it was nothing -personal--only the way they always treat new arrivals." - -"Ah, I know the type of place," said Mrs. Bobby "and the people. Were -there any men?" - -"A few who were called men--about sixteen, I should think--most of -them--but they didn't interest me particularly." And Elizabeth -blushed, as she remembered the reason which had made her indifferent, -at least to such men as Borehaven could boast of. Mrs. Bobby noticed -the blush. - -"What!" she said to herself "another attraction in this wilderness? -Not that stupid Frank Courtenay--I hope not. Yet there isn't and never -has been another man in the place that I ever heard of." While she -pondered this problem the tea-things were brought in, and Elizabeth -seated herself at the small table, behind the old silver urn, in the -full glow of the firelight, which played on her hair and brought out -the warm creamy tones of her skin. Mrs. Bobby watched her silently -with her bright dark eyes, her small, pointed chin supported on her -hand. - -"You ought to go to town for the winter," she announced at last -abruptly. This seemed to be the upshot of her reflections. Elizabeth -looked up with a little start, and a momentary brightening of the -eyes, which faded, however, instantly. - -"Oh, my aunts could never bear to leave here," she said. "They have so -taken root in this place. Besides," she went on, constrained to -greater frankness by the consciousness of that quality in Mrs. Bobby -herself "what would be the use if we did go? We know so few people. It -would be horrid to be in New York and not know any one or go -anywhere." - -"Yes, that wouldn't be pleasant," admitted Mrs. Bobby, to whom indeed -such a state of things was inconceivable. "But you would know people," -she went on, after a moment "every one does somehow. There are your -cousins, the Schuyler Van Vorsts, for instance." - -"Who would probably never notice us," said Elizabeth "or if they did, -would ask us to a family dinner." - -"Well, that certainly would be worse than nothing," Mrs. Bobby -admitted. "But--how about your old school friends? You must have known -some nice girls at Madame Veuillet's. You would see, no doubt, a great -deal of them." - -Elizabeth shook her head. "I doubt it," she said. "They spoke--some of -them--of asking me to stop with them, but they have none of them done -so. They don't even write to me any more. It doesn't take long for -people to forget one, Mrs. Van Antwerp," said poor Elizabeth, putting -into words the melancholy philosophy which experience had lately -taught her. - -"My dear child," cried Mrs. Van Antwerp, "you're too young to realize -that--yet." She put out her hand in her warm, impulsive way, and -touched Elizabeth's. "I can promise you one thing," she said. "If you -come to New York, I'll do what I can to make it pleasant for you." - -Elizabeth looked up with glistening eyes. "You're--you're awfully -kind," she began, stammering. In another moment she would have burst -into tears, and perhaps, in the sudden expansion, confided everything -to this new friend--in which case her life's history would have been -different. But just then she heard the sound of wheels, and -immediately she stiffened and the habit of reserve, which had been -growing upon her during the last three months, reasserted itself. When -her aunts entered, in a little glow of excitement after their day at -Cranston, Elizabeth was sitting quite cool and placid behind the -tea-things, absorbed in the problems of milk and sugar. - -The rest of Mrs. Bobby's visit seemed to her rather dull. They sat -around the fire, and Mrs. Bobby drank her tea and ate a great many of -the little round cakes which accompanied it, and which she praised -warmly, to the gratification of Miss Joanna, who had made them. She -told them all about her domestic affairs, and Bobby's affairs, and -the family affairs generally, and was altogether very charming and as -the Misses Van Vorst expressed it, "neighborly;" but still she said -not a word further of their going to town, or of that pleasant if -rather vague promise she had made in a moment of impulse, which -perhaps she already regretted. It was not till she held Elizabeth's -hand at parting that she invited her, as if by a sudden thought, to -dinner on the following Friday. - -"It will be dull, I'm afraid," she said. "Only the Rector and his -wife, and the Hartingtons, and Julian Gerard, who is coming up over -Sunday. You will be the only young girl, and I want you to amuse -Julian. We dine at eight. Do come early, so we can have a talk -beforehand." - -Elizabeth, entirely taken by surprise, had only time to murmur an -acceptance, when Mrs. Bobby hurried off, being hastened by the arrival -of her husband, who had called for her and was waiting outside in the -dog-cart. "Friday, remember," she called out from the yawning darkness -beyond the door, "and come early." Then Bobby Van Antwerp's restless -horse bore her off. - -The Misses Van Vorst returned to the drawing-room, in a state of -considerable excitement. - -"Think of my dining at the Van Antwerps!" Elizabeth exclaimed, still -rosy from the unexpected honor. "I was so taken aback that I could -hardly answer properly. But how on earth am I to amuse Julian--whoever -he may be, and what have I got to wear?" - -"It's a--a very nice attention," said Miss Cornelia, complacently. -"She's never asked the Courtenay girls, I know, from what their mother -told me. She said they thought it a pity she was so unsociable. I -think, sister, when we see them we might mention that we don't find -her unsociable--just casually, you know. As for what you can wear, my -dear--either your white crepe or white organdie is quite pretty -enough, and much nicer than anything the Courtenay girls would have." - -"To think of dinner at eight o'clock!" said Miss Joanna, who was only -just recovering her powers of speech. "So very fashionable! I wish, -dear, if you can, you would notice what they have. Mrs. Bobby says her -cook is very good at croquettes. I wish you could tell me, dear, if -they are better than ours." - -"I'm afraid I shan't be able to think of croquettes," said Elizabeth, -"what with the burden of being on my best behavior and entertaining -Mr. Gerard. I think by the way, that he must be that dark man I have -seen sometimes in their pew on Sundays. Which would he like me best -in, do you suppose--the white crepe or the organdie? I must get them -both out, and decide which to wear." - -Elizabeth's spirits were as easily exhilarated as they were depressed. -She ran up-stairs, humming a gay little tune which had not come into -her head for many a day. This dinner at the Van Antwerps', with the -prospect of meeting a few of her neighbors and apparently, one -unmarried man, might have seemed to many people a commonplace affair -enough; but to Elizabeth it was a great occasion, and for the rest of -the evening, bright visions of future pleasure danced before her eyes. -That night, for the first time in many weeks, she did not cry herself -to sleep, thinking of Paul. - - - - -_Chapter XIII_ - - -"And you really think I look nicely?" Elizabeth asked this question in -tremulous excitement, as she stood before the long pier-glass in her -room on the night of her first dinner-party. The maid was on her knees -behind her arranging the folds of her train, Miss Joanna stood ready -with her cloak, and Miss Cornelia hovered a little way off, admiring -the scene. Elizabeth held her head high, there was a brilliant color -in her cheeks, her eyes shone like stars. You would hardly have known -her for the same girl who had struggled with sad thoughts and -disappointed hopes in the twilight only a few days before. This seemed -some young princess, to whom the good things of life came naturally, -unsought, by the royal prerogative of beauty. - -"You--you look lovely," faltered Miss Cornelia, forgetting her -principles in the excitement of the occasion "and your dress is -sweet." - -"It is fortunate I had it cut low, isn't it," said Elizabeth, as she -clasped a string of pearls, which had once belonged to her -grandmother, about her round white throat. "There, do I look all -right? You're _sure_ my skirt hangs well? I wanted a white rose, but -we have no pretty ones left." A slight cloud of discontent crossed -her face, but vanished instantly; since really, as she said to -herself, she looked very nice even without flowers. - -"Don't be late," entreated Miss Joanna. "Just think if the dinner -should be spoiled!" - -"Yes, it would be very bad manners," added Miss Cornelia "not to be -punctual." - -"I don't know," said Elizabeth, doubtfully. "It's rather countrified -to be too early." But still she drew on her gloves and put on her -cloak, and started a good half-hour before the appointed time, in -deference to Miss Joanna's fears for the dinner and Miss Cornelia's -sense of the value of punctuality. - -The clock was striking eight as she entered the wide hall of the Van -Antwerps's house, and read, or fancied that she did, in the solemn -butler's immobile countenance, an assurance that she was unfashionably -prompt. The demure little maid who followed him and took Elizabeth's -cloak, regretted to inform her that Mrs. Van Antwerp was not quite -ready, but would be down directly, and hoped that Miss Van Vorst would -excuse her unpunctuality. Elizabeth's heart sank, but the maid was -ushering her into the drawing-room, and there was no retreat. Yet she -shrank back involuntarily, as the long room yawned before her, empty, -except for one person whom she did not know; and thus she stood for a -moment hesitating, her warm Titian coloring framed against the dark -plush of the portiere, and her white gown falling about her in -graceful folds, of a statuesque simplicity almost severe, but from -which her youth and rounded curves emerged all the more triumphant. -Her heart beat fast and there was a deep burning color in her cheeks, -but she held herself erect, with the proud little turn of the head -that seemed to come to her by nature. - -The tall dark man who was turning over the leaves of a magazine at the -end of the room, looked up as she entered and gazed at her for a -moment in silence. Their eyes met; for an instant he seemed to -hesitate. Then he rose and walked slowly towards her. - -"You must let me introduce myself, Miss Van Vorst," he said, and his -voice was like his movements, very deliberate, yet it was clear-cut -and pleasant in tone. "My name is Gerard. Mrs. Van Antwerp told me I -should have the pleasure of taking you in to dinner." - -He spoke so quietly and naturally, and seemed to accept the situation -with such absolute indifference, that whatever awkwardness it might -have contained for a young girl nervous over her first dinner, was -instantly removed. Elizabeth felt grateful, and yet perversely a -little piqued that this grave, dark man should place her at a -disadvantage, that he should be perfectly at home and know exactly -what to do, when she was nervous and flustered. But that kind -Providence which had endowed Elizabeth with so many good gifts had -given her among others a power to cover inward perturbation with a -brave show of self-possession. - -"I'm terribly early," she was able to say now, quite lightly and -easily, though still with that uncomfortable beating of the heart. "My -aunts are very old-fashioned, and insist on punctuality as one of the -cardinal virtues." - -"In which they are quite right, I think," said Mr. Gerard, smiling. -"But when you know Mrs. Van Antwerp well, you will have learned that -it is the one virtue in which she is utterly lacking." - -"I--I don't know her very well," Elizabeth admitted, regretting -somewhat that she could not assert the contrary. "I have never even -been here before," she added, glancing about the room, whose -stateliness was a little overpowering. - -"Really! Then wouldn't you--a--like to come into the conservatory and -look at the flowers?" suggested Mr. Gerard, who seemed to have charged -himself with the duties of host. "Oh, you needn't wait for Mrs. Van -Antwerp," he added, smiling, as Elizabeth hesitated. "I know the time -when she went to dress, and can assert with confidence that she won't -be down for another half-hour." - -So Elizabeth found herself led, somewhat against her will, into the -famous conservatory, of whose beauties she had often heard; but with -which, it must be confessed, she was less occupied than with the man -by her side, at whom she cast furtive glances from beneath her long -lashes. He was tall--decidedly taller than herself, though she was a -tall woman, and rather broadly built than otherwise. His dark, -smooth-shaven face, which had lighted up pleasantly when he smiled, -was in repose rather heavy and impassive, with an ugly, square chin, -that seemed to indicate an indomitable will, of a kind to pursue -tenaciously whatever he might desire. In contradiction to this, his -eyes, except when a passing gleam of interest or amusement brightened -their sombre depths, had a weary indifferent look, as if there were -nothing in the world, on the whole, worth desiring. - -"And this is the man," thought Elizabeth, "whom I am expected to -amuse. He doesn't look as if it would be an easy task. But no doubt -Mrs. Bobby has given him the same charge about me, and he is trying, -conscientiously, to obey. That's why he's taken me in here to show me -the sights, the way they do to the country visitors." Her heart leaped -rebelliously at the thought, even while she was saying aloud -mechanically: "'What a fine azalea!' I wonder if I look like a -countrified production. My gown isn't, at least; but then--he wouldn't -appreciate that fact. It probably would be the same to him, if it came -out of the Ark; he isn't the sort of man to notice, one way or the -other. I don't believe he cares for women--no, nor they for him. He's -not at all good-looking, and he must be--thirty-five"--she ventured -another glance. "Oh, that, at least. His hair is quite gray on the -temples. 'Yes, those orchids are beautiful. I never saw anything like -them.' I must do my duty and admire properly; he thinks me very -unsophisticated, no doubt. I don't think I like him. Did Mrs. Bobby -think it would amuse me to--amuse him? But perhaps he is thinking the -same thing about me." And she stole another glance at his face, but -could not read, in his half-closed eyes and unmoved expression, any -indication of his real feelings. - -They had made the round of the conservatory, when suddenly he stopped. -"Don't you--want a flower for your gown," he asked. He looked about -him reflectively. "Let me see," he said. "You would like it to be -white." Elizabeth wondered how he knew that. After a moment's -hesitation, he chose a white rose and gave it to her. She fastened it -carefully in her gown, where its green leaves formed the only touch of -color. - -"How does it look?" she asked innocently, and raised her eyes to his, -where unexpectedly they encountered an odd gleam, of something that -seemed neither wholly interest nor yet amusement, and that made her -look down again quickly, while the warm color mantled in her cheeks. -It was a moment before he answered her. - -"It looks well," he said then, quietly, "and suits your gown." And -they sauntered back slowly to the drawing-room. - -Mrs. Bobby came hurrying in by the opposite door, fastening as she -went the diamond star in her black lace. - -"My dear child," she said, kissing Elizabeth, "what must you think of -me! It is all Bobby's fault for taking us such a long drive, and I see -he is not down yet either, the wretch! But Julian has been -entertaining you, so it is all right. I'm afraid though that he has -been taking away my character unmercifully, telling you that I am -always late, and other pleasing things of the kind." - -Gerard's smile again softened his face. "Do me justice, Eleanor," he -said. "You know I don't say worse things of my friends behind their -backs than I do to their faces." - -She laughed. "I should be sorry for them if you did," she returned. -"But here," she went on, as voices were heard in the hall, "here, in -good time, are the Rector and his wife. What a blessing they didn't -arrive sooner!" - -The words had hardly left her lips before the Rector and his wife were -ushered in, the latter uttering voluble apologies for being late, and -laying all the blame on the erratic behavior of the village hackman, -who feeling an utter contempt for people who did not keep their own -carriages, reserved the privilege of calling for them at what hour he -pleased. The theme of his unpunctuality was so engrossing that the -Rector's wife would have enlarged on it for some time, had she not -caught sight of Elizabeth, and in her surprise subsided into a chair -and momentary silence. And then strolled in Bobby Van Antwerp, fair, -well-groomed, amiable, and mildly bored at the prospect of -entertaining his neighbors; and immediately afterwards followed the -Hartingtons, still more bored at the prospect of being entertained; -after which they all went in to dinner, and Elizabeth found herself -seated between the Rector and Gerard. - -"You live here all the year round, don't you?" the latter said to her, -somewhere about the third course, when he had given utterance to -several other conventional remarks, and she had grown accustomed to -the multiplicity of forks at her plate, and had decided that the light -of wax candles, beaming softly under rose-colored shades, was -eminently becoming to every one. She looked at him now with an odd -little challenge in her eyes, called forth, in spite of herself, by -the wearied civility of his conversational efforts. - -"Yes, I live here all the year round," she said, in her clear, -flute-like voice. "I--I'm a country girl, you see." - -He smiled. "You are to be congratulated, I think." - -"Do you think so?" asked Elizabeth, in genuine surprise. - -"Why, yes, I love the country; don't you," he said tranquilly. - -She was silent for a moment, her eyes resting absently on the graceful -erection of ferns in the centre of the table, which rose, like a fairy -island, from a lake of glass. "It's not a conventional thing to say," -she answered at last, slowly "but if you want the truth"-- - -"I always want the truth," said Gerard. - -"Well, then, I don't think I do care for the country," she said. "I've -had too much of it. I--there are times when I detest it." She spoke -with sudden vehemence, and she met his wondering gaze with eyes that -were curiously hard. - -Gerard's face clouded. "You don't care for the country," he said, -slowly, "and yet you live here all the year round?" - -"Ah, that's the very reason," she said, lightly. "People always tell -you that you don't appreciate your blessings; but how can you -reasonably be expected to, when you don't have any voice in choosing -them?" - -"If you did, you probably wouldn't like them any better," he retorted. -"And it would be more annoying to think that you had had a voice in -the matter and had chosen wrong." - -"Perhaps," said Elizabeth, "but I should like to make the experiment." -And she stared again thoughtfully at the feathery forms of the ferns. - -"Well, if you had your choice," said Gerard, lazily, "what would you -choose as an improvement on the present state of things?" - -She turned towards him with a slight start. "What should I choose," -she said, slowly "as an improvement on my life just now?" - -"Yes, if you had a fairy Godmother," suggested Gerard. - -"With unlimited power?" questioned Elizabeth. - -He laughed. "Well, not quite that, perhaps," he said, "but--a fairy -Godmother who could give you a good deal. A very charming one, too," -he added, in a low voice. - -Elizabeth knit her brows and pouted out her full lips, in apparently -deep reflection. "If I had a fairy Godmother," she said, musingly, -"and she were to give me three wishes--three, you know, is the magic -number in the fairy tales--why, I should choose first of all, I think, -a season in town"-- - -"Which you might tire of in a month," suggested Gerard. - -"Not at all," said Elizabeth, decidedly, "because my second wish would -be for the capacity to be always amused." - -"And do you really think," said Gerard, "that you would like that--to -go through life as if it were a sort of opera bouffe?" - -"Why not?" said Elizabeth. "I'm a frivolous person. I confess I like -opera bouffe." - -"For an evening, perhaps," said Gerard, "but after a time you'd get -tired of it--oh, yes, I'm sure you would--and you'd begin to think"-- - -"Ah, no, I shouldn't," she interrupted him, eagerly "for that's what -my third wish should be. I should ask for the power never to think. -Thought--thought is horrible." She spoke the last words very low, more -to herself than him, and broke off suddenly, as an odd, frightened -look crept into her eyes. Gerard watched her in some perplexity. - -"This girl," he said to himself "who must be, I suppose, somewhere -about twenty, and has seen, according to Eleanor, nothing of the -world, talks sometimes like a thoughtless child, and sometimes like a -woman of thirty, and an unhappy one at that. I can't quite make her -out." Aloud he said, in an odd, dry voice that he had not hitherto -used towards her, "Now that you have pretty well in theory at least, -reduced yourself to the level of a brainless doll, why not ask, now -that you are about it, for the power not to feel? Then you would -really be a complete automaton, and nothing on earth could have power -to hurt you." - -Elizabeth had grown very pale, and her hands were tightly locked -together under the table. "Ah," she said, wearily "I've exhausted my -three wishes. And, besides, it's too much to ask. No fairy Godmother, -I'm afraid, could give one the power not to feel." - -"Be thankful for that," he said, quickly. "A woman who has no capacity -for suffering is--is--would be unspeakably repellant." - -"Would she?" said Elizabeth, dreamily. "I should think, for my part, -that she would be rather enviable." She sat staring absently before -her, and Gerard did not try to break the silence. In a moment Mrs. -Hartington on his other side claimed his attention, and Elizabeth was -not sorry. She felt vaguely resentful towards him for having made her -think of unpleasant things, which she had resolved not to do that -evening. The dinner went on, and she helped herself mechanically to -dish after dish which was pressed upon her. The Rector turned to her -and made a few labored remarks, adapted as he thought to her youthful -intelligence, and she answered them absently. Bobby Van Antwerp told, -in a languid way, a funny story for the benefit of the table, and the -conversation grew general for awhile. Dinner was nearly over when -Gerard said, turning to her with a pleasant smile: - -"I'm not a prophet, and yet I am going to venture on a prediction. In -a little while, I think, you'll find your fairy Godmother, and have -your season in town, though I don't know if the other things will be -thrown in; and then some time in the course of it, I'll ask you if you -are satisfied, and you'll tell me perhaps, that you are sick of it -all, and are pining for the country, the green fields, and--a--the -view of the river"-- - -He stopped as Elizabeth interrupted him flippantly. "Oh, no, never," -she cried. "I'd prefer city streets to green fields any day, and as -for the river--I've looked at it all my life, and I'm afraid I've -exhausted its possibilities." She was quite herself again, her cheeks -were pink; she looked up at him with laughing eyes. "Confess that you -think me terribly frivolous," she said; "confess that you disapprove -of me entirely." - -"On the contrary," said Gerard, with rather a cold smile "I think -there is a good deal to be said for your point of view--and as for -disapproval, that's a priggish sensation that I hope I don't allow -myself to feel towards any one. Wait till I see you in town," he went -on, more genially "and then perhaps we'll agree better." - -"Ah, but you never will see me in town," she said, sadly. - -"Never?" he returned, slightly raising his eye-brows. "That's rather a -rash prediction. I think I may have the pleasure of meeting you there -before very long. You see I believe in fairy Godmothers," he added, -lightly, as Mrs. Bobby gave the signal, and, rising, he pushed back -Elizabeth's chair. - -She paused for a moment, as she gathered up in one hand the soft white -folds of her gown. "I wish your faith could perform miracles," she -said. And then she followed dreamily in the wake of the well-worn -black satin gown, which had been seen, on many another festive -occasion, on the broad back of the Rector's wife. - -"He does disapprove of me," the girl thought to herself. "He would -have liked me better if I were a little bread-and-butter miss, in -white muslin and blue ribbons, who babbled of green fields and taught -a class in Sunday school. That's the kind of woman he admires. He -thinks me hard and flippant, but--I don't care. At least he dropped -that weary, society manner. It is something to have inspired him with -an emotion of some sort, even if it happens to be disapproval." - - - - -_Chapter XIV_ - - -The Rector's wife, after the first surprise, was very glad to see -Elizabeth. It made her feel more at home, and she drew her down now -eagerly, beside her on the sofa by the fire, whose warmth on that -autumn evening modified the somewhat chill atmosphere of the state -drawing-room. - -"My dear Elizabeth, I never expected to see you here." Increased -respect mingled with the surprise in her tone. Elizabeth had certainly -gone up several degrees in her estimation. "It's quite an honor to be -asked--the Courtenays never are, I know, though don't repeat that I -said so. Of course we are asked every year, as is only due, you know, -to the Rector's position, my dear; but almost always the children are -ill, or something goes wrong, and it's three years now since we've -been able to come. It was unfortunate our being late this time. Do you -think Mrs. Bobby was much annoyed?" The Rector's wife lowered her -voice anxiously, as she for the first time waited for a response. - -"Oh, no," Elizabeth was able truthfully to assure her. "I'm sure she -wasn't annoyed." - -"Well, to be sure, the Hartingtons were later"--in a tone of -relief--"but these great swells can do as they please. You look very -nice, Elizabeth, very nice indeed. I never saw that dress before. It -must be pleasant to have something new occasionally"--and the Rector's -wife gave a gentle sigh. "You see I have had the color changed on this -dress--red, I think, makes it look quite different, and it is warm and -pretty for the autumn. Don't repeat this, Elizabeth, but I wore the -same dress here the last time I came to dinner four years ago--only -then it was trimmed with pale blue. It was summer, you see, so it -looked cool. Do you suppose Mrs. Bobby would remember?" - -"Oh, I don't suppose Mrs. Bobby cares"--Elizabeth began absently "much -about dress," she added, hastily. She was looking vaguely about her, -wondering as the familiar voice meandered on, if she were really at -dinner at the Van Antwerps', or prosaically seated as she had so often -been before, in the Rectory parlor. - -Mrs. Hartington, a large fair woman, very splendidly dressed, had -seized upon Mrs. Bobby and was talking to her on a sofa at the other -end of the room. - -"So you have taken up the Van Vorst girl," she was saying, as she -surveyed Elizabeth through her lorgnette. "She is really quite pretty, -and--a--not bad form. That gown of hers is effective--it's so simple. -I wonder how she learned to dress herself, here in the country." - -"Oh, she's learned more than that, Sybil, I imagine," said Mrs. Bobby, -in level tones. "I think her very good form, and extremely pretty. Her -coloring is very picturesque, and quite natural." This very -innocently, without a glance at the conspicuously blonde hair which -her friends said had not been bestowed on Sybil Hartington by nature. - -"She inherits it from her mother, I suppose--a red-haired bar-maid, -wasn't she?" said Mrs. Hartington, again subjecting Elizabeth to a -prolonged scrutiny. "After all, she lacks distinction," she announced, -dropping her lorgnette and turning to more important subjects. - -Mrs. Bobby did not enjoy that half-hour after dinner; neither, -perhaps, did Elizabeth, who had heard several times already the -account of the attack of measles from which the Rectory children had -lately recovered, and was glad when the men appeared in the midst of -it. But if she had expected Mr. Gerard to come up to her to resume -their conversation, as perhaps she had, in spite of her consciousness -of his disapproval, she was destined to be disappointed. Gerard did -give her one long look, as she sat in the full glow of the firelight; -but he turned almost immediately and spoke to Mrs. Hartington, who -had, indeed, the air of confidently expecting him to do so. It was -Bobby Van Antwerp who sauntered up to Elizabeth, hospitably intent on -making her feel at home. - -"It was awfully good of you to come to-night, Miss Van Vorst. These -dinner-parties in the country are stupid things, but, after all, it's -a way of seeing something of one's neighbors. I think you're too -unsociable here, as a rule. It's a bore of course to take one's horses -out at night, but if one always thought of that, one would never go -anywhere." - -"I'm sure," Elizabeth said sincerely, "I was very glad to come. A -dinner-party is a great event to me." - -"Ah, well, it is dull here for a young girl," said Bobby, kindly. "My -wife finds it very dull; but she knows I'm fond of the old place, and -she comes to please me. You and she must try to amuse each other. You -know, between ourselves"--lowering his voice--"Eleanor doesn't always -take to people; it has made some of our neighbors around here feel -rather sore--I'm afraid. But she does take to you, and so I hope we -shall see a great deal of you." - -Elizabeth smiled and murmured her thanks, wondering greatly to find -herself thus singled out from the rest of the Neighborhood; and just -then Mrs. Bobby came up and took her hand. - -"Come," she said, "I want you to play for me. I'm so fond of music, -and I've heard that you play beautifully." - -"Ah, but I don't," Elizabeth protested; but still she allowed herself -to be led to the piano, without undue reluctance. And then that grand -piano, with the name of the maker had been tempting her to try it ever -since dinner-time. - -After all, it is doubtful if Mrs. Bobby cared so very much for music; -but it is possible she knew of some one else who did. Elizabeth had a -gift which had come to her, Heaven knows how!--a gift in which far -greater pianists are sometimes lacking--the power to throw herself -into what she played and to infuse into it something of her own -personality. Her playing seemed no mere, mechanical repetition of what -she had been taught, but the unstudied, spontaneous expression of her -own thoughts and feelings. As she passed at Mrs. Bobby's request from -one thing to another, mingling more set compositions with fragments -from operas and songs of the day, the conversation between Mrs. -Hartington and Gerard slackened, and he glanced more and more -frequently towards the piano. - -"Music is rather a bore--isn't it--after dinner this way," drawled -Mrs. Hartington, noticing this fact. - -"I don't think I agree with you. I'm fond of music," said Gerard, and -after awhile he found an opportunity to saunter over to the piano, -where Elizabeth sat playing, a little absently now, bits from Wagner. -She started and looked up, blushing slightly, as Gerard asked her if -she could play the Fire-music. - -"I--it is a long time since I have tried it," she began, impelled by -some vague instinct to refuse, and then she stopped, and almost -unconsciously her fingers touched the keys, as she caught a look that -seemed to compel obedience. He smiled. - -"Please play it," he said, and though the tone was caressing, there -lurked in it a half perceptible note of command. She felt it, as she -began to play, and he stood listening, his grave eyes fixed upon her -face. "A severe judge," she thought to herself with a proud little -thrill of rebellion. And then, as she played on, she forgot this -thought, and the fear of his criticism; forgot the strange room, and -the strange people, and the fact that she was dining at the Van -Antwerps'; forgot everything but the eyes fixed upon her, and played -as she had never played before. - -Elizabeth had always put the best of herself into her music, her -finest qualities of brain and soul. But now she put into it something -of which she before was hardly conscious, a force and depth and fire, -which stirred inarticulately within her, and found expression in the -throbbing Wagnerian chords. All the magic of the fairy spell thrilled -beneath her touch, as it rose and fell and wove itself in and out -amidst the clash of conflicting motives, while Brünnhilde sank ever -deeper into slumber, and the flames leaped and danced and played about -her sleeping form, and there lurked no premonition in her maiden -dreams of that fatal, all-engrossing love, which was yet to awaken her -from the serenity of oblivion. Then, as the rippling cadence died -away, Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, striking furtive harmonies, -till she passed at length into the poignant sweetness, the passionate -self-surrender of the second act of Tristan, and so on to the -Liebestod, with its swan-song of triumphant anguish, of love supreme -even in death. With the last sobbing chord, Elizabeth's hands fell -from the keys, and she sat staring straight before her, with eyes that -were unusually large and dark. - -"Upon my word she _can_ play," said Bobby Van Antwerp, and looked, for -him, slightly stirred. "She has temperament," Mrs. Hartington coldly -responded and again honored Elizabeth with a prolonged stare. "My dear -child," exclaimed Elizabeth's hostess, "I had no idea you could play -like that." The only person who said nothing was the man for whom she -had played. He stood motionless by the piano, and his face was white -and set. When the applause of the others had ceased, and Elizabeth, -blushing now and smiling, looked up at him in involuntary surprise at -his silence as if from a dream, he started and then, recovering -himself, he spoke mechanically a few conventional words of thanks, and -without comment on her performance, turned abruptly away. - -Elizabeth still sat, a trifle dazed, at the piano, her hands tightly -clasped in her lap. Her cheeks were burning painfully and she bit her -lip to keep back the tears that sprang unbidden to her eyes. She -seemed to have fallen suddenly from the clouds back to earth. After a -moment she rose and went over to her hostess to say farewell. - -"Don't go," Mrs. Bobby entreated, holding her hand, "I really haven't -seen anything of you." - -"I must go, thank you," Elizabeth said, quietly. "William,"--this was -the gardener, who on state occasions officiated as coachman--"will be -furious if he is kept waiting." - -She felt a sudden eagerness to be gone, and Mrs. Bobby admitted the -force of her excuse and parted with her reluctantly. Both Bobby and -Gerard escorted her into the hall, but it was Gerard who placed her -in the carriage, and yet, as he did so, said not a word further of -seeing her again. - -"He probably doesn't wish to," thought Elizabeth, "now that he has -done his duty to the last." The reflection was the only unpleasant one -that she brought away from an otherwise successful evening. - -Gerard sauntered back into the drawing-room, and stood leaning against -the mantel-piece, gazing with thoughtful eyes into the fire, while, as -it leaped and flickered, and sent out glowing tongues of flame, a -woman's face looked up at him framed in her shimmering hair, and the -magic of the fire-music still rang in his ear, mingled with the more -passionate strains of Tristan, the deeper tragedy of Liebestod. - -He had been standing thus a long time when Mrs. Bobby came and stood -beside him. The other guests had left and Bobby had gone off to his -den. - -"Well," she said tentatively, glancing up smiling into his face, -"well, Julian, what did you think of her?" - -He started and looked at her blankly for a moment. "Think of--whom, -Eleanor?" he asked. - -"You know whom I mean--Elizabeth Van Vorst." - -Gerard's eyes wandered back to the fire, where they rested for a -moment absently. "I think," he said at last slowly, and as if weighing -his words with more than his wonted deliberation, "I think there's too -much red in her hair." - -"Too much red in her hair," Mrs. Bobby repeated blankly; then -recovering herself: "But there isn't any, Julian, or very little. I -call her hair golden, not red." - -"Look at it in the fire-light," Gerard insisted imperturbably, "and -you will see that it's a deep red." - -"Well, and if it is," said Mrs. Bobby--"not that I admit for a moment -that you are right--but if it is, red hair is all the fashion -nowadays." - -"No doubt," said Gerard. "It's a matter of taste. But for myself I -never see a red-haired woman"--He stopped, but went on presently with -an effort. "I never see a red-haired woman, that I don't instinctively -avoid her. Yes, it's a--a superstition, if you will. I feel that she -will be dangerous, somehow or another, perhaps to herself, and -certainly to others." A note of unwonted feeling thrilled his voice. -He broke off suddenly and stared again into the fire. - -Mrs. Bobby sat and watched him in silence. "And so," she said to -herself, "_that_ woman's hair was red." - -"You see," said Gerard, presently, looking at her with a smile, "I've -shown the confidence I repose in you by confessing my pet -superstition. Miss Van Vorst's hair is not _very_ red, I admit, except -in some lights, but still it's--it's red enough to be dangerous; and -that fact, and certain other little things I've noticed about her, -incline me to--to avoid her. She puzzles me; I can't quite make her -out. Still, she is certainly a girl whom a great many men would--would -admire. I'm no criterion, I believe." - -"I hope not, I'm sure," said Mrs. Bobby, ruefully "for the sake of -most of the women I know. My dear Julian, I despair of ever getting -you married." - -"My dear Eleanor, if you would only stop trying. Your efforts are, if -you will excuse my saying so, a little too transparent. Do you suppose -that I imagined this evening that your unpunctuality was entirely -accidental?" - -"Imagine what you will, you marvel of astuteness," said Eleanor, -composedly. "I certainly did not intend to hurry down while I knew -Elizabeth to be in such good hands, as I admit yours to be, in spite -of certain faults which I hope marriage will improve. And that's why I -don't relax my efforts, as you call them, while there is such a -superfluity of nice girls in the world, and such an insufficiency of -nice men to deserve them. But I'm disappointed about--about Elizabeth -Van Vorst," she went on, musingly. "I thought--I don't know why, -Julian--but I thought that you would like her." - -Gerard started. "I never said that I--didn't like her," he observed. - -"No, but your remarks seemed to point in that direction. Now I like -her very much. Indeed, to return your confidence with another, -Julian"--she looked up with a smile--"I was thinking, if Bobby -approves, of asking her to spend the winter with me. - -"I knew that," he returned, calmly, "and I approve of the plan highly. -It will be a pleasant change for her, as she doesn't seem exactly -satisfied with her surroundings; and for you it will be a--a"--he -paused, apparently in search of an appropriate word--"an interesting -study," he concluded. - -She looked up in surprise. "A--a study," she repeated. - -"Yes, a study--to see what a girl like that, with the somewhat odd -antecedents that you told me about once, and some contradictory -characteristics that I think she has--to see how she develops in the -storm and stress of a New York season. I--I think you will find it -quite interesting, Eleanor." - -"I'm glad you think so," she returned, softly. "But--how about -yourself, Julian? Couldn't you--just on general psychological -principles--condescend to take an interest in it, too?" - -A shadow fell on Gerard's face. "Oh, for myself," he said, carelessly, -"I'm not easily interested in things nowadays, and above all -not--thank Heaven! not in women." He paused. "All the same," he added, -"you have the best wishes--for the success of your protégée." And with -this he bade her good-night, and left her. - -She sat for a long time without moving, and watched the fire flicker -and die away. - -"On the whole, I'm rather glad her hair is red--in certain lights at -least," she observed at last, apparently to the smouldering embers. -"It--it makes the study still more interesting." - - - - -_Chapter XV_ - - -When Eleanor Van Antwerp had uttered the words "If Bobby approves," -she had given voice to a purely conventional formula; for when, in the -eight years of their married life, had Bobby not approved of anything -that she might chance to desire? She did not suppose for a moment that -he would object to her asking Elizabeth Van Vorst, or any one under -the sun, to spend the winter, and when, the next morning, she paid him -a visit in his den, where he was supposed to be transacting important -business, and proved to be enjoying a novel and a cigar, she was -still, as she asked his permission to carry out her new plan, merely -paying a graceful concession to the perfunctory and outworn theory of -his supremacy. Bobby listened placidly, puffing at his cigar, his -clear-cut, clean-shaven profile, outlined against the window-pane -seeming absolutely impassive in the gray light of the autumn day. But -when she concluded, and was waiting, all aglow with her own -enthusiasm, for his answer, he turned his blue eyes towards her with -an unusually thoughtful look. - -"Well," she said, impatiently, as he still declined to commit himself, -"what do you think?" - -"What do I think," he repeated, slowly, "of your asking Elizabeth Van -Vorst to spend the winter?" - -"Why, yes, I don't want to do it, dear, of course, unless you -approve." - -"Well, then," said Bobby, calmly, "if you ask my candid opinion, I -think it would be a mistake. I--I'd rather you didn't Eleanor, really -I would." - -"Bobby," Eleanor Van Antwerp stared at her husband in incredulous -amazement. "Bobby, you don't mean to say that you don't want me to ask -her?" - -"That's about it." Bobby paused and reflectively knocked the ashes -from his cigar. "You see," he went on, argumentatively "this is the -way I look at it. The girl is good-looking, and all that, and it's -very nice for you to see something of her up here, and I'm only too -glad, for it's awfully sweet of you, darling, to come here on my -account, and I've always been sorry that there wasn't some woman whom -you could be friends with. But to ask a girl to spend the winter, and -introduce her to people, is--is a responsibility; and if you want to -ask any one--why, I'd rather it were some girl whom I know all -about--that's all." - -It was not often that Bobby made such a long speech. His wife could -hardly hear him to the end of it. "But, my dear Bobby" she exclaimed, -breaking in upon his last words, "you know all about Elizabeth Van -Vorst!" - -"Do I," said Bobby, quietly. "I know that her father was a fool, and -that her mother was--worse. Perhaps it would be better if I didn't -know quite so much, Eleanor." - -"For Heaven's sake, don't harp on what happened centuries ago," cried -Mrs. Bobby, who had not been born in the neighborhood. "I've always -thought it a shame the way people here snub that poor girl. People -can't help what their fathers and mothers were like. If mine were -fairly respectable, I'm sure it's no credit to me." - -"None at all," Bobby assented, "but still you'd feel rather badly if -they were not. It's a natural feeling, Eleanor. I'm not a crank about -family, but on general principles, I think a girl whose mother was a -lady is more apt to behave herself than one whose mother was--well, -quite the reverse." - -"And on general principles," said Eleanor, quickly "I agree with you, -but I think Elizabeth Van Vorst the exception that proves the rule." - -"Then I would rather," said Bobby, tranquilly, "that it were proved -under some one else's auspices than yours." - -"But that doesn't seem likely, under the circumstances," exclaimed his -wife, impatiently. "Really, Bobby, you disappoint me. I never supposed -you had such narrow-minded ideas. The girl has been very well brought -up by those dear old aunts, and she is perfectly well-bred. And I'm -sure there is plenty of good blood in the family as well as bad. The -Schuyler Van Vorsts are their cousins, and lots of old Dutch families. -I dare say, if we went far enough back, we'd find ourselves related -to them, too." - -"I dare say," said Bobby, resignedly, "if we went far enough back, -we'd find ourselves related to a lot of queer people. But we don't, -thank Heaven! have to ask them to visit us." - -"Ah, well, I see you are hopelessly opposed to my plan," said Mrs. -Bobby, changing her tactics, "and of course, dear, as I told you -before, I wouldn't think of asking any one unless you approve." - -"Oh, I don't really care," said Bobby, somewhat taken aback by this -sudden surrender. "Ask any one you please. You know I never interfere -with your plans. Only don't blame me if they turn out badly--that's -all." - -"Ah, but they never do," cried Mrs. Bobby, "at least this one won't, -I'm sure. I really have set my heart on it, Bobby," she went on, -pleadingly. "The truth is, though I don't often speak of it, going out -has been a weariness, and that big house in town seems horribly empty -since--since the baby died." Her lip trembled and she paused for a -moment, while Bobby turned and stared fixedly out of the window at the -brilliantly-tinted leaves that a chill east wind was whirling -inexorably to the ground. "I thought," she went on presently, in a -voice that was not quite steady, "that if I had some one with me to -make the house seem a little brighter--some young girl whom I could -take with me on the same old round that I'm so sick of--why, I could -look at life through her eyes, and it would seem more worth while. But -of course Bobby," she concluded, earnestly, "I wouldn't for the world -do anything to which you really object." - -"My dear Eleanor," said Bobby, turning round at this and speaking for -him quite solemnly. "You know I don't object to anything in the world -that could make you happy." - -And so Mrs. Bobby had her own way. - -It was on Saturday that this conversation took place; and on Sunday -afternoon they all walked over to the Homestead--Mrs. Bobby, her -husband and Gerard. Elizabeth had been prepared for their coming, by a -whisper from Mrs. Bobby after church; and tea was all ready for them -with Miss Joanna's cakes, and a fire that was welcome after the cold -out-doors, where the bleak east wind was still robbing the trees of -their glory and ushering in prematurely the dull grayness of November. -Mrs. Bobby was not satisfied till she could draw Elizabeth to a -distant sofa, and deliver the invitation which she felt, in her -impetuous fashion, she could not withhold for another day. - -But though the first of Elizabeth's wishes was thus fulfilled with a -promptness most unusual outside of fairy tales, she did not accept -with the enthusiasm that might have been expected. For a moment, -indeed, her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with delight. And then of -a sudden the color faded, her eyes fell, she shrank back as if -frightened at the idea. - -"I--I--it's awfully sweet of you, Mrs. Van Antwerp," she said, low and -hurriedly, "but I--I can't go--I wish I could, but I can't. -Don't--don't ask me." It was almost as if she had said, "Don't tempt -me." Poor Mrs. Bobby, whose intentions were so good, was exceedingly -puzzled and not a little piqued. - -"Oh, well, if you don't care to come," she said, coldly, in the -great-lady manner which she seldom assumed, "of course I shall not -urge you. I shouldn't have mentioned the subject, if I had not thought -from what you said the other day, that you were really anxious to come -to town." - -"So I was, so I am--for some reasons; but for others--Dear Mrs. Van -Antwerp," the girl pleaded, "don't think me ungrateful. I should love -to come beyond anything, but--but I can't. It doesn't seem right," she -added, more firmly. - -"Doesn't seem right," repeated Mrs. Bobby, wondering, "You mean on -your aunts' account. You think it wouldn't be right to leave them?" - -"Yes," Elizabeth assented, as if relieved at being furnished with an -excuse of some sort, however feeble, "I don't think it would be right -to leave them." - -"But that is nonsense," cried Mrs. Bobby. "They will miss you -terribly, of course, but it will be no worse than when you were at -school, and they would be the first to wish you to go, I'm sure." - -Elizabeth was quite sure of it, too. Mrs. Bobby, reading this -conviction in her eyes, and all the more anxious for the success of -her plan, now that it met with so many unexpected obstacles, went on -to expatiate on the delights of a season in town, and all the -possibilities that life can offer, to one who has youth, talent and -beauty. Elizabeth listened eagerly with dilating eyes, which she only -once withdrew from Mrs. Bobby's face, to glance across to the other -end of the room, where Mr. Gerard was leaning forward in an attitude -of respectful interest, as he talked to Miss Cornelia. For a moment -Elizabeth's eyes rested, half absently perhaps, on the strong lines of -his face, while the irrelevant thought passed through her mind: "I -wonder what he would think." Then, quick as lightning, the answer -followed. "I don't care," she said, under her breath, and drew herself -up with a little flash of defiance. - -She turned towards Mrs. Bobby. "Do you really want me?" she asked, -caressingly. - -"Should I have asked you, if I didn't," laughed Mrs. Bobby, -triumphant, as she saw that victory was hers. - -Elizabeth told the news to her aunts as soon as the visitors had left. -Their delight was what she had expected. They were eager in approving -her decision, and in assuring her that she should have all the pretty -gowns that the occasion required, sustained by the conviction, which -occurred simultaneously to the minds of both, that their old black -silks, which they had foolishly thought of as shabby, would do -admirably another winter. It would be the height of extravagance, as -Miss Cornelia afterwards observed to replace them. - -"It's just what we have always wished for you," she cried, her little -curls all a'flutter with joyful excitement, "and so unexpected--quite -like a fairy-tale." - -"Yes," Elizabeth assented, "quite like a fairy-tale. There's only one -difference," she added to herself, as she left the room, "from every -well-regulated fairy-tale that I ever heard of. The fairy Godmother, -coach and four, are just a little--too late." - - - - -_Chapter XVI_ - - -"My dear Elizabeth," said Mrs. Bobby, "I regret to say it, but you -really are growing terribly spoiled." - -The winter was far advanced when Mrs. Bobby made this remark. With -Lent growing every day nearer, the whirl of gaiety grew ever faster -and more furious. It was not often that Mrs. Bobby and her guest had -an opportunity for private conversation. But to-night, as it happened, -they had merely been out to dinner, and having returned at an -unusually early hour, Elizabeth came into Mrs. Bobby's boudoir in her -long white dressing-gown, and sat brushing out her masses of wavy -hair, while she and her hostess discussed the evening's entertainment, -and other recent events of interest. - -Mrs. Bobby's eyes rested upon Elizabeth with all the satisfaction with -which a connoisseur regards some beautiful object of which he has been -the discoverer. Elizabeth's beauty, Elizabeth's conquests, formed to -Mrs. Bobby just then a theme of which she never tired. Nor did she -fail to make them the text for various sermons that she delivered to -Bobby about this time, on the subject of her own wisdom, and his utter -failure as a prophet. - -"Confess, Bobby, that my plans turn out well," she would say, "and -that I'm not such a fool as you thought me." - -"Why, I never," Bobby would protest, "thought you anything of the -kind." But she would go on unheeding: - -"It would have been a shame for that girl to be buried in the country, -and I do take some credit to myself for having rescued her from such a -fate. But after that, all the credit is due to Elizabeth. I did what I -could, of course, to launch her successfully, but when all is said and -done, a girl has to sink or swim on her own merits. Elizabeth takes to -society as a duck does to water; it's her natural element. And talk of -heredity! There are not many girls with the most aristocratic mothers -who can come into a room with the air that she has, as if she didn't -care two straws whether any one spoke to her or not, and then of -course every one does. Now explain to me, Bobby, if you can, where the -girl gets that air." - -"I suppose," said Bobby, "if I believed implicitly in heredity (which -I am not at all sure that I do) I'd account for it by your own remark -that she has plenty of good blood as well as bad." - -"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Bobby, incredulously, "you can always make a -theory fit in somehow." - -But though Mrs. Bobby exulted in that air of indifference with which -Elizabeth accepted, as if it were a mere matter of course, all the -devotion offered up at her feet, she was beginning to realize that the -most admirable qualities can be carried too far. And thus it was that -she upbraided her this evening with being unreasonably spoiled, and -not sufficiently appreciating the good things which had fallen to her -lot. - -"I don't know what you want me to do," Elizabeth said, quietly, when -she had listened for some moments to this rather vague accusation. -"I'm sure I go everywhere that I'm asked, and that, you must admit, is -saying a good deal; I talk to all the men who talk to me, and that -again you must admit, means a great deal of conversational effort; -and--and I make no distinctions between them whatever, and do my duty -on all occasions. I really don't know what more you can expect." - -"But that," exclaimed her hostess, "is exactly what I complain of. You -go everywhere you are asked--yes, and you never express a preference -for any particular place; you talk to the men who talk to you, and you -make no distinctions--no, for apparently it's all the same to you, -whether it's this man or the other." - -"Not quite," said Elizabeth, placidly, "for one man amuses me and -another doesn't. But beyond that, I don't--thank Heaven! I don't -care." She broke off suddenly, and she drew her comb with unwonted -vehemence through her hair. - -"I don't know why you should thank Heaven," said Mrs. Bobby, watching -her narrowly, "for a fact that is quite abnormal in a girl of your -age, who has some of the nicest men in town in love with her. There -are times when I think you are quite heartless, and yet--with that -hair, and those eyes, and the way you throw yourself into your music, -you seem to have abundance of temperament. On the whole, Elizabeth, -you are a puzzling combination. What was it Mr. D'Hauteville said of -you--that you reminded him of a lake of ice in a circle of fire?" - -"Mr. D'Hauteville," said Elizabeth, yawning, "is fond of glittering -similes. This one sounds well, but doesn't bear close consideration. -The fire, I should think, under the circumstances, would dissolve the -ice." - -"Perhaps it will," said Mrs. Bobby, "when the right time comes." - -"Which will be never," said Elizabeth, with decision. Her hostess -smiled as one who has heard such things said before. - -"After all," she resumed, after a pause, returning to the grievance -which had first started the conversation, "I could forgive you -everything else, but this indifference about your picture. One would -think that when a great artist asks as a special favor to paint your -portrait, you might at least have the decency to go to look at it, -when it is on exhibition, and all New York is talking about it." - -"That's the very reason," said Elizabeth, "why it strikes me as rather -bad taste for me to stand in rapt contemplation before it, while a lot -of people are jostling me, and making remarks about my eyes, and hair, -and mouth, as if it were I on exhibition, and not Mr. ----'s picture." - -"Well, it _is_ you whom they want to see," said Mrs. Bobby. "The New -York public doesn't care much for art, but it does take an interest -in the people whom it reads about in the papers--a weakness that we -needn't quarrel with, since it has made the Portrait Show a success, -and given us so many thousands for our hospital." - -"Well, at least," said Elizabeth, "I have done my duty in contributing -my portrait to the good cause; so don't ask me to be present in actual -flesh and blood, and above all not to face such a crowd as there was -the other day, when we tried to look at it and my gown was nearly torn -off my back in the process." - -"You could go early," suggested Mrs. Bobby, "as I did the other day. -You have no idea how much better it looks in that light than it did at -the studio." - -"I am very tired of it, in any light," said Elizabeth. "People have -talked to me so much about it. But, if you insist upon it I will go--I -will go early. There are some of the other portraits too that I should -like to look at, if I can do so in peace." And with this concession, -the conversation was allowed to drop for a moment. - -It was Elizabeth who resumed it, speaking slowly and tentatively, with -many lapses, and eyes carefully turned away from her friend. "You -talk," she said, "a great deal of my successes, and I suppose, in a -way, I ought to be--satisfied. And of course I am," she added, -hastily. "People have been very nice to me. I--I couldn't ask for -anything more. And yet--there is one person--I don't know if you have -noticed it--one person with whom I am a distinct failure, who I think -almost dislikes me, and that is--your friend Mr. Gerard." - -"What, Julian," said Mrs. Bobby, in a tone that was absolutely devoid -of expression. "You think he--doesn't like you?" - -"I am quite sure of it," said Elizabeth. - -"But why," questioned Mrs. Bobby, in apparent bewilderment. "What -reason have you for thinking so?" - -"A great many, but any one of them would be enough. To begin with, he -never speaks to me if he can possibly help himself. His avoidance of -me is quite pointed--you surely must have noticed it?" She fixed her -eyes anxiously upon Mrs. Bobby. - -"I"--Mrs. Bobby checked the impulsive words that rose to her lips. -"Julian is--is very peculiar," she said in a non-committal tone. "I -don't think he cares for women." - -"Perhaps not; but still I have seen him talk to them--in a bored sort -of way, it is true. But to me he never talks, in any way whatsoever." - -"He never has a chance. You are always surrounded." - -"He would have the same chance as the others. No, it isn't that. He -disapproves of me; I can feel it, as he looks at me through those -dark, half-shut eyes of his, and it gives me an uncomfortable sense of -wickedness. He thinks me flippant, and vain, and frivolous, and I am -when he is there, or I seem so. When he is listening, I say all the -horrid, cynical, heartless things I can think of. I have to say them, -somehow. It is fate. It began the first night that I met him--it was -in the country, do you remember?" She paused and again looked -questioningly at Mrs. Bobby. - -"Yes," the latter answered softly, "I remember." - -"I was rather excited that night--it was the first time I had ever -been out to dinner. I talked in a flippant sort of way about hating -the country, and longing to go out, and wanting to be always amused. -It was very _young_, I suppose." Elizabeth spoke with all the -superiority of a girl half-way through her first season towards her -more unsophisticated self of a few months before. "He didn't like it. -The sort of woman whom he admires knows her catechism, and is -satisfied with that situation in life where it has pleased Providence -to place her. I shocked him; he has never got over it. He showed me, -that very evening, how he disliked me--it was so pointed that it was -almost rude. You asked me--do you remember? to play." She stopped. - -"I remember," said Mrs. Bobby again softly. "I never heard you play so -well." - -"I never have--since. I seemed to have, just for the moment, some -strange power over the keys--such feelings come to one, you know, -sometimes. And then, when I stopped--he had asked me for the -Fire-music--I felt, somehow, that he was fond of music--he _is_ fond -of it, passionately fond--but when I stopped, he looked at me blankly -for a moment, till he suddenly remembered what was expected of him, -and thanked me in a cold sort of way and walked off. And--I shouldn't -think so much of that; but since then he has never--never once asked -me to play, though he has often heard other people ask me." - -"I have noticed," said Mrs. Bobby, quietly, "that you will never play -when he is in the room." - -"I couldn't," said Elizabeth, "it would have such a dampening effect -to feel that there was one person in the room who disliked it, who, no -matter how well I played, would always preserve his critical attitude. - -"You see that I am reduced to the unflattering alternative that it is -myself that he objects to or my playing. But it is the same with -everything. There is my picture, for instance. He is the only person I -know who has said nothing to me about it, has probably not even seen -it." - -"That must be rather a relief," said Mrs. Bobby, placidly, "since you -are so tired of the subject." - -"If I am," said Elizabeth, "that is no reason why he shouldn't go -through the conventional formula of telling me that he has seen the -picture, and adding something civil about it, as the most ordinary -acquaintances never fail to do." - -"No, of course," Mrs. Bobby agreed softly, "the most ordinary -acquaintances never would. But perhaps he doesn't consider himself -exactly that." - -"Whatever he considers himself," said Elizabeth, with some heat, "he -is not exempt from the common rules of civility. But I suppose he -doesn't really admire the picture, and is too painfully truthful to -pretend to the contrary." And then she stopped and laughed a little -at her own vehemence, but without much spirit. "It really is very -illogical," she admitted, "I don't care for Mr. Gerard's admiration, -it would probably bore me extremely to have it; and yet--it's not -pleasant to be so absolutely--ignored." - -Mrs. Bobby was watching her with an odd little gleam in the dark eyes -that were almost hidden by her long, curling lashes. "I will tell -you," she said, "what it is that he doesn't like. It isn't you, or -your playing, or your conversation; it's your hair." - -"My hair!" Elizabeth took up mechanically one of her long shining -locks and passed it through her fingers. "I may have been inordinately -vain," she remarked after a pause, "but I never supposed before that -there was much the matter with my hair." - -"Nor would most people, I imagine. But he has some odd ideas, and -among them, it seems, is a prejudice--a superstition, as he calls -it--against red hair." - -"But mine isn't red," said Elizabeth, quickly. - -"Of course not," said Mrs. Bobby. "He is color blind, as I told him. -But there's no use in arguing the point with him. He insists that your -hair is red enough to--to be dangerous--those are his words, and he -avoids you in consequence. He has had some unfortunate experience in -the past, I should imagine, which has given him this prejudice. There, -my dear, I shouldn't have told you," Mrs. Bobby went on, leaning back -in her chair, and still watching Elizabeth narrowly through -half-closed lids, "if I didn't know, of course, that it can make no -real difference to you what Julian thinks." - -"Of course not," Elizabeth made answer mechanically with dry lips, as -she still drew her comb absently through the offending hair. - -"You have so many admirers," Mrs. Bobby continued serenely, "it can't -matter very much that one person should hold aloof. And then I -shouldn't care about Julian's opinion, for he never admires any woman. -Ever since that unfortunate experience, which happened, I think, when -he was very young, he has been a confirmed cynic, avoiding all young -girls, and horribly afraid of being married for his money. I really -despair now of his ever falling in love; I have talked up almost every -girl in town to him, and all in vain. No, even you, Elizabeth, spoiled -as you are, couldn't expect to make a conquest of Julian." - -"I don't know what I should expect," said Elizabeth, rather coldly, -"but I certainly don't wish to. It would hardly be worth while." She -rose, with one long look in the glass, and moved wearily towards the -door. "I am so very tired, dear," she said. "I think I will say -good-night." - -"Good-night," said Mrs. Bobby, cheerfully. "Sleep well--you need -to--and don't waste another thought on that tiresome creature, -Julian." - -"Oh, I'm not likely to," Elizabeth responded, with rather a pale -smile. "I'm much too tired." - -And yet she did think of him more than once, as she stood before her -mirror, arranging her hair into two heavy braids, which reached below -her waist, and repeating to herself that, as Mrs. Bobby had said, it -could matter little about the one dissenting voice in the general -chorus of admiration which had attended her triumphant career. In -spite of which assurance, her last thoughts as she fell asleep might -have been somewhat surprising to those who, having watched that career -entirely from the outside, regarded her as the most fortunate being in -the world. - -Elizabeth's aunts were on the whole, more to be envied than the girl -herself that winter. There was no alloy in their happiness, no -under-current of dissatisfaction, even though they wore their old -black silks, and Miss Joanna's friend, the butcher, was heard to -complain somewhat bitterly of her sudden parsimony in regard to joints -of meat. What did it matter? They would have dressed cheerfully in -sackcloth and lived on bread and water, for the sake of such glowing -accounts of Elizabeth's triumphs as Mrs. Bobby constantly transmitted, -or of the girl's own brilliant letters which seemed to breathe the -radiant satisfaction of a mind without a care. - -Elizabeth's aunt at Bassett Mills also watched her career, which was -chronicled at that time in the papers. Poor Aunt Rebecca, after a hard -day's work, reading her niece's name, and possibly a description of -her costume in the list of guests at some smart festivity, would look -up, awe-struck, at Amanda. "Only to think," she would say, with the -old contradictory note, half pride, half jealousy "to think that it -should be Malvina's girl!" - -But Amanda, still pale and wasted from the fever with her hair quite -long and very soft and wavy, would give an odd, furtive look from her -light eyes and say nothing. - - - - -_Chapter XVII_ - - -It was early at the Portrait Show. It was so early that what few -people were already there had the place practically to themselves. -There were only three or four in the large room at the head of the -stairs, which at a later hour of the afternoon was invariably crowded, -and where was hung that picture which had attracted so much attention, -partly from the great fame of the artist, still more, perhaps, from -the beauty of the subject. - -A young girl in a long, white gown of some soft, clinging stuff, stood -against the background of a dark green velvet curtain. There was no -relief to the dead whiteness of the gown, and the roses that she held -were white; all that brilliancy of color, for which this great artist -is famous, he had expended upon the deep red-gold tints of the hair, -the vivid scarlet of the lips, the warm creamy tones of the skin, as -they were thrown into full relief by the dark background. The painter -had lingered, with all the skill at his command, on the rounded, -dimpled curves of the neck and arms, nor had he forgotten the haughty -little turn of the head, which gave a characteristic touch to the -picture. Seen at a glance, it was aglow with life and color, very -human, very mundane, the embodiment of health and bloom. A study in -flesh-tints, one critic had carelessly pronounced it, and nothing -more. It was only when you looked at the eyes that you caught a -discordant note, which, if you dwelt upon it, contradicted the joyous -effect of the rest; a look, a latent shadow which the great artist had -either surprised or imagined, and transferred perhaps unconsciously to -his canvas, where, if you saw it at all, it held you with a haunting -sense of mystery, the fascination of an unsolved problem. "What does -it mean," a man said to himself that afternoon, "and did ---- really -put it in, or do I, with my usual superstition, imagine it? Am I the -only person who sees it, or do others?" - -Two young girls, who jostled up against him just then evidently did -not. - -"Portrait of Miss Van Vorst," said one, reading from her catalogue, -"by ----." She passed the artist's name without recognition, as she -delightedly pressed her companion's arm. "Say, Mamie, that's Elizabeth -Van Vorst, you know, the beauty. I've seen lots about her in the -papers." - -"You don't say so?" returned the other, who was apparently less -up-to-date. "I thought she must be one of the swells, but I didn't -know the name. She's pretty isn't she?--but doesn't her nose turn up -too much?--and I don't think much of her dress, it's so kind of -simple." - -The man who had been standing when they came up in front of the -picture, turned frowning aside, and found himself face to face with -the original. For an instant each stared at the other in silence, and -it might have been noticed by a careful observer that the man was at -once the more disconcerted and the less surprised of the two. - -"So I see you have achieved fame," he said, recovering himself almost -immediately and smiling, as he glanced at the two girls who were still -criticizing Elizabeth's features, all unconscious that the subject of -their remarks was within hearing. - -"Yes, fame," she returned, lightly "of a kind that you despise." She, -too, was quite herself again--that flippant, frivolous self, at least, -which he had always the power to awaken. - -"I suppose I'm a crank," he admitted. "I really don't like to hear my -friends talked about, by their first name by people who have read -about them in the papers." - -"Oh, that," she said, carelessly "is a necessary penalty of fame." - -"Which you share with a variety actress," he returned. "I realize more -and more that I'm hopelessly behind the age. Look at those two girls," -he went on, glancing at them with some animosity. - -"They have spent, I should imagine, their little all on the admission -fee and the catalogue; they don't care two straws for the portraits as -portraits, and they have never spoken to the originals, but they are -wildly interested in them because they represent to them the magic -word 'society,' and they will go away and talk about them as if they -knew them intimately." - -Elizabeth laughed softly. "Ah," she said "let them be. They're getting -their money's worth; don't grudge it to them. So far as I'm -concerned, they may pull my face to pieces as much as they please. I -know how it is--I've stood on the outside, too, of a thing, and tried -to imagine that I was in it." - -"Do you think they'd be happier," asked Gerard, "if they were?" - -"Ah, that depends," she returned, oracularly, stroking down the long -fur of her muff. - -"Tell me how you find it yourself," said Gerard. He looked about the -room. "The place is comfortably empty," he said. "Have you been around -yet, or would you--a--like to sit down awhile?" - -She hesitated. "I have been in several of the rooms," she said. "I -came early on purpose. Eleanor is lunching somewhere, but she is to -meet me here at three." - -"Then suppose you--a--rest till she comes?" he suggested, as he led -the way to a sofa which had been placed for the accommodation of weary -sight-seers in the centre of the room. "It's a long while since I've -had a talk with you. ('And whose fault is that,' thought Elizabeth.) -This isn't a bad place to talk in, and if you've been around once, -you've had enough of it for the time being." - -"I am glad to rest for a few minutes," Elizabeth admitted. - -She threw open the revers of her coat, and sank back in her seat as if -physically tired. Gerard looked at her. She was exquisitely dressed. -Her dark green velvet and furs set off the fairness of her skin, her -large feathered hat suited her picturesque style. The subtle -atmosphere of fashion, of distinction, lurked in every fold of her -gown, in every movement and gesture. Three months had sufficed to -endow her with it. They had also sufficed--or was this again the -result of his imagination?--to take away the first freshness of her -beauty. She looked brilliant, but a trifle worn; her color had faded, -there were lines of weariness about the mouth, and deep black rings -under the eyes. - -"You don't look well," he said, abruptly. She smiled. ("I might have -known that he would say that," she said to herself.) - -"I know it," she returned, quietly. "The maid woke me up, as she -generally does, with strong coffee. I refused at first to be waked. I -haven't been to bed at a reasonable hour for weeks, and I'm so -countrified that I show the ill effects of it." - -"You shouldn't go out so much," said Gerard. "What is Eleanor thinking -of that she allows it? You--you will be ill if this keeps up." He -spoke almost angrily. - -"Yet what difference would it make to him?" thought Elizabeth. "He is -very unaccountable. Why should he look at my picture, thinking no -doubt all the time how ugly my hair is? I don't want his advice--I -won't have it. Oh, it's all in a good cause," she said lightly, aloud. -"I complain sometimes, but I wouldn't stay at home, really, for the -world. It's all too delightful. I may be tired, but at least I'm not -bored." - -"It has all come up to your expectations, then?" said Gerard. "You -like it better than--a--the river view?" - -"Ah, if you had looked at that view as many years as I have, you -wouldn't need to ask the question." - -"And you are always amused?" he went on. "That was the next wish, -wasn't it? You see I'm putting you through the category, as I -threatened to do once, and I expect only the truth for an answer. Are -you always, every day and all day long, thoroughly amused?" - -She met his gaze unflinchingly. "Don't I--seem to be?" she asked. - -"I don't know," he said. "I've wondered--sometimes. You certainly -ought to be," he declared. - -"Then," she said "you may take it for granted that I am." - -"And the third wish," he said, musingly, "follows naturally on the -other. You never, in this whirl of gaiety--never, I suppose, get a -chance to think?" - -"Not a moment," she returned, triumphantly. "All my time is occupied, -I'm glad to say, in being amused. That's hard work, too, sometimes, -but then--the game is worth the candle." - -"Well," he said "you are, I admit, a very fortunate young woman, and -you have my congratulations. There are not many people whose wishes -are fulfilled, as quickly and absolutely as yours have been." - -"No," she said, with sudden thoughtfulness "that is very true." She -sat for a moment staring straight before her, with the look in her -eyes which had puzzled and haunted him in the pictured eyes at which -he had looked awhile before. "Do you know," she said at last, speaking -very low and hesitatingly, "it's very absurd, but it--sometimes it -frightens me a little. Do you remember in Greek history--or was it -mythology?--there was a king who had every wish fulfilled, till he -grew at last to feel that it--was dangerous; he offered up sacrifices -to the gods, he tried to escape but it was all of no use. Everything -went well with him, till at last--his fate overtook him. And so I -think, sometimes--mine will." - -"Your fate?" Gerard repeated, utterly taken aback and puzzled. - -"Yes, the penalty," she said, quickly "of having too much. I have an -odd idea sometimes that there is--there must be some misfortune in -store for me; that I shall pay for all this yet in some terrible way -which no one expects. Oh, it's perfectly absurd, I know, but still -I--I can't help it." She had turned of a sudden very white, and she -stared up at Gerard with a frightened, mute appeal in her eyes, like -that of some dumb animal or a child. - -To him she seemed all at once very young and helpless, a being to be -soothed and protected; very different from the gay, self-possessed -young woman of a few minutes before. "My dear child," he said, very -gently, yet with a note of authority, and laying his hand ever so -lightly on the delicately gloved hand that rested on her muff "you're -nervous and over-wrought. You couldn't otherwise have such a morbid -idea. This eternal going-out has got on your nerves. I wish you would -promise me to stay at home for a day or two. You will, won't you?" he -asked, persuasively. - -"Yes, I--I will," she said, mechanically, and still looking very -white. "I'm over-tired, as you say." - -"And now don't talk," he went on, peremptorily. "I'll get you a glass -of water, and then I want you to sit quietly here, and not say a word, -till you are better." - -She shook her head. "I'm quite well, and I don't want anything," she -protested, but he brought the glass of water and made her drink it, -and then watched her anxiously, while the color slowly came back to -her face, and her eyes lost their strained, appealing look. They sat -in silence; he would not let her speak, and as time passed, a great -calm insensibly stole over her, a feeling of peace, of security, such -as she had not known in all those weeks of fevered gaiety. She was -conscious vaguely of a wish that she might sit thus always, saying -nothing, alone with him--all the more alone as it seemed for the crowd -that was beginning to surge into the room, with a murmur that broke -faintly upon her ear, like the sound of the sea a long way off. - -The wish was, perhaps, the result of fatigue. She was no sooner fully -conscious of it than she rose to her feet. - -"Shall we walk through the rooms now?" she said. "It's more than time -for Eleanor to be here. Oh, I'm all right now, thank you"--she met -his question smilingly. "I don't know what was the matter--it was -very silly. You see I boasted unwisely about never thinking, since I -have such foolish thoughts; but I won't again. Look, there is a -picture of Gertrude Trevor. A good likeness, isn't it? But you've seen -it before, perhaps?" - -"No," said Gerard, absently. "I haven't seen any of them before." They -walked on slowly through the rooms, and she did the honors, pointing -out the pictures, as it was apparently his first visit. They did not -seem to interest him greatly. - -"Have you really never been here before?" she asked at length. She -could not have explained what induced her to put the question. - -He answered it absently. "Why, yes, every day"--and then suddenly -stopped and turned his eyes full upon her, while that strange light -gleamed in their sombre depths which she had surprised once or twice -before and had interpreted many different ways, which now set her -heart beating wildly, and made her wish her question unspoken. "Every -day," he repeated, quietly, "about this time, or earlier, since--since -the thing began." - -"Then why--why"--The words died away on her lips. They had reached the -head of the great staircase, and the crowd came streaming up, a -confused mass, to which she paid no heed. She had again the feeling of -being alone, quite alone, in the midst of it all, while involuntarily -their eyes met, and his were all aglow with a fire which she had never -before seen in them, or imagined; a fire that dazzled and bewildered, -and filled her with a strange, unreasoning joy, as it burned away the -barriers of doubt and indifference, till for one short, breathless -moment, which she could have counted with her heart-beats she read his -inmost soul. - -"I only looked at one picture," he said. - -And then with the words the spell which held her seemed broken, and -the crowd closed in about her, with a sound like the roar of the sea -very near at hand, and she looked down the great staircase, and saw -Mrs. Bobby coming towards them. - - - - -_Chapter XVIII_ - - -"My dear," said Mrs. Bobby, "I'm so sorry to be late. Luncheon was -interminable. Why, Julian, who would have expected to see you here?" -She gave him her hand demurely, with softly shining eyes. Neither her -surprise nor her contrition seemed to ring quite true. - -Gerard's dark eyes were again half closed beneath their heavy lids. He -looked, if a trifle pale, more impassive than usual. - -"I don't know why my presence here should cause so much surprise," he -said. "Most people come here, don't they, some time or another. It's -a--a meeting-place, isn't it?" - -"It seems to have been on this occasion," Mrs. Bobby murmured under -her breath. A young man had just stopped and spoken to Elizabeth, and -the words might have referred to him. Gerard smiled. - -"Won't you come and look at some of these pictures?" he asked. "I want -to talk to you." - -"You awaken my curiosity." - -They walked slowly along the gallery which skirted the hall, too deep -in conversation to pay much heed to the pictures which hung along -their way. Elizabeth's eyes followed them, the while she was -repeating mechanically "Yes, the portraits are extremely fine." - -"But not one," the young man declared, with blunt gallantry "to -compare with yours. It's by all odds the most beautiful picture here." - -"Do you really think so?" said Elizabeth, gently. "I'm very glad." She -had heard the sentiment, rather differently put, perhaps a hundred -times. Yet it seemed now to have all the charm of novelty. - -The young man, a very slight acquaintance, charmed to have called up -that glow of pleasure to her face, redoubled his efforts to entertain -her. He was sorry when Mrs. Bobby returned with Gerard, and bore her -off. "She was delighted when I said that about her picture," he -thought, "there's nothing like flattering a girl, if you know how to -do it delicately." - -"We really must be going, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Bobby, consulting her -engagement-book. "We have at least a dozen visits, and we promised, -you know, to go to Mr. D'Hauteville's musicale." - -"That reminds me that I did too," said Gerard. "I'm glad you spoke of -it." - -"We shall see you there, then," said Mrs. Bobby, as he placed them in -the carriage, and they drove off. "I am feeling utterly crushed," she -continued, turning to Elizabeth, and looking under the circumstances, -very cheerful. "Julian has been giving me a terrible lecture. He -thinks me, I see very clearly, quite unfit to have the care of you. He -says that you are not as strong as you seem, that I have been dragging -you around--entirely for my own pleasure, apparently--from one thing -to another till you are quite worn out, and that you will be ill if I -don't take care. He has quite frightened me. But there, Elizabeth, you -don't look so very tired, after all." - -She certainly did not. There was color in her cheeks, a light in her -eyes that was at once brilliant and soft. All the lines drawn by -sleepless nights had, for the moment at least, disappeared. - -"You don't look badly," Mrs. Bobby repeated. "You look, in fact, -infinitely better than when I saw you this morning." - -"I feel better," Elizabeth admitted. "Just for a moment, at the -Portrait Show, I did feel tired and depressed, and he--Mr. Gerard got -alarmed about me, but it was nothing. I am quite well now. And the -portraits are really very interesting. I am glad you persuaded me to -look at them again, Eleanor." - -"I thought you might be repaid," said Mrs. Bobby, serenely. "What did -you think of your own picture? Doesn't it look better in that light?" - -Elizabeth's face was turned away, so that Mrs. Bobby could only see -the rounded outline of her cheek and one small, shell-like ear. "Yes, -I--I thought it looked better," she said, in a low voice. "Perhaps you -were right. It must have been the--the light of the studio that made -me feel--disappointed in it, somehow." - -"Oh, there is everything in the light in which you look at things," -assented Mrs. Bobby, cheerfully. And with this profound remark, the -two women sank into silence, while the carriage rolled swiftly up the -Avenue, stopping occasionally, as the footman left cards. To -Elizabeth, as she sat gazing out of the window, the prosaic brown -stone houses, and the more pretentious ones of marble which broke the -monotony here and there, and the brilliant shops, which had intruded -themselves like parvenus among their quieter and more aristocratic -neighbors--all these familiar objects stood out in a softened -perspective, which endowed them with lines almost of romance. The -wide, commonplace streets had an unwonted charm, the people who walked -on them wore an air of curious happiness, merely, no doubt, at finding -themselves alive in this beautiful world. Yes, as Mrs. Bobby had so -wisely observed, "there is everything in the light in which you look -at things." - -"I wonder if Mr. D'Hauteville's musicale will be pleasant," Elizabeth -observed dreamily, as they neared Carnegie Hall. The remark was purely -perfunctory. Pleasant? Of course it would be pleasant--she hadn't a -doubt of it. - -"There will be a lot of queer people there--musical, literary, and -that sort of thing," said Mrs. Bobby, vaguely. "Some men with long -hair will play, and the women, no doubt, will wear wonderful æsthetic -gowns. If Julian were not to be there, I should not dream of going. My -prophetic instinct tells me that we shall not know a soul." - -"But won't that be rather amusing," suggested Elizabeth. - -"Well, theoretically, yes," said Mrs. Bobby, in rather a doubtful -tone, "but, practically, I'm afraid I prefer people whom I know, and -who have the conventional amount of hair and lack of brains. Let me -confess the truth to you, Elizabeth. I'm not really Bohemian--I only -pretend to be so at odd moments, when I want to tease Bobby, or shock -the Neighborhood. There isn't at heart, I believe, a more conventional -little society wretch than I. However, as you say, that sort of thing -is amusing--for one afternoon; and Julian will be there, and protect -us from the celebrities and tell us who they all are." - -Julian was fortunately on hand when they arrived, but the room was -filled for the most part with people who looked very much like any one -else, and only a few were sufficiently long-haired and eccentric to -justify Mrs. Bobby's prediction of their being celebrities of some -sort. The host, who came forward to meet them, was a well-known -musician, a man with an intellectual face and dreamy eyes, which -lighted up as he welcomed them with eager cordiality; but he could do -no more for the present than seat them and give them programmes, for -the music was about to begin. - -It was a charming studio, well up near the top of Carnegie Hall, and -like most studios, it was artistically furnished. The polished floor -was strewn with rich rugs, the walls were covered in every nook and -cranny, with plaques, and pictures, and rare tapestries, and strange -Eastern weapons. A grand piano took up the whole of one corner, and in -another a toy staircase seemed to have been placed entirely for -ornament, till it was utilized as a seat by some picturesque-looking -girls in large hats. From the broad casemented window near which -Elizabeth sat, she could see an expanse of roofs and chimneys, far -down from the dizzy height, and beyond them the river, and further -still the winter sunset, fading in cold blues and greens and violets, -on a still colder sky. Her eyes rested there with dreamy satisfaction. -She had no wish to look back into the room, to where Gerard was -standing close to them, on the other side of Mrs. Bobby. She was still -living on the memory of that moment--was it an hour or was it years -ago?--that long look of which the reflected light was still glowing on -her face, and in her dreamy eyes. She had no wish to renew it; the -recollection was sufficient, for awhile at least. Yet she was glad to -know that he was there. - -Mrs. Bobby meanwhile, having embarked on her trip to Bohemia, was -disappointed to find it comparatively tame. - -"I don't see any one I know," she said to Gerard, as the piano solo -came to an end. "They look, most of them, depressingly commonplace. -But they must be extraordinary in some way, or they wouldn't be here. -Tell us who they are, Julian, and introduce them to us if you think we -would like them." - -"Why, there are some musical lights," he answered, rather absently -"who, I hope, are going to perform for our benefit, and there are a -few ordinary music-lovers like myself, and some literary people--whom -I don't know that you would care about." - -"You think us too frivolous, I see," said Mrs. Bobby. "But you don't -realize how clever I can be if I try, and as for Elizabeth, she knows -a lot more than she seems to know." - -"Does she?" asked Gerard with a smile, and he glanced across at -Elizabeth, who still would not meet his eyes. "She looks very -innocent," he said, musingly, after a pause. "I should be sorry to -think of her as--concealing anything." - -A little pang, a thought sharp like a stone, struck Elizabeth for an -instant. It was the first rift in the lute. She put it resolutely away -from her. - -"You think me too stupid, I see," she said "to have any knowledge to -conceal." - -He had no time to answer before some woman began to sing. She had a -beautiful voice, and Elizabeth listened, yet chiefly conscious, all -the while, of the fact that Gerard had managed to shift his position, -and was standing directly behind her. - -"I never thought you stupid," he said, under cover of the applause, in -a low voice that no one but she could hear, "no, nor ignorant; but I -have sometimes thought you frivolous, and flippant, and--and a little -hard. You seem, I sometimes think, to take pleasure in showing these -qualities to me. Why is it, I wonder?" - -"I--I don't know," she murmured, in the same low voice, and gazing -straight before her. "You--somehow you seem to compel it. You ought to -be grateful, I think. At least you know the worst of me." - -She spoke these words with an absolute unconsciousness of their -falseness; and even as they died away on her lips, she glanced across -the room and saw Paul Halleck standing in the door-way. - -That old mythological king whom some vague reminiscence of her -school-days had conjured up in Elizabeth's mind, he who had every wish -fulfilled, till he grew at last to dread his own prosperity--was it, I -wonder, in some such moment of foreboding that the final crash came, -or was it when his fears were lulled and his senses stilled, by some -delicious, over-powering sense of happiness that shut out for the -moment all unpleasant thoughts? This, at all events, was the way in -which fate overtook Elizabeth. - -Paul Halleck stood in the door-way, having apparently just arrived. -His blue eyes were wandering about the room. They did not fall, as -yet, upon Elizabeth. - -She did not faint, or cry out, or make herself in any way conspicuous. -She turned deathly white, and her heart, which had been beating faster -for Gerard's presence, seemed suddenly to stop entirely, as though a -piece of ice had been laid on it. And then, in a moment, her heart -began to beat again, though faintly. She drew a long breath. Gerard, -who was standing directly behind her, could not see her face beneath -the shadow of her large hat, yet he felt instinctively that something -was wrong. - -"Do you feel faint again?" he asked, anxiously, thinking to himself -that she was really far from well. "Can I get you anything?" - -"No, thank you," said Elizabeth. "I felt faint for a moment, but it -is over." It took all the strength that she possessed to speak these -words so clearly and distinctly. In making the effort she was not -conscious of any plan of deception. She was merely bearing up, -instinctively, to the end. - -She never doubted that it _was_ the end. It had fallen at last--that -sword of Damocles, which she had learned to dread as the winter wore -on, of which she had always been vaguely conscious even in her gayest -moments, and had only forgotten, quite forgotten, in that short, -delicious hour when she had allowed herself to float off in a dream of -happiness never to be realized, from which she was awakened so soon -and so rudely. And yet, though it was over, she was not sorry that she -had dreamed it. It had been very sweet, worth even, she thought, the -bitterness of the awakening. - -Meanwhile the musicale progressed. A man with long, floating hair and -fingers of steel thundered out a piano solo. Elizabeth shut her eyes -and leaned back in her chair. How fortunate that there was so much -music to prevent conversation! But at the first pause she opened her -eyes and looked up at Gerard. - -"I was wrong when I told you that you know the worst of me," she said, -faintly. "You'll know it, soon." - -"What a terrible prospect!" said Gerard, bending over her and the -jesting words had a soft intonation, which thrilled her like a caress. -"I really don't think I can stand it--quite." - -Had she intended to tell him the truth? The moment was not -propitious. The music had stopped, and there was a murmur of -conversation all over the room. People began to move about, and in the -general shifting of position, Paul Halleck, for the first time, caught -sight of Elizabeth. - -She had had some vague, childish idea of what would happen when he saw -her. She had pictured him in her unreasoning terror, as stepping -forward before them all and claiming her as his wife, like a scene in -a play. Nothing of the kind took place. She saw at once how absurd her -expectations had been. Paul merely started and looked at her, -recognition and it seemed, pleasure sparkling in his eyes; but with a -sudden, uncontrollable impulse, she turned her own eyes away, as if -she did not know him. - -"Do you see that man in the door-way?" said Gerard, who, standing as -he was behind her could not note the changes in her face,--"that -handsome fellow with the light curls? He has a very fine voice, and -has just been engaged as soloist at St. Chrysostom's." - -"Indeed. Is he to sing this afternoon?" She brought out the question -with difficulty. - -"I hope so," said Gerard. "I'd like you to hear him. But perhaps you -know him," he went on. "He is looking at you as if he expected you to -bow." - -"No," said Elizabeth. "I don't know him." She told him this, her -second lie that afternoon, without deliberate intention, in sheer lack -of presence of mind. It was a piteous, involuntary staving-off of the -inevitable. The next moment that fascination which leads us to our own -undoing made her look in Paul's direction, and this time she could not -avoid his eager gaze and bent her head mechanically. - -"After all, I believe I must have met him somewhere," she said -hastily. Mrs. Bobby, who for the last quarter of an hour, had been -determinedly ignoring them both, apparently giving her whole attention -to the music and the people, now turned towards them. - -"Who is that handsome man who bowed to you, Elizabeth?" she asked. "I -never saw him before." - -"His name is Halleck. I--I knew him in the country," said Elizabeth, -who had no natural talent for deception and entangled herself at once -in contradictory statements. Gerard's face darkened, and he glanced -across at Halleck, whose eyes were fixed on Elizabeth with a look that -seemed, to the jealous, fastidious man by her side, an intolerable -presumption; a look that was not only one of admiration, but, or -Gerard imagined so, held in it a curious touch of proprietorship. -"Confound the fellow," chafed Gerard--he who would fain have kept the -woman he loved, as he certainly would have kept her picture, shut out -from all profane eyes, even admiring ones. "He looks at her as if he -had discovered her and she belonged to him. Where can she have met -him, and why did she say she hadn't." - -Mrs. Bobby, too, looked across at Paul. - -"He is certainly very good-looking," she said. "And do you mean to -tell me, my dear, that such an Adonis flourished in our Neighborhood, -and I never saw him. Pray, where did you keep him hidden?" - -Before Elizabeth could reply, and to her great relief, D'Hauteville -came up with the long-haired musician, whom he introduced to them, and -who proved to be, at last, one of the celebrities upon whom Mrs. Bobby -had counted. In the diversion that ensued Halleck seemed forgotten. -But a few minutes later, he sat at the piano and sang songs by -Schubert and Franz, which she had heard him sing before, at the time -when she had thought his voice the most beautiful voice in the world. -Now, as she listened it left her cold. She had changed so much, and -he--no, he had not changed. His voice was not so wonderful as she had -thought it, but still it was a fine barytone voice. His art no longer -seemed to her remarkable, but it had, if anything, improved, and he -was as handsome as ever, in his fair, effeminate style. It was not the -voice nor the art that was lacking. It was the answering thrill in -herself. It was not his beauty which had failed him, it was she who no -longer cared for it. - -His success with the audience was instantaneous. Even Mrs. Bobby was -impressed. "Your friend sings well," she whispered to Elizabeth, "and -yet his hair is short. You may introduce him to me if you get a -chance." - -And this chance immediately presented itself, as Paul, amid the -applause that followed his song, walked over to Elizabeth and quietly -shook hands with her. It was the moment that she had dreaded all the -time that he was singing, yet now that it had come, she met it in -apparent unconcern, and smiling, though with white lips. - -"I thought at first," Paul said, "that you had quite forgotten me." - -"Oh, no," she said, "my memory is not so short." Then she turned and -introduced him to Mrs. Bobby, and went on herself quietly talking to -Mr. D'Hauteville. Nothing could have been more simple. Not even Julian -Gerard, who from a distance watched their meeting, could have imagined -any secret understanding between them. - -The handsome young singer made a very favorable impression upon Mrs. -Bobby, who went so far as to ask him to call, in that impulsive way of -hers, which sometimes led to consequences that she regretted. In this -case she realized, almost as soon as the words had left her lips, that -she had done a rash thing, or what Bobby would consider rash. Still, -the invitation was given and eagerly accepted, even though Elizabeth, -standing cold and indifferent, said not a word to second it. By this -time the music was over. They were about to leave, when some one -claimed Mrs. Bobby's attention, and she turned aside for a moment. -Paul seized the opportunity, for which he had been anxiously waiting, -to whisper in Elizabeth's ear. - -"Darling, don't go. I must see you for a moment." - -"You can't speak to me here," she said, impatiently, trying to escape -from him. - -"But I must see you. Can't you see that I must?" - -"You have done without it," said Elizabeth, without turning her head, -"some time." - -"Because I couldn't help myself." - -"There is such a thing as writing," she said, in the same low, bitter -tone. Yet even as she spoke her conscience misgave her. It was not his -neglect that she resented so bitterly, it was his return. But Paul, -not understanding this was rather flattered than otherwise by the -reproach. - -"Darling, I will explain when I see you," he said, hurriedly. "There's -no time now. Meet me to-morrow morning--at the Fifty-ninth street -entrance to the Park, at eleven o'clock." - -"To-morrow! Impossible! I have a hundred things to do." - -"Ah, but you must," he pleaded. "I must see you. Darling you look so -beautiful--fifty times more beautiful than before." - -"Hush," said Elizabeth. "How dare you? Some one will hear you." - -"Give me a chance of seeing you, then," he said. "It is necessary. You -will meet me--will you not?--to-morrow morning?" - -"If you insist upon it--yes." - -"At the west entrance of the Park--you understand?" - -"Oh, yes," said Elizabeth impatiently, and hastened to rejoin Mrs. -Bobby, who was waiting at the door. - -Julian Gerard came up gloomily. The whispered conference had not -escaped his notice. - -"We shall see you to-night at the Lansdownes' ball," said Mrs. Bobby. -"It is the night for it, isn't it, Elizabeth? I never can keep track -of these things." - -Gerard looked reproachfully at Elizabeth. "You promised me," he said, -"that you would stay at home for a night or two." - -She smiled back at him with the old touch of wilfulness. "Did I really -make such a rash promise," she said, lightly. "Ah, I'm afraid I can't -keep it--not to-night. I must be amused. A quiet evening would be -unendurable." Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittered with -feverish gaiety, there was an odd, strained note in her voice. Mrs. -Bobby looked at her in some perplexity, then she glanced up -deprecatingly at Gerard. - -"It is her first season, you see Julian," she said, as if in apology. -"You can't expect her to give up things." - -"No," he repeated, mechanically. "I can't expect her to--give up -things." He fell back silently, in increased gloom. Elizabeth glanced -towards him involuntarily as she left the room. - -"Now," she said to herself, "I have disappointed him again and he -won't come near me this evening. But it is better so--far, far -better," she repeated to herself, with a little sob, as she followed -her hostess to the carriage. - - - - -_Chapter XIX_ - - -The next day was unexpectedly mild. Winter, after reigning supreme, -made sudden and treacherous overtures to approaching spring. The air -in the Park was almost balmy, and the drives were gay, as though it -were much later in the season, with carriages and riders and bicycles -galore; yet the warm sunlight falling incongruously on sere, brown -grass and bare branches, seemed but to emphasize their dreariness and -the fact that winter had not really surrendered, and was only biding -his time and the advent of the March winds, to make his power felt all -the more strongly. Pedestrians, realizing this, refused to be -inveigled out, even by the spring-like air, and there was no one to -notice the young man and the young woman who sat on a bench in one of -the secluded walks near Eighth avenue; the young woman, simply dressed -in a dark tailor-made gown, with a small black hat pushed well over -her face, which showed beneath it very pale and set, with hard lines -about the mouth; the young man staring at her in bewilderment, a look -of distress in his handsome blue eyes. - -"And so," he said, "you don't love me any longer?" It had taken him -some time to grasp this fact, which still seemed to him -incomprehensible. - -"No," she said, in a low, determined voice, "I don't love you any -longer. I don't know if I--ever did. I was so young, I had never seen -any men, I didn't know what I was doing. You flattered me; it was -interesting, romantic. But if I had loved you, really loved you"--she -stopped for an instant. "If I had really loved you," she repeated "do -you think I could have hesitated--that day at Cranston? Do you think I -could have let you go--without me? Why, I should have followed -you--don't you see that I would?--to the end of the world." The color -rushed into her face, there was a ring in her voice that he never -heard before--no, not even in those early days, when she had sat at -his feet, and worshipped him as a genius. Then, as he looked at her, -he realized for the first time that he had lost her. The discovery -was, for many reasons, unwelcome. - -"Well, if you didn't love me," he said, hoarsely, "you certainly made -me believe that you did. Elizabeth, you have treated me abominably. I -didn't wish to leave you--do me the justice to admit that--it was your -own doing entirely." - -"I know it." She bent her head submissively. "I don't blame you for -anything; not even for--forgetting me." - -"I didn't forget you," he interrupted her, flushing hotly, and -repeating assertions which she had heard already, and interpreted by -that knowledge of his character, which she had acquired too late to be -of value. She put them aside now with a gesture of weariness. - -"What's the use," she said, "of going over that again, I have said -already, I don't reproach you. We can't either of us--can we?--afford -to throw stones. And yet, if you had not stopped writing"--She paused -for a moment with knitted brows, as she seemed to weigh one -possibility against another, in a sort of inward trial of her own -conduct. An instinctive mental honesty, however, carried the day. "I -don't know that that would have made any difference," she said. "I was -very unhappy because you--had forgotten me, and that made me want to -come to town, all the more; but--if I had been happy, and sure that -you loved me, I should have come, I think, all the same. And no matter -how I had felt, or what I had done, I should have known, sooner or -later--oh, I couldn't but realize it--what a--what a terrible mistake -we had made." She put out her hands in a sudden, despairing gesture, -which hurt his vanity. - -"Elizabeth, do you really mean that?" - -"Yes," she said, in a low, monotonous voice, and staring straight -before her with hard, hopeless eyes. "Yes, I mean it. I have been -realizing it, little by little, all these months. And yet I put it -away--I wouldn't think of it--till one day it forced itself upon me. I -knew, all at once, that I--I dreaded your coming back, I hoped you -never would--it was when I was enjoying myself, when I was thinking -how delightful life was. And then, after that, the fear of your coming -was always there--I could never get rid of it for any length of time, -till just for a while--yesterday"--Her voice faltered, and for the -first time the softening tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh, I can't help -it," she cried out, "if I'm hard. When I think how happy I -was--wildly, absurdly happy, just for a little while, and then to -think how--how miserable I am now." - -She stopped, half strangled with her sobs, and Paul sat staring at her -in moody silence. He was clear-sighted enough now to grasp the truth. -Such violent grief, he told himself, could have but one explanation. -There was, there must be, some other man. - -Yet the conviction made him only the more determined not to give her -up. True, there had been a time, not long before, when he would have -done so only too gladly; when he would have welcomed an opportunity to -free himself from an irksome bond, which he regretted quite as much as -she did. But now, since his return, when he heard her spoken of -everywhere as one of the beauties of the season, when he saw her in -D'Hauteville's studio in her velvet and furs, her whole appearance -redolent of grace and charm, and that nameless distinction which -Gerard had noticed, and which impressed the young musician even more -deeply; when he saw her thus a hundred times more desirable, his -fickle heart succumbed anew, with a sudden throb of joy, at the -thought of the secret tie between them. She was his, this young -princess, whom he had chosen when she was a mere Cinderella; he had -but to hold out his hand and she would come to him. For he never -doubted that she _would_ come. Her first coldness he had looked upon -as mere girlish pique at his neglect, a proof of her affection. Now, -a sadder and a wiser being, he had learned that the privilege of -forgetfulness is not confined to men alone. - -Yet the situation, unflattering though it was, had its advantages, -which dawned upon him gradually, while Elizabeth still sobbed. He rose -and paced up and down in front of her, thinking the matter over. After -all, a wife was the last thing that he wanted--just then, when his -career was opening out before him in unexpectedly brilliant colors. He -realized perfectly the value of his own good looks, and the loss of -prestige that marriage would involve. Matrimony is a mistake for an -artist--he had told himself this many times in the last few months. -And yet, having once made the mistake, having won this beautiful girl -for his wife, how could he give her up. There was the chance that she -might change her mind again, and return to her first love. Then it was -sweet to feel that she was in his power, that he could at any time -bring her to terms by threatening to publish the fact that she had -concealed all this time. True, the marriage might be dissolved--he had -not much doubt himself that it could be; but either this plan did not -occur to Elizabeth, or she dreaded the inevitable gossip and -publicity. At all events, it was not his place, he thought, to suggest -it to her. He held the mastery of the situation, and he was determined -to improve it to the uttermost. And having arrived at this conclusion, -he suddenly stopped before her and spoke in a tone of unwonted -resolution. - -"Listen to me, Elizabeth," he said. "I don't know why you are making -this scene. In what has the situation changed since--let us say, last -week? I don't ask you to acknowledge our marriage at once--indeed it -is impossible for me to do so, as I am not--worse luck--in a position -just now to support a wife." - -Elizabeth, in her surprise, stopped crying and stared up at him -blankly. "You don't want the marriage acknowledged?" she repeated, -utterly taken aback. - -"Not just now," said Paul, calmly. "It would be as inconvenient for -me, as it seems to be for you. No, all I ask is for you to see me -occasionally, to think of me more kindly, and in time--perhaps in -time, dearest, you will care for me again as you used to." - -He went on to dilate on this hope. Elizabeth's tears as she listened, -ceased. A feeling of relief stole over her, the reaction which follows -so often upon violent distress. "In time," Paul said. Ah, yes, her -heart answered, there is no knowing what wonders time may accomplish. -It might even--who could tell?--find a way for her out of this -terrible perplexity. - -Yet the thought was illogical. Of what use was it to put off the evil -day? There was a side of her nature which was brave and -straightforward, which detested false pretences and evasions, and all -the net-work of deception in which her secret had already involved -her; which called out upon her boldly to tell the truth, since every -day that she kept it hidden only made the final disclosure more -difficult. But there was another side which counselled compromise, -which shrank from facing the inevitable, which lived only in the -present and refused to take thought for the future. And finally there -was a side which did not reason, which simply remembered the look in a -man's eyes, when he had spoken to her the day before of her picture. - -How would it be if he knew the truth? Would he make allowances for -her, would he be magnanimous enough to forgive? Ah, no, he had judged -her harshly for no apparent reason. Such a discovery would put an end -entirely to all his faith in her. - -For she felt instinctively how it would strike him--this impulsive -action of a thoughtless girl, who had rushed into marriage as if it -were a mere farce, and taken upon herself, lightly, the most solemn -vows, only to repent of them quite as readily. He would pronounce her -hopelessly light and fickle, he would never believe that she was -capable of any deeper feeling. His presentiment, distrust--whatever it -was that had kept him from her--would be justified, and--and there -would be the end of it. And the best thing that could happen, that -stern inner voice called out. - -But she would not listen to it--not yet, at least. She must see him -once or twice first, probe his feelings a little more surely, prepare -him a little, perhaps, to judge her more gently.... Some time--very -soon, perhaps,--she would tell him herself, but--not now, not now.... - -Her head ached, she was physically exhausted, and Paul was waiting, -impatiently, for her decision. She had an engagement, too, for -luncheon--she remembered that mechanically.... In this matter-of-fact -world of ours, the every-day and the tragic incidents of life jostle -one another so closely. - -"I--I must go," she murmured, confusedly. "I've been here too long. We -can talk about all this another time." - -"But you consent," he said eagerly. "You wish to keep it secret, -awhile longer? That is the agreement for the present?" - -She hesitated for a moment. "Yes," she said at last, "that is the -agreement, till--till I have time to think it over. And now I must -go." She drew out the little jeweled watch that Mrs. Van Antwerp had -given her, among other valuable things, at Christmas. "I am going out -to luncheon, and I am supposed at present to be in my room, recovering -from last night's ball." - -"What a gay person you are!" Paul said, regarding her complacently. -"Ah, Elizabeth, if you wanted to be nice, you could help me a great -deal in my profession." - -"Help you?" she repeated, staring at him blankly. - -"Yes, in a social way," he explained. "It always helps an artist to be -taken up by swell people. There's your friend Mrs. Van Antwerp--can't -you--there's a good girl--persuade her to do something for me?" - -"I heard her ask you to call," she returned, coldly. - -"Yes, but she could do more than that," he said. "She could, for -instance, have me sing and ask people to hear me. I need a start, I -need patrons among society people; and that is exactly, my dear girl, -what you can get me." - -They were walking slowly by this time towards the entrance of the -Park, and suddenly she turned and faced him with one of those flashes -of defiance, which he rather admired. "Let me understand," she said, -quickly, and a pale, cold gleam lighted up her white face, like the -glint of steel upon marble. "You want me to--to get you invitations, -to persuade people to ask you to sing? This is the--the price of your -silence?" - -He shrugged his shoulders, not much disturbed by the scorn in her -voice. "If you choose to put it so plainly--yes," he said. "After all, -it is not much to ask, and you ought, one would think, to be glad if -you can help me." - -She walked on beside him in gloomy silence. "It's not much to ask," -she said, in a low, bitter voice, "but it involves--have you thought -of that?--my seeing you constantly." - -"And is that so terrible?" he asked, reddening. - -"It's not pleasant," she said, shortly "but I suppose I must--submit. -I'm in your power; you can ask what you please." They had reached the -entrance of the Park, and she turned to him, as if to dismiss him. "I -promise, then," she said. "I'll do what I can to help you--socially, -and in return you must promise to treat me as you would any other -acquaintance--not force me to meet you again, or let people suppose -that there is anything between us. Do you agree to that?" - -"I suppose I must," he said, disconsolately, "though it's a harder -condition, by far, than mine." - -Again that cold, scornful gleam flashed across her face. - -"Oh, you'll resign yourself to it," she said. "It's much more to the -point to get--the invitations. I'll see that my side of the bargain is -fulfilled." She drew down her veil, glancing anxiously across the wide -Square, where street-cars, bicycles and wagons all converge from -different directions and in inextricable confusion. "Don't come any -further with me," she said. "I don't wish people to see us together." - -She left him abruptly as she spoke, and he stood for a moment and -watched her cross the Square and take a car at the corner. He was not -quite satisfied with the interview; she had been too independent, too -scornful. It hurt his pride. But the situation was full of -possibilities. He felt that his rash marriage had been a stroke of -genius. - -Elizabeth, meanwhile, was making her way home, with a feeling of -tremulous relief, much as if she had escaped unexpectedly from -shipwreck, with at least a plank to cling to, and bear her perhaps to -ultimate safety. Yet how slight that plank was she might have -realized, had she known that Julian Gerard, as he entered the Park on -horseback, had seen her walk down one of the side paths, with the man -who, only a day before, had aroused his jealous suspicions. - -"And she said she didn't know him," he thought, with a fierce throb of -pain, and rode on, frowning, into the Park. - - - - -_Chapter XX_ - - -"My dear Julian," wrote Mrs. Bobby Van Antwerp to Mr. Gerard a week -later, "you are, I think, neglecting us shamefully. What has become of -you? If you are inclined to perform a charitable action, do come in to -tea to-morrow afternoon. You don't generally, I know, patronize such -mild functions, but we are to have a little music"-- - -"A little music?" mused Gerard, knitting his brows and thrusting out -his under lip, as the note dropped from his hand. "That means, of -course, that young Halleck. It's something new for Eleanor to go in -for music. But it's _her_ doing, of course. I suppose she really cares -for the fellow. And yet what a pity--what a pity that she should throw -herself away like that!" He sat gazing absently before him, his pen in -his hand, while the work upon which he had been engaged when Mrs. -Bobby's note arrived--an article for a scientific magazine--remained -without the finishing touches he had intended to bestow. - -He had not seen Elizabeth since that morning in the Park. - -He had carefully refrained from going where he might see her. He had -denied himself, once for all, that unprofitable and mysterious -pleasure of watching her across the ball-room, while he leaned inertly -against the wall, or talked, in his weary way, to some woman to whom -he felt himself indebted. No, thank Heaven, he had been warned in -time; there was no danger of his being made a fool of a second time. - -His mind wandered back across the gulf of years, to that other woman -whom he had loved so desperately once, whose shadow still stood -between him and the happiness which seemed, now and again, within his -grasp. He thought of the mad infatuation, the bitter disillusion, the -restless travelling to and fro, the final settling down into cynical -indifference.... and then long afterwards, when the indifference had -grown into a habit, and he dreaded nothing more than to have it -disturbed, he had met this girl who had exercised upon him from the -first a curious effect, half repellant, half attractive, and wholly -baffling and alarming, whose hair he had objected to because it was -"too red" and who played the piano with a force and fire and passion, -which stirred his heart as he had resolved it should never be stirred -again. - -Gerard had always intended to marry, but he proposed, in spite of the -efforts of Eleanor Van Antwerp and other anxious friends, to take his -time about it. He had his ideal of the sort of wife he wanted--a being -as different as possible from his first love, and almost as tiresome a -compound of all the domestic virtues as that mythical personage whom -Hannah More's hero had once gone in search of. But, unlike that -estimable individual, he had fallen in love with a woman far removed -from his ideal, of doubtful antecedents which he liked no better than -Bobby Van Antwerp, of qualities the reverse of domestic, and the type -of hair and coloring which he had long illogically, but none the less -strongly, associated with a certain lack of moral sense. - -Yet though Gerard could not help his feelings, he could certainly -control his actions, and he was determined to keep away from Elizabeth -Van Vorst--more especially now since there seemed to be some -unaccountable understanding between her and that young Halleck. - -Yet that very fact made him the more anxious to see her, and find out -for himself how far his suspicions were justified. "Good Heavens," -thought Gerard, getting up and pacing restlessly to and fro "how can -she care for a fellow like that--so second-rate, so superficial, such -a--such a cad? What is Eleanor thinking of to have him at the house? -Some one really ought to give her a hint--not I; but--some one." ... - -The end of it all was that he strolled into Mrs. Van Antwerp's -drawing-room that afternoon, his usual air of well-bred impassiveness -unmoved by the sight of Paul Halleck seated at the piano, and the -cynosure of several pairs of admiring feminine eyes. - -Elizabeth's eyes were not among them. She was in a back room pouring -tea. But Gerard had no sooner assured himself of her being thus -harmlessly employed, than his jealous heart suggested that there was -something sinister in such apparent indifference. - -He wandered into the other room as soon as he decently could. She was -seated at the tea-table, for the moment, entirely alone. Seen thus off -guard, for she did not at first perceive Gerard, there was something -indefinably weary and listless in her attitude. She was paler even -than she had been that day at the Portrait Show, and the lines beneath -her eyes were not black, but purple. It would have gone ill with her -reputation as a beauty had it been put to the vote that afternoon. But -it was Gerard's peculiarity, his misfortune perhaps, that she appealed -to him most at times when to the world at large she was looking her -worst. He stood watching her for a moment. Presently she looked up. -She caught sight of him. Instantly the warm, lovely color rushed into -her cheeks, only to retreat, and leave her paler than before--but not -till he had seen it. - -His manner was very gentle as he approached her and asked for a cup of -tea. She poured it out mechanically, with a hand that trembled. - -"We have not seen you lately," she said, with eyes carefully riveted -on the tea-things. "Eleanor was wondering--what had become of you." - -"Indeed! It was very kind of her to give me a thought." Gerard stirred -his tea absently. "I was busy," he said "with an article I had -promised for a magazine." - -"Ah! You write a great deal, don't you?" Elizabeth looked up with -some interest. "I should like to see some of your articles, if I may." - -He smiled. "You don't know what you're asking. You'd find them very -dull." - -"What, because I'm so dull myself?" she asked, with a flash of spirit. - -"I told you once before," he said, in the tone that he had used to her -at the studio "that I didn't think you--that." - -"Ah, but you think me other things that are--worse." - -"As what, for instance?" he asked, smiling. - -"Oh frivolous, and vain, and heartless. A lot of horrid things." - -"I only said you _seemed_ so." - -"Ah, then you think I'm better than I seem?" she asked, flippantly, -yet with a swift inward pang. - -He seemed to consider. "I think you are very--incomprehensible," he -said at last. - -She bent down over the tea-things, so that he could not see her face. -"Oh, that's only," she said, in a low voice "because you haven't the -key to the enigma. If you had it"--She paused. "You might not like the -things you understood," she concluded. - -Gerard put down his untasted cup. "I'm willing to take the risk," he -said, deliberately. - -He waited, as if for an answer, but none came. She appeared to busy -herself with the tea-things. In the next room Paul Halleck began to -sing the Evening Star song. It seemed to Gerard that Elizabeth turned -a shade paler than she had been before. - -"He has a fine voice," he said, when the song was finished. "Don't you -think so?" - -She started. "Yes, I--I think so," she said, mechanically. - -"I was surprised a little at Eleanor's going in for music," Gerard -went on. "It isn't her line, generally." - -"No, it isn't her line," Elizabeth repeated, in the same mechanical -tones. Suddenly she met his eyes defiantly. "I asked her to have him -here," she said. - -"Ah, you asked her?" Gerard drew his breath quickly. "I _thought_ he -was a--a friend of yours." - -"You thought so?" she returned quickly, and then in a low voice, as if -she dreaded the answer: "Why?" - -"Why?" He repeated her question as if it surprised him. For a moment -he seemed to hesitate; then, as if forming a sudden resolution: "I -thought so," he said, steadily, and looking her straight in the face -"for one thing, because I saw you walking in the Park with him one -morning." - -"Ah, you--you saw me?" She seemed to gasp for breath. Then, with a -quick, impetuous movement, she pushed the tea-things away from her. -"And so," she said, turning to him suddenly, her cheeks flushed, her -eyes sparkling "you--you put the worst construction upon that, you -think more ill of me than ever?"-- - -He had turned very pale, but still his voice was steady. "I don't -know why I should think ill of you, for such a simple thing as that. -But if there is any secret about it"--he fixed his eyes upon her -coldly, haughtily--"if the meeting was not intended to be known, why -I--I'm sorry I should have seen it. Of course I should not mention -it--to any one else." - -She flushed a little, then grew pale, before the scorn in his eyes. -"There is--there is no secret," she said, in a low voice. "You can -mention it--to whom you please." - -"I confess I was a little surprised," he went on, without heeding her, -and this time a note of keen anxiety pierced through the studied -quietness of his voice, his gaze softened, as if imploring her to give -him the explanation which he had no right to demand. "I was a little -taken aback," he said, "because I understood you to say--the day -before--that you hardly knew him." - -"Yes, I--I remember." She leaned back in her chair, staring before her -with hard, bright eyes. "When I told you that," she said, slowly "I--I -lied." - -It gave him a keen shock to hear her pronounce the word. He did not -speak, and she looked up at him presently with a little, deprecating -smile. "Now," she said, softly "I've shocked you, haven't I?" - -He was silent for a moment. "No," he said, at last "not that; but--I'm -sorry. I don't like to think of you as--misstating anything, even if -the matter is of no importance." - -She had taken up a teaspoon, and was playing with it absently. "I -don't know," she said, slowly "why you should care." - -"Don't you?" He turned his eyes away. "I wish to Heaven I didn't," he -said, low and fiercely. The words were not intended for her, but she -heard them and again the warm, beautiful color rushed into her cheeks. -An answer trembled on her lips, but she struggled not to say it; -struggled against the desire to bring that glow to his face, that -light to his eyes, which she knew so well lay dormant, beneath the -heavy lids. She knew, ah, she knew. While he stayed away she had her -misgivings, but now that she saw him again, she read his heart, even -as she had done at the Portrait Show. She had only to be herself, her -best self, and she held him captive, he could not escape. Yet, -paradoxically, her better instincts urged upon her to show him her -worst side, to say the things which hurt and shocked him. - -While she hesitated, people came crowding in from the next room. In -the confusion that ensued, Gerard was forced away from the table. He -fell back against the wall, and watched Elizabeth while, with -instinctive self-command, she fulfilled the different demands made -upon her. He saw Halleck go up to her gaily, flushed with his success, -and bending over her, murmur a few jesting words, which she heard -without a smile. Gerard could have killed him for the air of -proprietorship which was even more pronounced than at the musicale. -But she--how did she like it? He scanned her face eagerly. There was -no softness there, no answering gleam of pleasure; rather a dull, -dogged look of submission, which seemed to cover, or Gerard deceived -himself, an instinctive shrinking, a powerless resentment. - -"She doesn't care for him," he thought, with a quick, sharp sense of -relief. "And yet--she has to be civil to him, she has to do things to -help him. Why, for Heaven's sake, why?" He wandered into the other -room, tormenting himself with this question, and found his hostess -there. - -"What do you think of my new protegé?" she asked, detaining him as he -took his leave. - -"What, Halleck? Oh, he sings very well," he returned, absently. - -"I never before posed as a patron of rising musicians," she went on, -"but Elizabeth knew him, it seems, in the country, and asked if I -would mind helping him a little. She's so fond of music, you know." -She spoke quite innocently. Gerard gave her a quick, searching glance. -Apparently she suspected nothing. Yet she was a woman of quick -perceptions. Perhaps, after all, it was he who was mistaken; his -jealous, suspicious nature had led him into unnecessary torture. No -wonder she had met his doubt with defiance, had not deigned to justify -herself, or to dispel a distrust which he had no right to display. In -the sudden, glad, unreasoning reaction, he was ready to heap all -manner of insulting epithets upon himself. - -"I think your efforts will be repaid," he said, inclined in his relief -to be generous. "Halleck has a fine voice. I shouldn't wonder if he -were quite a success." - -"It was very nice of you to come in," she said. "You have been such a -recluse lately. What have you been doing?" - -"Oh, the whirl of excitement in which I've been living was too much -for me," he declared "and so I've given up society for awhile, and am -going in for hard study by way of rest." - -"Good gracious! That sounds very impressive," she said. "I'm almost -afraid to suggest, under the circumstances, that you should take a -seat in our box at the opera to-night. And yet I wish you would, -Julian, just by way of doing me a favor, for some people I've asked -are not coming, and Bobby is away, and Elizabeth and I will be quite -alone." - -He smiled. "I don't think there's much chance of your being alone very -long," he said. Yet he promised at last to take one of the vacant -seats, though he had refused several other invitations for that -evening. Mrs. Bobby's eyes sparkled as if she had achieved a victory. - -"Julian is coming to-night," she announced to Elizabeth, when the -musicale was over and the last guest had departed. - -"Is he?" Elizabeth spoke without apparent interest, as she sank, with -a weary look, into a chair in front of the fire. - -"You are tired. Would you rather not go to-night?" - -"Oh, no"--with a languid gesture. "Music doesn't tire me!" - -"And yet," said Mrs. Bobby, who had taken the seat opposite her and -was watching her thoughtfully, "you didn't seem to care enough about -it to come in to listen to your friend this afternoon." - -Elizabeth blushed. "I could hear him in the other room," she said. - -"Where, besides, you seemed to be very well entertained," said Mrs. -Bobby, serenely. "Still, I don't think it was nice of you. It is hard -on the poor man, after flirting with him in the country, to treat him -so indifferently in town." - -"I didn't flirt with him," said Elizabeth, but her protest was faint, -and seemed purely perfunctory. In fact, she was not sorry that Mrs. -Bobby had adopted this theory, realizing that a half-truth may -sometimes be the most effective barrier to a knowledge of the whole. - -"Don't tell me anything so wildly improbable, my dear," said Mrs. -Bobby. "My knowledge of human nature will not allow me to believe that -a pretty girl and a handsome young singer, thrown together for weeks -in the country, as I believe you were, did _not_ indulge in a -tremendous flirtation. But seriously, Elizabeth, I am glad that it -went no further, and that you have recovered so easily. For I can -imagine that you lost your heart to him a little. Confess, Elizabeth, -didn't you?" - -"Perhaps I did," said Elizabeth, staring immovably into the fire "but -one gets over such things, you know." - -"Indeed one does," said Mrs. Bobby. "I was desperately in love at -seventeen, and cried my eyes out when they made me give the man up; -and yet had I married him, I should have been the most wretched being -in the world, instead of a much happier woman than I deserve to be, -thanks to a husband far too good for me. (But that, dear, is between -ourselves. I always try to make Bobby think it's the other way.) But -imagine how dreadful it would have been, if I had had my own foolish -way at seventeen. And so I am glad, Elizabeth, that you have got over -your penchant for this young artist, who is good-looking, and sings -well, and all that; but who is--even if I knew anything about him, -which I don't--quite the last man I should like you to marry." - -Elizabeth's face was turned away. "I don't know," she said in a low -voice, "why you think of that." - -"Oh, I was only speculating on what might have been," said Mrs. Bobby, -lightly. "I know," she went on after a moment, stealing a furtive -glance at the girl's averted face, "I know the sort of man I should -like you to marry, Elizabeth. He must be older than you, considerably -older; of a serious disposition, with a strong will, stronger than -yours, for you might be perhaps a little hard to manage; fond of music -and fond of books; rich, and with a good position of course; and--and -I should like him to be every bit as nice as Bobby, if such a thing is -possible." - -Elizabeth turned her white face towards her friend. "And you think," -she said, in a low, stifled voice, "that I should come up to the -standard of a paragon like that?" - -"My dear," said Mrs. Bobby, wisely, "paragons don't marry _other_ -paragons, or the world would be somewhat more dull than it is at -present. A man who is very serious should marry a woman who is a -trifle frivolous, and in that way they strike the happy medium." - -"I don't know," said Elizabeth. "They would be more likely, I should -think, to strike a--a discordancy. It would be fatiguing to try to -please a man like that. One could never, do what one would, come up to -his standard." - -"You wouldn't have to," said Mrs. Bobby, softly, "he would think you -perfect, if--he loved you." - -"Do you think so?" said Elizabeth, with rather a dreary smile. "I -think, for my part, that he would be harder to satisfy, he would exact -all the more, because--he loved you." She sat pondering the idea for a -moment, then with a careless little gesture, she seemed to dismiss the -subject as a thing of small consequence. "It's much better not to try -to satisfy people like that," she declared. "What a lot of time we are -wasting! It must be time to dress." She got up and moved towards the -door. - -Mrs. Bobby followed her with her eyes. "I'll send Celeste to you," she -said. "Wear your most becoming gown. Look your best, and do your hair -the way I like it. I assure you, such trifles have their effect--even -upon a paragon." - - - - -_Chapter XXI_ - - -"Look my best!" Elizabeth repeated, standing before her muslin-skirted -dressing-table, and staring at the haggard apparition that met her -eyes. "Wear my most becoming gown, do my hair the most becoming way! -It all sounds so easy. But what can bring back my color, what can take -away these terrible dark rings, this horrible strained, anxious look? -Any one can see, to look at me, that I've something on my mind.... - -"... I shall never tell him the truth--never, never. I may beat about -the bush, but I shall always leave myself a loop-hole to crawl out of. -And yet if I could only consult him--consult _some one_--find out what -I really ought to do. But no, no, I don't dare risk it; it would be -terrible to be advised--just the way I don't want. I must decide on -some plan myself. But--Heaven knows what!" She stood for a while -motionless, gazing helplessly into a mist of perplexities. - -The little Sèvres clock on her mantel-piece roused her as it struck -the hour, and she began hastily to dress. She drew the rippling waves -of her hair into the fashion that Mrs. Bobby liked, she put on her -favorite gown, a charming creation of white lace and chiffon, -relieved by touches of pale green; she tried conscientiously to look -her best, but still her cheeks were pale, there was the strained look -in her eyes. - -She was about ready when Mrs. Bobby's maid came to help her, bringing -a box of flowers that had just that moment arrived. Celeste, a thrifty -person, regarded them with some disgust. She could tell them, these -gentlemen, that it was of little use to waste their money on -Mademoiselle, who did not care about, sometimes hardly glanced at, the -flowers which some other young lady would give her eyes to receive. -Ah, well, that was the unequal way in which things in this world were -arranged. Celeste disposed of the matter thus, with a philosophic -French shrug of the shoulders. - -But there was no counting on such a capricious person as Mademoiselle. -To-night, as she glanced at the card in the box, she blushed -beautifully, took out the flowers with care, and read with eager eyes -the few lines that the giver had scrawled, apparently in great haste -and in pencil: - -"This afternoon I was unspeakably rude--even brutal. Forgive me--what -right had I to take you to task for your actions? My only excuse is -that I care--I can't help caring--so desperately. I send you white -roses--they suit you best. You wore one that I gave you--do you -remember?--but probably you don't--the first night I saw you. If you -are very merciful, if you accept my repentance, wear one to-night--in -token of forgiveness." - -"In token of forgiveness?" Elizabeth pressed one of the exquisite, -creamy-white roses against her glowing cheeks. "You wore one the first -night I saw you--probably you don't remember?" Ah, yes, she -remembered--but that was different. She could not wear one now. "Yet -only in token of forgiveness?" With a quick, passionate gesture, she -raised it to her lips, then fastened it carefully amidst the lace of -her gown. - -Celeste, whose presence she had forgotten, bent down discreetly, with -a suppressed smile, to arrange the folds of her train. Ah, clearly, -after all, there was one gentleman who did not waste his money on -Mademoiselle. - -"Madame wished Mademoiselle to look well to-night," she observed, -after a moment. "I think Madame will be satisfied." - -Mademoiselle glanced at herself again, and started as she looked. -Could this brilliant young beauty, her small head proudly erect, her -eyes brilliant, her cheeks aflame, be the same woman whose haggard -reflection had stared back at her from the same mirror only -half-an-hour before? - -She did not feel like the same woman. The doubts, the fears, which had -beset her then seemed mere chimeras, the fancies of a morbid brain. -She felt gay, confident, strong enough to conquer even fate. Celeste -was right--she looked her best. Mrs. Bobby's words rang in her ears. -"Such trifles have their effect--even on a paragon." And then -again--"He would think you perfect as you were if--he loved you." "No, -he need not think me perfect," she murmured to her mirror, "but he -must--he shall think me beautiful. And that is more to the point," -she concluded, as she gathered up fan and gloves and left the room. - -The opera that night was Carmen, which peculiarly suited her phase of -mind. There is no other which so thoroughly embodies the spirit of -recklessness, the triumph of the senses, the frank, impulsive, -untrammeled enjoyment of life and of living. To be sure, there is the -tragic ending--but before that, three acts of brilliant melody, -glowing with color, with warm, sensuous pleasure. - -Gerard was waiting in the box when they arrived. On the stage -Carmen--that ideal Carmen of whom Mérimée dreamed and Bizet set to -music--had just appeared upon the scene of Don Jose's misfortune, and -was warbling, with bewitching abandon, the notes of the Habanera. - -Gerard's face, which had an anxious look, brightened wonderfully, -radiantly, as the two women entered the box. He murmured eagerly a few -grateful words in Elizabeth's ear, and took the seat directly behind -her, which he did not abandon, even though his predictions were -justified, and Mrs. Van Antwerp's box was filled, after the first act, -with men who looked anything but pleased at finding that particular -place monopolized. Mrs. Bobby, however, seemed delighted to entertain -them, was gracious, charming and piquante, and elicited from a stern -dowager in the next box severe criticisms on the wiles of young -married women, and their reprehensible manner of diverting to -themselves the attention due to the young girls under their charge. - -Elizabeth hardly noticed the men who entered the box. She sat with -eyes fixed upon the stage, upon that intensely real music drama which -she had seen many times already, but which never lost its fascination; -yet acutely conscious all the while through every fibre of her being -of Gerard's presence, of his watching her, of his bending over her, -now and again, to murmur a word in her ear. And as for him, she had -appealed to him most, perhaps, at least to a certain side of his -nature, that afternoon in her pale languor; and yet he could not but -feel his senses thrilled, his pulses throb, when she was so warmly, -vividly, humanly beautiful as she was to-night. For the moment he was -carried beyond himself, his doubts dispelled, or at least forgotten. - -And yet, as the evening wore on, some subtle influence in the music or -the play seemed to recall them. At the end of the second act she -turned to him, the strains of the Toreador song still ringing in her -ear, and felt, insensibly a sudden lack of sympathy, a cloud that -seemed to have drifted between them. His brows were knit, his face -moody. - -"You don't like it!" she said, staring up at him with wondering, -disappointed eyes. - -"What, the opera?" He started as if his thoughts had been elsewhere. -"No, I don't like it," he said, frankly. "It jars upon me somehow, -brings up memories"--he paused. "Oh, it's some drop of Puritan blood, -I suppose," he went on, impatiently, "that asserts itself in me. I -can't view the thing from an artistic standpoint. I can't forget for -a moment what a heartless creature the woman is. When I see her -ruining men's lives, luring them on, turning from one to another--it's -too realistic--there are too many women like that"--He was speaking -low and bitterly, with a strange vehemence, but suddenly he broke off, -with a short laugh. "Oh, it's absurd," he said, "to take a thing like -that seriously." - -Elizabeth did not smile. She leaned back in her chair as if she were -suddenly weary. "Poor Carmen!" she said, in a low voice. "You're very -hard on her." She held up her fan before her eyes, as if the light -hurt them. A shadow seemed to fall upon her beauty, effacing its color -and brilliance, bringing out again into strong relief the dark rings -under the eyes, the lines about the mouth. She sat in silence for -awhile, but suddenly she turned to him. - -"I'm going to shock you, I'm afraid," she said, "but--do you -know--somehow I can't help seeing the other side. What is a woman to -do, if she changes against her will? Is she to abide always, -inexorably, by the results of a mistake?" A note of passionate feeling -thrilled her voice, she fixed her eyes anxiously, intently, upon -Gerard. "There are so many questions that might arise," she went on, -eagerly, as he did not answer at once. "One might, for instance, make -a promise--a very solemn promise, and find out afterwards that it -was--a mistake, that it would ruin one's whole life to keep it; -and--and one might break it, and the other person might think himself -very much injured; and yet--would you think the woman in that case so -very much to blame?" - -Gerard thought he understood. With the conviction came a sense of -passionate relief, which yet he hesitated, with the fastidious -scruples of a proud and honorable man, to grasp in its entirety. - -"I--I don't think I'm competent to express an opinion," he said, in a -low voice. "You should ask--some one else." - -"There's no one else whom I can ask," she said quickly, and with her -eyes always fixed imploringly upon him. "Tell me--what you think. What -should a woman do in a case like that?" - -"I--it's a difficult situation," he said, still holding under control -his eager desire to advise her in the only way in which it seemed to -him possible to advise her. But how could he trust his own judgment? -"I"--he hesitated--"Personally," he said, "I can't imagine holding a -woman to a promise that she has--repented of; but other men -might--probably would feel differently." - -"Yes," she said, sadly, "he--this man does." - -"And you--the woman is quite sure she has made a mistake," he asked, -eagerly. - -"Yes, yes, quite sure," she said, quickly, "a terrible mistake." - -"Then," said Gerard, and he drew a long sigh as of intense relief, "I -don't think there could be two opinions on the subject. No one could -advise you--this woman to ruin her life for a mistake, especially if -the--the man were unworthy?" He looked at her questioningly. - -"He seemed to her unworthy," she said, in a low voice. - -"Then, for Heaven's sake," he asked, almost fiercely, "how can you -hesitate?" - -She did not speak, but turned her eyes towards the stage and again -placed her fan so that it shielded them. All over the house there was -the subdued rustle of people returning to their seats. The orchestra -sounded the first notes of the third act, the curtain rose upon the -gypsy camp. During Michaela's solo and the scene between the two men, -Elizabeth still sat silent, her fan before her face. The act was well -advanced before she turned to Gerard. - -"Then," she said, "you would advise me to--to break my word?" - -"Under the circumstances--yes," he said, steadily. "But don't," he -went on quickly, and passionate vibration thrilled his voice, more -unrepressed than ever before, "don't be guided by my opinion. In this -particular case it is--impossible for me to judge impartially." - -"Is it," she asked softly, and then added quickly, as if to avert an -answer, "still, I'm glad to know your opinion. I feel sure you -wouldn't say what you don't think. Thank you--thank you very much." -Her tone was low and subdued, like that of a grateful child. She -leaned back in her chair with a look of relief, that seemed both -physical and mental. She did not speak again till near the end of the -act, when Carmen reads her fortune in the cards. "I wonder," Elizabeth -said then, softly, "what she sees in them." - -"I had my fortune told once," she observed, turning to Gerard, as the -curtain fell. "It was when I was at school, and I went with one of the -girls to a famous palmist. He told me all sorts of strange, true -things about the past, and about the future."--She paused. - -"Well, about the future?" he asked, smiling. "One doesn't care about -the past. But he predicted, no doubt, all sorts of delightful things -about the future?" - -"No." She stared thoughtfully before her with knit brows. "He -said"--she spoke low and hesitatingly--"he said there was luck in my -hand--plenty of it; I should have splendid opportunities. But--he said -there was a line of misfortune, which crossed the other line and might -make it utterly useless; that there was danger of some kind--he -couldn't tell what, threatening me about my twenty-first year, and -that, you know, is very near; he said there were strange -lines--tragic, unusual,"--She stopped. "It sounds very ridiculous," -but though she tried to smile, her voice trembled, "and yet--I -remember it frightened me at the time, and does still--a little--when -I think of it." - -"But you don't surely," cried Gerard, "my dear child, you don't -suppose he knew a thing about it?" - -"I don't know. I believe I'm superstitious--are not you?" - -"I'm afraid I am," he said, "but not about things like that. I've seen -too many predictions of the kind prove false, to give them a thought." - -"It _is_ foolish to worry about them," she admitted, but still she sat -apparently deep in thought and played absently with her fan. At last -she looked up with her most brilliant smile. "I don't know why it is," -she said, "but we seem to be fated on unpleasant subjects. And yet the -opera is so gay. Do let us try, for the rest of the evening, to think -of pleasant things." She turned and held out her hand, smiling, to a -man who entered the box. For the rest of the opera she was brilliant, -animated, beautiful, as she had been at first. - -"And now you are satisfied," she said, looking at Gerard with laughing -eyes, as the curtain fell for the last time. "Carmen comes to a bad -end. According to your principles! she deserved it." - -"Ah, my principles!" he said, smiling. "I'm afraid I don't live up to -them very much." - -"Don't you?" She gave him a quick, searching glance, as he stood with -her cloak in his hand. "I wish I could believe that," she murmured. "I -should be a little less--afraid of you." - -He placed the cloak about her shoulders. "It is I who am afraid of -you," he whispered, bending over her, "and have been ever since I knew -you." - -Her eyes fell, and she fumbled nervously with the fastening of the -cloak. "Ah, you were afraid of me?" she said, under her breath. "And -now"-- - -"Oh, I've grown very brave," he murmured, as he followed her out of -the box, "you can't frighten me away any longer." The jesting words -lingered in her ear as they left the Opera House. - -"Ah, if he knew!" she said to herself, as she sank into her corner of -the carriage. "He doesn't know. And yet I told him the exact truth. -It's not my fault, if he--misunderstood." - -And Gerard meanwhile was telling himself that he understood it all. - -"Poor child!" he murmured to himself, as he lit a cigar and sauntered -slowly home. "So that was it. Of course, she thought she loved -him--the first man she met, and when he turned up felt herself -bound--I see it all! And she has suffered--had terrible pangs of -conscience over this thing. And I who misjudged her all this -time--imagined I don't know what--could I have advised her -differently? Surely not. The fellow's not worthy of her. Neither am I. -She won't look at me, probably. And yet--one can but try"-- - - - - -_Chapter XXII_ - - -It was mentioned generally, at various sewing-classes and other mild -functions during Lent, that Julian Gerard was very attentive, all of a -sudden, to Elizabeth Van Vorst. Some people, less accurate or more -imaginative than the rest, went so far as to announce the engagement -as an actual fact. - -"And, if so, it's all Eleanor Van Antwerp's doing," Mrs. Hartington -observed in private to her intimate friends. "She was determined to -make the match from the beginning. I saw the way she threw the girl at -his head at a dinner in the country, but I never for a moment thought -she would succeed--with Julian Gerard of all men, who is so -desperately afraid of being taken in." - -Julian Gerard, by that time, had well-nigh forgotten that such a fear -had ever disturbed him, or if he did remember it, it was to regard it, -so far as Elizabeth was concerned, as profanation. Since that evening -at the opera, his remorseful fancy had placed her on a pinnacle, which -she found at times, it must be confessed, a little difficult to -maintain. It was his misfortune and hers, that he could never view her -in the right perspective, never realize that she was neither a saint -nor the reverse, but merely a woman, and painfully human at that. - -But since he chose to consider her a saint, she did her best to live -up to the character. She kept Lent strictly that year as she had never -done before, went to church morning and evening, denied herself -bonbons and other luxuries, and worked with unskilled fingers but -great diligence at certain oddly-constructed garments which were doled -out to her and other young women every week as a Lenten penance, and -incidentally for the good of the poor. If in most cases the actual -penance fell to the lot of their maids, why, the poor were none the -wiser, and certainly much the better clothed. But Elizabeth insisted -on putting in all the painful stitches in the hard, coarse stuff -herself, and looked very pretty bending over it, as Mr. Gerard thought -when he came in one day and found her thus employed. - -It pleased him, of course. He did not attach much importance, himself, -to these things--this constant church-going, these small penances; -yet, manlike, it seemed to him right and fitting that she should -regard them differently. And then it was pleasant, after service, to -meet her in the vestibule. How many incipient love affairs have been -helped along, brought to a climax perhaps, by the convenient afternoon -service, and the sauntering walks home in the lingering twilight! - -To Elizabeth there was an indefinable charm in those ever-lengthening -Lenten days, rung in and out to the music of church bells, and marked, -as the season advanced and Easter approached, by the growing green of -the grass, and the budding shoots of the trees, and the intangible -feeling of spring in the air. That sense of dread, of impending -misfortune, which had been for a short time almost unbearable, was -lulled to sleep as by an opiate. She did not think of the past or the -future, she simply drifted from day to day, and each of these was -pleasanter than the last. - -For one thing, she had grown hardened, indifferent almost to the -constant meeting with Paul Halleck. She had kept her word and obtained -for him all the invitations in her power, until he no longer needed -her help. He was a great success. Mrs. Van Antwerp's informal little -musicale had been only the first of a series of more elaborate ones, -at which Halleck was often the chief attraction. Young girls admired -him extremely. Elizabeth could hear him talking to them, just as he -had once talked to her, about Swinburne and Rossetti and the last word -in Art, and she saw that, like herself, they thought him very -brilliant. It was an admiration which had tangible results, since it -led to an interest in music, and a desire to take singing-lessons from -the talented young barytone. Before long, he took a studio in -Carnegie, near D'Hauteville's, and furnished it luxuriously, on the -strength of his new prosperity. He was very much the fashion and -absorbed in his success, and seldom had the time, or perhaps the -inclination, to encounter Elizabeth's unflattering indifference. So -for the most part he left her alone, to her intense relief. - -One incident, a chance word, in a retrospect of that time, afterwards -stood out in Elizabeth's mind, though at the moment it seemed to make -but a slight impression. - -It was one Sunday afternoon when a number of people, Paul Halleck -among them, had dropped in to afternoon tea, and the conversation -happened to turn upon palmistry. Elizabeth did not proffer her own -experience. She listened silently to what the others said on the -subject. - -"I can't say I have implicit faith in it," observed Mrs. Bobby. "I was -told by a fortune-teller that I should marry a dark man, who would -beat me and treat me horribly; and as you see, I've married a fair -man--who treats me pretty well on the whole." - -Bobby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece his tea-cup in his -hand, smiled serenely. - -"Don't boast too soon, Eleanor," he said, lazily, "there's no knowing -what brutal tendencies I may develop yet." - -Mrs. Hartington, who was seated near him on a low chair, looked up -into his face with a sympathetic smile. "Are you one of those -long-suffering husbands who turn at last, Mr. Van Antwerp?" she asked, -sweetly. "It would be good discipline, I think, for Eleanor not to -have her own way _always_." - -Bobby looked down at her coolly for a moment with his calm blue eyes. -"No doubt, it would be good discipline for all of us, Mrs. -Hartington," he said, in his pleasant, clear-cut tones, "but as my -wife's way and mine are generally the same, I'm afraid I'm not likely -to inflict it." - -Mrs. Hartington looked down with an injured air, adding another to her -list of grievances against her dear friend and neighbor, Eleanor Van -Antwerp. - -"I should never go to a common fortune-teller, my dear," she observed -in a louder tone, for the benefit of the assembled company. "Yours was -probably just an ignorant person. But I did go to ----, who, you know, -charges a small fortune, and he told me the most extraordinary things. -I have perfect confidence in him; every one I know thinks him quite -infallible." - -"Do they?" said Paul Halleck, suddenly turning from the piano. He -shrugged his shoulders. "I devoutly hope you are mistaken," he said. -"---- read my hand in Paris, and told me some very unpleasant things; -among others that I was probably destined to a violent death. This -year of my life, by the way--the twenty-seventh--was to be my fatal -year." - -He spoke half laughingly, but the words produced an effect. There was -a general exclamation of horror, and Elizabeth, who was pouring tea, -dropped the cup that she held in her hand. Julian Gerard, who was -standing behind her, bent down to recover the fragments. - -"It's odd," he said, as he placed them absently on the table, "his -year of danger and yours seem to correspond." The words rose -involuntarily to his lips, and an instant later he wished them -unspoken. - -She flushed a little, then grew pale. "Oh, I'm sorry you remembered -that nonsense," she said. "I don't really believe in these things." -But her hand trembled as she poured out the tea, glancing furtively at -Halleck as she did so. - -He was enjoying the sensation that his announcement had created. -"Yes," he was saying, "if I live to be a year older, I am safe; but -till then--Heaven knows what danger threatens me!" He shrugged his -shoulders with a light laugh. The prediction did not seem to trouble -him greatly. Elizabeth wondered if he had not invented it, for the -sake of the effect. And then, involuntarily, the thought crossed her -mind--what if it were really true, and the prediction were fulfilled? -Such things had been known to happen--there might be something in -it.... Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind of all -that his death might mean to her--the merciful release, the solution -of all difficulties.... Just for a moment the idea lingered, while the -others talked, and she shuddered. - -"You are quite pale," said Gerard, fixing his eyes upon her. He was -still sensitive to any sign of feeling which Halleck seemed to arouse -in her. "I believe you are really superstitious. These things seem to -frighten you." - -"Am I superstitious?" She looked up at him dreamily. "Perhaps I am. It -would be nice, I think, if there were something in it, if one could -tell what is going to happen. One could act accordingly. I should -like, for instance"--her voice sank--"I should like to look into the -future one year, and see what fate has in store for me." - -"If I had any control over fate"--Gerard crushed back the impetuous -words that followed. Not yet--the moment was not propitious. Besides, -he was not sure of her. There was still at times something in her -manner that was baffling, uncertain.--And just then Paul Halleck -sauntered up and bent over her in that intimate manner which still -annoyed Gerard's fastidious taste, even though he had long since -convinced himself that he had no cause to fear him as a rival. - -"Did you hear ----'s terrible prediction, Miss Van Vorst?" Paul asked, -smiling, "and aren't you sorry for my untimely fate?" - - - - -_Chapter XXIII_ - - -"Why will you never play for me?" - -Gerard stood leaning on the piano, his eyes half smiling, yet with a -look of mastery, fixed upon Elizabeth. She was sitting in a low chair -by the fire, the book on her lap which she had been reading when he -came in. It was a stormy March afternoon, and the dusk was closing in -prematurely. The room was already in shadow, except where the -firelight formed a little circle of radiance, illumining Elizabeth's -face and hair. Seated thus in the full glow of light, with the shadows -in the foreground, all the little details of her appearance--the broad -sweep of rippling hair on her forehead, the soft laces at her throat, -the pale, dull green of her gown, even to the buckle on her slipper, -and the one white rose in her belt--each trifling part of the -harmonious whole, impressed itself on his memory, haunting him -afterwards with a keen sense of pain. - -She looked up at him now from under her long lashes, with the old -light in her eyes, half defiant, half tantalizing--that spirit of -revolt which still glanced forth at times to baffle and disturb him. - -"I don't want to play this afternoon. I don't--feel in the mood." - -"You are never in the mood when I ask you." Silence. "Confess at -once," said Gerard, with some heat--"for it would really be quite as -civil--that you don't wish to play for me." - -Another swift upward glance. "Perhaps I don't"--demurely.--"You're too -severe a critic." - -"You know," said Gerard, "that that is not the reason." - -Silence again. "Will you tell me the reason?" he asked. - -She answered him this time with a flash of defiance. "I don't know," -she said, "what right you have to demand it. But if you insist upon -it, I'll tell you. You--you don't like my playing, and--it's very -absurd, of course, but I never can play for people who don't." - -"I--don't like your playing?" He shielded his eyes for a moment, as if -from the glare of the fire. When he spoke again his tone was -peremptory. "You foolish child," he said, "come and play for me, and -I'll tell you, afterwards, what I think of it." - -She looked up at him--startled, rebellious, met his eyes for a moment, -then rose, pouting, like the child that he called her, constrained -against her will, put down her book, and moved slowly toward the -piano. "You are so terribly determined," she complained. - -"And you are so terribly perverse! But when I want a thing very much, -I can be determined, as you say. Play me the Fire-music," he went on, -"and--and 'Tristan and Isolde,' as you did--do you remember?--the -first night I met you." - -She paused, with her hands on the keys. "I--I thought,"--she began, -and then broke off suddenly, and began to play as he bade her--at -first faltering, uncertainly, with a strange hesitation; then more -firmly, as the keys responded with the old readiness to her touch, and -she lost herself in the music. Outside the storm increased, the rain -beat against the windows, the room grew dark, and once Elizabeth -paused--she could hardly see the keys. But Gerard murmured, "Ah, the -love-music!" and she played on. All the terrible distress, the -maddening perplexity, of the last few months seemed to express -themselves, in spite of herself, in those surging, strenuous chords; -all the hope, too, and the wild unreasoning happiness. She was -startled, almost as if she were telling the whole story in language so -eloquent that he must surely understand it without further words. But -Gerard, as was natural, read into it only his own feelings. He stood -leaning on the piano, his hand shielding his eyes, which were fixed -intently upon her.--It was so dark now that he could hardly see her -face, only the shimmer of her hair standing out against the dusk, the -movement of her white hands on the keys. - -She faltered at last, struck a false chord, and broke off in the very -midst of the love-music. "I--I can't see," she murmured, and let her -hands fall in her lap. - -"Do you remember," Gerard said, "that first night you played? I had -talked to you at dinner, you know, you--you repelled me a little. I -thought--I am telling you the bare truth, you see--you were a little -cynical, a little hard--it seemed a pity when you were so"--he paused -for a moment and his voice softened as he lingered over the word--"so -beautiful. I couldn't understand you. I thought--I wouldn't try. It -wasn't worth while--most things were not. And then--you played"--He -paused again for a moment. "You know what most girls' playing is like. -Yours has a soul, a fire--I don't know where you get it. It moved me, -set me thinking, as no other woman's playing has done for years." - -He paused again. Elizabeth looked up quickly. "I thought," she -murmured, "that you didn't like my playing, that you were bored"-- - -"Ah, you thought," he said, "that when a man feels very much, he can -make pretty speeches? I can't, at least. Oh, I've no doubt"--he made a -resigned gesture--"I've no doubt that I behaved like a brute. Women -have told me that I generally do. I said to myself--that girl is -dangerous, she could make a man fall in love with her--even against -his will. I was in love once--but that's another story. I never wanted -to repeat the experiment. And so, as you know, I avoided you; like a -fool, I used to go and look at your picture, and then--keep away from -you, evening after evening. I struggled--with all the strength I -have--I struggled not to love you. And then, as you know"--he looked -her straight in the eyes--"as you have known well these last few -weeks,--I failed." - -There was silence for a moment. She was very white, her hands were -tightly clasped in her lap. "I"--she gave a little shuddering -sigh--"it would have been better if you hadn't." - -"Elizabeth!" She felt rather than saw how his face changed. -"Elizabeth," he said, hoarsely, "do you mean that? Then"--as she sat -silent--"you don't love me?" - -Oh, for the strength to answer "No," and end this scene--this useless, -perplexing scene, which she should have been prepared for, which yet -seemed to have come upon her unawares! One firm, courageous "No," and -a man like Gerard would not ask her twice. Instead, a compromise, -useless, feeble, hovered on her lips. "I--shouldn't make you happy," -she faltered out, despising her own weakness. - -"Is that all?" He laughed out loud in sheer relief. "My darling,"--the -triumphant tenderness in his voice was hard to bear--"don't you think -that I can judge of that?" - -She was silent, and he drew nearer to her and took her hands in his. -"You needn't be afraid," he said. "I shall worship the ground you -tread upon, if--if you will only consent. You will, Elizabeth, won't -you?" She had not known before that his voice held tones so -caressingly gentle. - -For a moment she sat motionless, passive beneath his touch, and then -suddenly: "I can't," she broke out, hoarsely, drew her hands away from -him, and going over to the mantel-piece, she leaned her arms upon it -and hid her face. - -When he spoke again, after a long silence, his voice was entirely -changed. "There is something here I don't understand," he said, -coldly. "One moment you seemed to yield, and the next"----He made a -step towards her. "Tell me the truth," he entreated, "don't spare my -feelings. It's a false kindness. You love someone else--is that -it?--then tell me so, and I won't reproach you--or--trouble you -again." - -She turned her face towards him. It was white, quivering with emotion; -but she answered firmly: "No, you are entirely wrong. There is--no one -else." - -"Not Halleck?" he asked, watching her intently, his face dark with the -old distrust. - -She made a quick, involuntary gesture of repulsion. "Not he--not he, -of all people," she said, bitterly. - -He still eyed her doubtfully, unsatisfied. "You are sure?" he -insisted. "You are telling me the whole truth? Don't deceive me--now, -Elizabeth; I could forgive anything but that." - -How many chances were given to Elizabeth, only to be thrown away! She -answered him steadily; "I'm not deceiving you. I tell you frankly that -when I first met Paul Halleck I thought I cared for him--he was the -first man I had ever known; but now he is nothing to me, and I have -told him so--I think I almost dislike him." There was no mistaking the -accent of sincerity in her voice. It was fortunate for Elizabeth, -since she was no adept in lying, that the truth and the falsehood were -in this case so nearly identical. - -Gerard was satisfied. - -"Then what," he urged, eagerly--"if there is no one else--what stands -between us?" - -She hesitated. There were voices in the hall, some visitors requesting -admission, the butler parleying a little--the discreet, intelligent -butler, who had so considerately refrained, for the last quarter of an -hour, from coming in to light the gas. - -Gerard was too absorbed to notice anything outside of the cause he was -pleading. "Tell me," he repeated, his eyes fixed intently upon her -face, "what stands between us?" - -She put out her hand with a deprecating gesture. That threatening -interruption seemed to give her courage. She was quite herself again. -"Can't a woman hesitate for no definite reason?" she asked. "You, -yourself--didn't you hesitate--for reasons that I must confess seem to -me rather vague and--not very complimentary." - -The argument struck home. He changed color. "Don't cast that up -against me, Elizabeth," he pleaded. "It's not worthy of you. I told -you the plain truth, badly as it sounds, because it seemed due to -you--I wanted you to know the worst. And you must remember that I had -no reason to suppose that you cared, or would ever care, anything -about me. It was only I who suffered when I kept away from you. But -you--now that you know how--how madly I love you--don't trifle with -me--be generous--give me a definite answer?" - -"But I--I can't," she returned, in her old wilful way, "just on the -spur of the moment, like this. I don't want to marry any one--not just -now, at least. I--I like my freedom"---- - -The words died away on her lips. She broke off suddenly, turning very -pale, as the importunate visitor, whom the butler had vainly -endeavored to show into another room, drew aside the portière and -entered brusquely. It was Paul Halleck. He had a strangely excited -look, which increased as he surveyed the two people on the hearth-rug, -whom he had evidently interrupted at a critical moment. - -To one of them, at least, his entrance was most unwelcome. Not all of -Gerard's carefully cultivated self-control could avail to hide his -annoyance; he uttered under his breath an angry exclamation, and going -over to the piano, stood moodily turning over sheets of music. -Elizabeth, to whom Paul's appearance was for some reasons still more -disconcerting, showed greater self-possession. She held out her hand -coldly, but composedly, with a few mechanical words, to which he -barely responded. There was an embarrassing pause, broken by the -butler, who made his belated, majestic entry, lighted the chandeliers -and drew the curtains. The effect of the illumination was startling, -as it threw into strong relief the look of agitation on each of their -faces. - -"It--it's storming still, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, and then -remembered that she had asked the same question already. Gerard -started up and reflecting gloomily that it was of no use to try to -"stay that fellow out," he took his leave. Paul and Elizabeth were -left alone. - -His presence seemed a matter of absolute indifference to Elizabeth, -who sank again into the low chair by the fire, and picking up the book -she had laid down, turned over its pages with an air of icy unconcern. -He came and stood beside her, leaning against the mantel-piece, a look -of brutality on his handsome face. - -"So," he said. "I've driven Gerard away. A case of 'two is company,' -evidently." - -Her expression did not change. "Oh, he had been here some time," she -said, coldly. "No doubt he meant to leave in any case." - -"Oh, no doubt." He sneered angrily. "Do you know what I heard to-day?" -he went on. "I heard that you were engaged to him." - -She flushed a little. "Did you?" she said, and then, quietly: "But -that means nothing, you know." - -"But you are together all the time. I can't come to the house without -meeting him. You encourage him, accept his flowers, lead him -on.--Pray, how long is this sort of thing going to last?" - -They eyed each other for a moment, he flushed with anger, she cold and -hard. "You have no right," she said, icily, "to ask an account of my -actions." - -"No right!" he repeated, as if thunder-struck. "I should like to know -who has a better." - -"No right that I acknowledge, at least," she amended her first -sentence. - -He paced up and down the room, struggling for self-control. "Whether -you acknowledge it or not, is immaterial," he said, stopping suddenly -in front of her. "I claim it, and that is enough. You must give up -this infernal flirtation with Gerard, or"---- - -"Or what?" she insisted haughtily, as he paused. - -"I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him the truth," he concluded, -defiantly. - -Dead silence. The book she held fell from Elizabeth's nerveless hand. -The steady ticking of the clock in the stillness seemed to beat an -accompaniment to these words: "Don't deceive me--now, Elizabeth; I -could forgive anything but that." - -"Paul?" Her voice was no longer icy, but soft, with caressing tones. -"Paul, you wouldn't be so unkind?" - -"What difference does it make to you?" he said, eyeing her keenly, -"whether I tell Gerard or not? You can't marry him, you know--it's -impossible." - -"I don't want to marry him," she said, gathering all her powers of -resistance, "but--he's a friend of mine. I don't want him to be told -things about me by--an outsider." - -"Ah, you call me that!" he said, his anger roused again. "Well, -outsider or not, I hold the cards. I shall go to Gerard at once and -tell him that we were married--at Cranston, last July. If he doubts -my assertion, the record is there, and it won't be very hard for him -to verify it." - -Silence again. Elizabeth sat musing, her brows knit, her under lip -slightly thrust out, in a fashion that seemed to express all the -obstinate resolve of her nature. "I will do as you wish, if you will -keep silent." - -"Will you write a note to Gerard," Paul demanded, "sending him away?" - -"No," she said, sullenly. "I won't do that." - -"Then there is nothing else you can do," he declared. - -Elizabeth mused again. "I would give--money," she said. The last word -was spoken very low. - -He started and flushed. "Do you want to bribe me?" he asked, angrily. - -She shrugged her shoulders. "I am quite aware that you will not do -anything for nothing," she said. - -Paul fell again to pacing up and down the room. His face showed traces -of a mental struggle. Elizabeth watched him from the corners of her -eyes; she saw that her offer tempted him more than she had dared to -hope. - -He stopped at last in front of her. "How much can you spare?" he -asked, in a voice in which a certain bravado strove to gain the -mastery over inward uneasiness and shame. "The truth is, I am most -confoundedly hard up just now, what with furnishing the studio and -everything, and if you could help me a little, it would be very -convenient. I can pay you back later with interest a hundred times." - -"I have told you," she said, coldly, "what payment I want." - -He shrugged his shoulders, with an attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, as to -that, I never really intended to tell Gerard." Elizabeth's lip curled. - -"How much money do you want?" she asked, curtly. "A hundred? Two -hundred?" Her ideas on such matters were vague. Paul's face fell. - -"I should need five hundred at least, if--if it is to be of any use," -he said, gloomily. - -It was more than she expected, but she showed no signs of flinching. -"Five hundred, then," she said, rising as if to conclude the -interview. "Will it do, if I let you have it to-morrow?" - -"Perfectly. Elizabeth, you are an angel. I can't thank you enough." He -advanced towards her with outstretched arms, but with a gesture of -repulsion she waved him aside. - -"Don't thank me," she said, coldly. "This is a bargain for our mutual -advantage. I will fulfil my share of it if you remember yours. And -now, as we have nothing more to discuss, I think I will ask you to -excuse me." She made him a stately inclination, picked up her book and -sailed from the room in undiminished dignity and apparent unconcern. - -But when she was alone and had locked herself into her room to think -over her misery, then, indeed, the situation stared her in the face in -its true colors. Her own words, "I like my freedom," rang mockingly -in her ears. She was not free, but a slave; slave of a man who had her -in his power, and would use it, as time went on, more and more -unscrupulously. This time it was five hundred that he demanded; next -time it would be a thousand. What could she do? Somehow or another, he -must be satisfied. Anything was better, any sacrifice, any -humiliation, than to allow him to go to Gerard with that bare -statement of facts, "We were married at Cranston, last July!" The -truth, devoid of any of the softening evasions by which she cloaked it -to her own mind; the redeeming circumstances which excused, if they -did not justify, her silence. - -Her bitterest enemy must admit that the position was a hard one. A -contract entered into hastily by a thoughtless girl, on the impulse of -the moment; a quarter of an hour in an empty church one summer day; a -few words spoken before a sleepy old clergyman and indifferent -witnesses--could such things as these have power to ruin one's whole -life? No, no--her heart cried out wildly to the contrary. The whole -episode seemed, in the retrospect, so dream-like. It was easy to -imagine that it had never happened. And yet, had she the courage to -ignore it?... And, even if she had, there was always Paul to remind -her of it, who would not give her up without a terrible struggle, that -must, without fail, come to Gerard's ears. - -There was only one hope that she could see, and that was wild and -irrational; the hope Paul had himself suggested. If that prediction -could be fulfilled! Elizabeth shuddered. It was terrible to think of -such a thing; terrible to obtain one's own happiness at the cost of -another person's life. She did not really wish Paul dead--that would -be wicked. And yet--and yet--the thought pressed irresistibly upon -her--if it had to be!--if it had to be! What a blessed relief--what an -end to all this misery! "Oh, I do wish it, I do wish it!" she broke -out, speaking aloud, unconsciously. "I would give anything in this -world to hear of his death." - -She stopped, startled at the sound of her own voice. The wish shocked -her, even in the moment of expressing it. Her wishes were so often -fulfilled--she had an almost superstitious faith in their efficacy. If -this one were fulfilled, what then?--For a moment she, thinking it -over, balanced possibilities; and then with a stifled cry, fell on her -knees and hid her face in her hands. - -"Oh, I'm growing so wicked," she sobbed out. "It's because I'm so -miserable. Only let me have what I want, and I'll be different; I'll -be the kind of woman that he admires; only--I must find a way, I must -have what I want--_first_." - - - - -_Chapter XXIV_ - - -The next day dawned clear and bright; a beautiful morning in early -spring after a night of storm. Upon Elizabeth's spirits as she dressed -the weather produced the illogical effect that it does upon most of -us. Reviewed by daylight, the situation seemed to her many degrees -less desperate. The night before, there had seemed to her only one way -out, and that a tragical one; but now there were--there must be--a -hundred ways, if only she could gain the time to think of them. - -The first thing was to obtain the money; but this in itself was no -easy matter. She had promised it to Paul as if it were a mere trifle; -yet, as a matter of fact, she was as badly off herself at the time as -was to be expected of a young woman who had gone out a great deal, and -established and lived up to an expensive reputation for being always -well and appropriately gowned. - -She reviewed her resources. Mrs. Bobby would have lent her the money -at once and asked no questions; but from this course Elizabeth's pride -shrank uncontrollably. She preferred to take a sum she had just laid -aside to satisfy to some extent the claims of a long-suffering and -complaisant dressmaker; but even with this sacrifice determined on, -she was still far short of the amount required. She took out, in -desperation, her various jewels and trinkets, and looked them over, -wondering how much they were worth. There were many pretty things her -aunts had given her, none of them probably of any great intrinsic -value, and there were the beautiful gifts that Mrs. Bobby had showered -upon her; and, finally, there was the string of pearls which she -always wore about her neck, one of the few heirlooms which old Madam -Van Vorst had once kept under lock and key, and which her daughters -had of course made over to Elizabeth. The girl stood now hesitating -with the pearls in her hand. She had worn them to every ball that -winter, she was wont to say, with her half-joking, half-real touch of -superstition, that they brought her luck; as if, with their -possession, something of the spirit of that proud beauty of a by-gone -day had entered into her, enabling her to conquer the world in which -the older woman had been naturally at home. Would the power leave her -with the pearls? The fantastic thought lingered for a moment, and then -impatiently she thrust it aside, and put the precious heirloom in with -the rest of her possessions, which she had resolved to sacrifice. It -was not a moment when she could afford to dally with sentiment. - -Yet what a strange, disreputable proceeding it seemed! She was haunted -with a vague sense of losing caste, as she took her trinkets to one of -the smaller jewelry-shops, and faltered out her improbable tale of -their being unbecoming and of no use to her. The jeweler, well used to -the straits of fashionable young women, listened without a smile, and -offered her on the whole a fair price, though it was much less than -she expected. There was nothing that she was not obliged to part -with--from the jeweled watch which Mrs. Bobby had given her at -Christmas, to the pearls, which proved to be the most valuable of all. -When she left the shop she had deprived herself of all her ornaments, -but she held the necessary bribe in her hand, and as the simplest way -of conveying it to Halleck, she got on a cable car and went up at once -to his studio at Carnegie. There was nothing startling in the -proceeding, for he had now a number of pupils, who came to him at his -studio; and though the girls whom Elizabeth knew always brought their -maids, or a chaperone of some sort, she was not in the mood to waste -much thought on conventionalities. Her one idea was to fulfil her -share of the bargain before he should, perchance, have repented of -his, and she did not think of the chance of meeting any one. Her own -affairs had reached a crisis which blinded her to the fact that to -other people, the world was progressing peacefully, in the usual order -of events. - -This dream-like state of indifference to all but the one anxiety -continued till she reached Carnegie and was borne up in the elevator -to Paul's studio, which was directly opposite to Mr. D'Hauteville's. -And here, for the first time, she paused, seized by a sudden panic. -From behind the closed curtain at the end of the small vestibule, -there came the sound of a woman's voice, strained, nasal, raised high -in what seemed a tirade of denunciation. To Elizabeth's mind, as she -heard it, there arose an involuntary recollection of Bassett Mills, -and of the gaudy little parlor behind her aunt's shop, and some bitter -words directed against herself, in what seemed a past period of her -history. She stood hesitating, terrified; then the curtain was pushed -aside, and a woman came out. It was her cousin Amanda. Her face was -white and set, her eyes blazing. She stared at Elizabeth for a moment -as if dazed, then brushed past her without a word. - -Paul stood on the threshold, a picturesque object in his velveteen -coat and turned-down collar, against the artistic background of the -luxuriously-furnished studio. He looked flushed, annoyed; the scene -which had just taken place had evidently been a trying one. But when -he saw Elizabeth standing doubtful in the hall, his face cleared and -he came forward to greet her with effusion. - -"Darling, how good of you to come here!" He evidently hailed the visit -as an overture towards reconciliation. She hastened to disabuse him. - -"It was the easiest way to bring this," she said, handing him the -package which she had clasped nervously all the way up. "Will you be -kind enough, please, to count it and see if it is all right?" It was -impossible to speak with more icy brevity, or to impart to any -proceeding a more severely business-like air. - -He flushed uncomfortably, but did not allow his vexation to interfere -with the evident necessity of counting the money. "It is all right," -he said, biting his lips, as he put down the last roll of bills. "Do -you wish me to give you a receipt?" he asked, with fine sarcasm. - -"No," said Elizabeth, gravely. "I rely on your word." - -Paul bowed. "Thank you," he said. "And now--is there anything else I -can do for you?" - -"Nothing," said Elizabeth, briefly, "except what you know already. And -now, I must go." She moved towards the door, but he placed himself in -her way. - -"Come, come, Elizabeth," he said. "I'm not going to let you go like -that--the first time you make me a visit. Give me a kiss now, just to -show that you don't bear malice." - -Elizabeth's only reply was a look of ineffable haughtiness. "Will you -let me pass, please?" she said, in a low tone of concentrated wrath, -and with an uneasy laugh, he obeyed her. - -"What a virago you are!" he said, "almost as bad as your cousin -Amanda. It must be the hair," he added, with a sneer, but Elizabeth -did not pause to reply. Anxious only to escape, she closed the studio -door hastily behind her, and a moment later the elevator bore her -swiftly down, and she regained the street, with the feeling of having -staved off misfortune, for the moment at least. - -She found, when she got home, a note from Gerard, informing her that -he had been unexpectedly called out of town for a few days on -business, but hoped to see her on his return. There were the flowers, -too, which he sent her daily. He had no intention, evidently, of -taking her answer of the day before as final. She realized this, with -a thrill that held in it more of pleasure than alarm. Still, she was -glad that he was out of town. His absence was a reprieve, giving her -more of the time she wanted, though it is hard to say what she -expected to gain by it. But very little often sufficed to restore -Elizabeth's spirits. She was going out to dinner that evening, and she -dressed for it with a mind that was comparatively at ease. - -But poor Elizabeth's moments of tranquillity just then were short. She -was nearly dressed when Celeste entered with the information that a -young person had called to see Mademoiselle, who insisted upon seeing -her at once. "I told her that Mademoiselle is dressing," said the -maid, with expressive gestures; "that she has an engagement, it is -most important, but--but she is a most determined young person, she -insists that I bring up a message at once." - -"It is Amanda, of course," thought Elizabeth, with a terrible sinking -of the heart. She had forgotten, until that moment, the meeting in the -studio. She glanced at the clock. "I have fifteen minutes, Celeste," -she said. "Show her up. She may want to see me about something -important." The maid departed, and Elizabeth bent down nervously to -sort out gloves and handkerchief, wondering as she did now at each -unexpected incident, what danger it might portend. - -"I thought," said Amanda, "I might come up--seeing we're first -cousins." She stood in the door-way, her eyes roaming about the room, -taking in every detail--the soft prevailing harmonies of pale blue and -rose, the firelight flickering on the tiled hearth, the shining silver -ornaments on the dressing-table, the profusion of bric-à-brac, of -cotillion favors, the roses in the china bowl, the general air of -luxury--all a fit setting to the proud young beauty, standing before -the mirror in her shimmering white satin and laces. - -"My, but you look fine!" said Amanda, under her breath. A slightly -awed expression crossed her face, modifying the assurance of her -entrance. "You're going out?" she asked, looking almost ready to -retreat. - -"To dinner--yes; but not just yet. Won't you sit down, Amanda?" -Elizabeth said, trying to speak easily. "I--I'm glad to see you. How -is Aunt Rebecca, and--every one at Bassett Mills?" - -Amanda sat down, her eyes still wandering eagerly around the room. -Elizabeth, looking at her, saw the unfavorable change that a few -months had made. True, she was smartly dressed, with the cheap, tawdry -smartness that can be bought ready-made at the shops, and her hat was -tilted carefully at the fashionable angle; her hair, growing low about -her forehead, had still the pretty, natural wave to it, which was a -legacy from the fever, and the general effect at a first glance was -striking. But the face, under the jaunty, be-feathered hat, was white -and haggard, the eyes had a wild restless look, there were hard, -vindictive lines about the mouth. Her hands moved incessantly, -plucking at the fringe on her gown. - -"Glad? Well, I guess you're not very glad to see me," she said, with a -strange, mocking smile, ignoring the latter part of Elizabeth's -speech. "There never was much love lost between us, and now--but still -I thought I'd pay you a visit. I'm staying with Uncle Ben's folks, and -they told me I ought to look up my swell cousin--since you were so -sure to want to see me"--she gave a short, jarring laugh. "That -stuck-up maid wouldn't believe me--thought I was crazy, when I said we -were first cousins. I don't see why--I'm sure I don't look so--so -different as all that." Her voice sank into rather a wistful key, and -she stole a glance at the long pier-glass that stood opposite her. "I -got my suit at a bargain sale," she said. "The girls said it was--real -stylish." - -"It's very pretty," said Elizabeth, gently. She glanced at Amanda with -a sudden pity that overpowered her first annoyance and alarm at the -inopportune visit. What had brought her to town? Some vague, -irrational hope of winning back Paul's admiration, perhaps, with this -gown that was "real stylish," and the new hat, and the general, tawdry -attempt at smartness. It was that, probably, which had taken her to -the studio, and no doubt Paul had been disgusted with this attempt to -revive an old flirtation, and in his irritation, had convinced her -somewhat rudely of his indifference. Poor Amanda! Really she had not -seemed quite right in the head since the fever. - -"Were you surprised to see me this morning?" said Amanda, watching her -and seeming to read her thoughts. "I went to call on another old -friend, and--I wasn't welcome"--she gave another jarring laugh, which -ended this time in a sob. "He--he didn't seem glad to see me, -considering how well he used to know me--once." Her voice broke -piteously, she paused for a moment, and then: "I hate him, I hate -him!" she broke out, fiercely. "I'd give anything in this world if I'd -never known him." - -"So would I," said Elizabeth, low and bitterly, and then stopped, -frightened at what she had said. But Amanda showed no surprise. - -"Ah, you think that now," she said, slowly, "but you didn't use to. -You've got so many rich beaux now that you don't care about him any -longer. But I wonder what they'd think--these rich beaux of yours--if -they knew how wild you used to be about him, how you went wandering -about the country with him, if they knew"--Amanda leaned forward and -spoke in an impressive whisper--"if they knew that you have to do what -he wants now, that you're afraid of him." - -There was a silence. Elizabeth, faint and giddy, sank into the nearest -chair, and put up involuntarily her hand to her heart. So here was -another danger threatening, another person who knew something--everything, -perhaps? Her brain reeled. Amanda leaned back in her chair, watching -her triumphantly, a hard, bright glitter in her eyes. - -"Amanda!" Elizabeth's white lips tried in vain to frame a coherent -question. "Amanda,"--she made another attempt--"what do you mean?" - -Amanda smiled contemptuously. "Oh, you know well enough what I mean," -she said. "Why did you go there this morning when you don't care for -him any more, and are sorry you ever knew him, unless you're afraid of -him, and have to do what he wants?" - -"Oh, is that all?" Elizabeth drew a long sigh of relief. "I went there -this morning because--because I wanted to meet a friend"--she broke -off in confusion before the look on Amanda's face. Then, with a sudden -reaction of feeling, she raised her head haughtily. "It doesn't -matter," she said, "_what_ I went there for. It's a--a studio; all his -pupils go there. I might have wanted to see him about singing-lessons, -about anything.--If that is all you base your suspicions on, -Amanda"----She stopped. - -"Ah, but if it isn't?" said Amanda, in her impressive whisper, which -seemed fraught with a mysterious consciousness of power. - -Another silence. The defiant look on Elizabeth's face faded; she -leaned back in her chair and half closed her eyes. Ah, she was weary, -deathly weary, of these constant nervous shocks. How much did Amanda -know--how much? If she could only be sure! - -"I think they'd be rather surprised," Amanda went on, in unnaturally -quiet tones, "these swell friends of yours, if they knew all about -you. They think you very sweet, they give you lots of things"--Amanda's -hard, restless eyes roamed again about the room and rested on -Elizabeth's beautiful gown. "It don't seem fair," she broke out, -suddenly, with a fierce little sob; "it don't seem fair, that you -should have so much--and then to be so pretty too, as well as all the -rest!" - -She was silent for a moment, struggling with the tears that threatened -to break forth, and Elizabeth began to breathe more freely. All this -bluster, after all, these vague threats, seemed to resolve themselves -into the old, unreasoning, powerless jealousy--nothing more. And with -the relief came again the sense of pity, of a certain justice in -Amanda's point of view. - -"It isn't fair," she said, softly. "I don't deserve it, but"---- - -"Well, fair or not, I guess it don't make much difference," Amanda -interrupted her, drearily, rising to her feet. "You've always had the -best of me, and probably, you always will. But, if ever you -don't"----She broke off suddenly and moved towards the door. "I guess -I'd better be going," she said. "You'll be late for your dinner. Only, -before you go"--she paused with her hand on the knob of the door, that -hard, mocking glitter in her eyes--"before you go, just put on some of -your jewelry, won't you? Seems to me you look sort of bare without -it." - -"My--my jewelry?" Elizabeth's heart, which had been beating more -quietly, suddenly stood still. "I--I don't wear jewelry, Amanda," she -said, in a dull, toneless voice. - -"What, not your pearls?" Amanda's hard, mocking eyes seemed to read -her through and through. "Your pearls you were so proud of in the -country, that you said you'd always wear. Seems to me you need -them--with that fine dress!" - -She stood hovering by the door, a weird figure in the exaggerated -smartness of her attire, with her white face framed in the deep red -hair, and that strange, uncanny smile gleaming across it, lighting it -up into an elf-like suggestion of mysterious power. Elizabeth stared -at her helplessly, fascinated; then, with a great effort, she roused -herself and hurried towards her. - -"Amanda!" she cried, desperately. "Amanda, for Heaven's sake, stop -these insinuations! Tell me plainly what you mean?" She gripped her -fiercely by the arm, her face was white and set. For a moment Amanda's -eyes met hers. Then, as if in spite of herself, they fell, she freed -herself sullenly from Elizabeth's grasp. - -"Well, I guess I didn't mean much," she said, awkwardly, "or if I did, -it don't matter. I wouldn't tell tales against--my first cousin"--She -turned the knob of the door, but again she paused, that weird smile -still flickering in her eyes. "Good-night," she said, "I hope you'll -enjoy your dinner. Too bad you haven't got your pearls." She gave one -last jarring laugh, opened the door and went out. - -Elizabeth, white and trembling, sank into the nearest chair. - -"How she frightened me!" she gasped out. "These constant shocks will -kill me. Does she know anything definite? Probably not. But what can I -do, how can I find out?--Ah, Celeste!"--as the maid appeared with an -anxious expression in the door-way. "The carriage is waiting? Very -well." She hurried to the dressing-table, caught up her gloves and -gave one hasty glance at her white face. "How ugly I am growing," she -thought, turning away with a shudder; "quite like Amanda! I see the -resemblance. It is this awful life. I wish--oh, how I wish I were -home!" The thought swept over her, thrilling her with an intense, -passionate longing for her aunts' presence, for the country quiet, for -rest and peace. - -"Yes, I will go home," she thought, as Celeste adjusted the cloak -about her shoulders and she hastened down to the carriage. "I will go -home," she repeated to herself at intervals during the evening, while -she talked and laughed with a restless light in her eyes and a -feverish flush on her cheeks. "The country will be so peaceful. I -shall be quite safe there, away from all this agitation, this trying -to keep up appearances. It is the best way out. How fortunate that he -is away! I won't see him again before I go." - -It was, she felt, an heroic resolution. Yes, she would go at once. And -she resolutely crushed back the thought: "He will follow." - - - - -_Chapter XXV_ - - -"The Van Antwerps have come up for the summer," said Miss Joanna, who -had made the same announcement, if you remember, not quite a year -before. "The butcher says they came last night. They never got here so -early before." - -Elizabeth, who was arranging flowers, looked up suddenly. "Yes, I -know," she said, quietly, "Eleanor wrote me." She left her roses half -arranged, and wandered restlessly over to the long French window. -Before her stretched the well-kept lawn, with its flower-beds and -rose-bushes and beyond, field and wooded upland, all clothed in their -newest, most vivid dress of green; further still the river, with the -white sails on its surface--that river from which, more than half a -century before, another Elizabeth Van Vorst had resolutely turned away -her eyes, refusing to be reminded of the life that she had given up. -But that woman of an older generation was made of sterner stuff, -perhaps, than her grand-daughter. And then there was not much travel -in those days, no daily mails, no guests coming up to neighboring -house-parties over Sunday.... "It will be nice for you, Elizabeth, to -have Mrs. Bobby," said Aunt Joanna, in her comfortable monotone, her -knitting-needles clicking peacefully. "You have found it a little -dull, you know, dear, since you came back." - -A little dull! Elizabeth could have laughed out loud at the words. A -little dull--with such exciting subjects to discuss as the new Easter -anthem, and the latest illness of the Rectory children; with such -diversions as a drive to Bassett Mills, a tea-party at the Courtenays! -... - -"If I am dull," she said, turning round presently with the ghost of a -smile "It certainly isn't the fault of the Neighborhood. I didn't tell -you that Mrs. Courtenay has asked me to tea--a third time. She says -'Frank will see me home--no need to send the carriage.'" She laughed a -little, not without a shade of bitterness. "Fancy Mrs. Courtenay -suggesting that--last summer!" - -"Well, dear, she means well, I suppose," said Miss Joanna, puzzled but -kindly. Miss Cornelia raised her head with a little, involuntary touch -of pride. - -"The Courtenays are--are really quite pushing, I think," she said, a -most unwonted tone of asperity in her voice. "I told Mrs. Courtenay, -Elizabeth, that you had been so _very gay_"--with emphasis--"you -really needed a complete rest." - -Elizabeth laughed. "And of course," she said "that only made her--dear -good woman!--all the more anxious to provide me with a little more -amusement. I never realized before how fond the girls have always been -of me. But then that's the case, apparently with the whole -Neighborhood. They always concealed their affection for me very -successfully--until this spring!" - -She paused, her aunts made no reply. She went over to the piano and -began absently turning over sheets of music. - -"Do you remember, auntie," she said, abruptly--Miss Joanna had left -the room in response to a summons from the maid, and Elizabeth and -Miss Cornelia were alone--"do you remember that I told you once that I -felt myself a sort of nondescript--neither flesh, fowl, nor good red -herring? But now I seem to be considered a very fine fowl indeed--the -ugly duckling, probably, that turned into a swan." - -"You never were an _ugly_ duckling, my dear," Miss Cornelia could not -help protesting, in spite of her principles. "It certainly wasn't -that." - -"Perhaps not," said Elizabeth, "at all events, I'm no better-looking -than I was--let us say, last year. I heard a woman at The Mills say -the other day that I had "gone off terrible," in my looks. But that -doesn't prevent Frank Courtenay from coming here day after day, boring -me to death, since he has discovered as his mother tells me, that I am -"just the style that he admires"--it doesn't prevent the Johnston -girls from going into raptures over my beautiful hair, and asking if I -mind their copying my lovely gowns. They _have_ copied my new spring -hat, if you notice. Oh, it would be amusing, if it wasn't--so very -petty!" She put out her hand with a weary, contemptuous gesture. "And -then the funny part of it all is that I am not really so nice, if they -only knew it, as I was last year, when they all treated me as if I -had committed some sort of crime, merely in existing." - -"My dear," remonstrated Miss Cornelia, "how can you talk like that? -I'm sure you're not a bit spoiled--every one says so." - -"Ah, they think so," said Elizabeth, quickly, "they think me nice, -because I've acquired a society manner, and say the correct thing, but -if they knew--everything"--she stopped suddenly and stood for a moment -staring steadily before her, with knit brows. "Do you know, Aunt -Cornelia," she said abruptly "what I think I am?--a sort of moral -nondescript, neither good nor bad. I see the right way--oh, I see it -so very plainly, and I want to take it; and then I choose the -wrong--always and inevitably I choose the wrong, and shall all my -life, until the end. It's not my fault, really--I can't do right, no -matter how hard I try." - -"My dear!" Miss Cornelia looked at her, puzzled and shocked. "There's -no one," she said, putting into trite words her own simple conviction -"there's no one, Elizabeth, who can't do right, if they try hard -enough." - -"Do you think so, auntie?" said Elizabeth, very gently. "Then probably -I don't try--hard enough." She went over to Miss Cornelia and kissed -her on the cheek. "If I were like you," she said, "I should." Then -without further words, she sat down at the piano and began to play, as -she did every day for hours at a time. Such restless, passionate, -brilliant playing! A vague uneasiness mingled in Miss Cornelia's mind -with her pride in the girl's talent, as she listened to it. Something -was troubling Elizabeth, evidently; something which had brought her -home so unexpectedly, which had changed her in looks and manner beyond -what could be accounted for by excitement and late hours. Yet innate -delicacy and timidity prevented Miss Cornelia from forcing in any way -the confidence which seemed to tremble, now and again, upon the girl's -lips. She had a vague idea that the difficulty, whatever it was, would -soon be decided one way or another, that the Van Antwerps' arrival, -which Elizabeth seemed at once to dread and look forward to, would -bring matters to a crisis, and the whole thing would be explained. - -Elizabeth was still playing when Mrs. Bobby interrupted her. That she -had not allowed a day to elapse before hastening to the Homestead was -a fact noted with jealous care by the Misses Courtenay, who met her at -the gate. - -"He is desperate." Mrs. Bobby's visit had not lasted many minutes -before she murmured this, holding Elizabeth's hand, and scanning -eagerly her averted face. At Mrs. Bobby's words it quivered, the color -flushed into her cheek; but otherwise she made no sign. - -"When you first went away," Mrs. Bobby continued, as no answer came, -"he was all for coming up here at once. He thought it a caprice, a -morbid, unaccountable whim; he was sure that if he could see you, -remonstrate with you--And then there was your letter, forbidding him -to come. He was beside himself! It was all I could do to keep him -from taking the first train up here. I said--Wait--it doesn't do, -always, to force a woman's will; give her a little time. At least she -has paid you the compliment, which she has paid to no one else -of--running away from your attentions." - -She paused, her eyes still eagerly fixed upon Elizabeth's face. The -color in the girl's cheek was now brilliant, her lips were parted; but -still she did not speak. - -"Day after day," said Mrs. Bobby, "we have talked it over--he walking -up and down, restless, wild; I trying to soothe him, urging him to be -patient--Sometimes he thinks that you are revenging yourself in this -way for his former neglect, that it is a little scheme to pay him -back--the idea drives him frantic, makes him furious with himself, yet -he is always encouraged when he thinks of it. And then again--he -thinks that you don't care for him, that you never will, that there is -some one else.... Ah, my dear, if you really do care, you are cruel, -unpardonably cruel, to torment him like this." - -Again she paused. Elizabeth, with a quick, impatient movement, dragged -her hand away from her grasp, and began to pace up and down, gasping -as if for breath. "Cruel," she cried out, "cruel! And you think it -gives me pleasure--to torment him!" - -"If it doesn't," said Mrs. Bobby, following her with her eyes and -speaking with some coldness, "I confess I am at a loss to account for -your behavior." - -Elizabeth stopped suddenly and bending down, almost buried her face -in the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled. - -"There never was a man," said Mrs. Bobby, "who loved a woman more than -he loves you, Elizabeth. And there isn't a man, who, I believe, -deserves a woman better." - -"Deserves her!" murmured Elizabeth, "deserves _me_! Oh, good Heavens!" -The exclamation was barely audible, and apparently addressed only to -the roses. - -"I said to him yesterday," said Mrs. Bobby, "'You'll come up Saturday, -of course?' But--he's proud now and hurt, Elizabeth--he said: 'I won't -come, I won't force myself upon her without--her knowledge and -consent. If she knows, if she's willing, why, then, I'll come--not -otherwise.'" - -There was a pause. Elizabeth turned presently a face which seemed to -reflect the glowing color of the roses over which she had bent. "What -do you--want me to do, Eleanor?" she asked, softly. - -"Tell me what I shall say," said Mrs. Bobby "in the letter which I -must write when I get home." She went over to Elizabeth and put her -hand on her arm. "Shall he come, or shall he not? It rests with you." - -Elizabeth's eyes were again averted. "It isn't for me, Eleanor," she -murmured, "to drive your guests away, if--if they really want to -come." - -And so Mrs. Bobby, when she got home, wrote her letter. It consisted -of only one word. - -The Saturday following was extremely warm. The Rector and his wife -came to take tea at the Homestead, and they all sat afterwards in the -dimly-lighted drawing-room. Elizabeth wandered to the long French -window, and stood looking out upon the moon-lit lawn. "It's so warm -that I think I shall go for a walk," she said, half aloud, but no one -heard her. The Rector was telling Miss Cornelia about the death of an -old clergyman in Cranston, who had lived alone with two old servants. -Elizabeth stood and listened for a moment to the deep, impressive -tones which mingled strangely with the comfortable monotone which the -Rector's wife was addressing to Miss Joanna. - -"And so," she was saying "you see I have had blue put on it again, -being more summery"-- - -"I feel particularly sorry," the Rector's voice broke in, "for the old -servants. They were quite prostrated, I fear, poor things! They too -have not long to live." - -"Black satin at four dollars a yard," said his wife, "is sure to last -forever." - -"He was an excellent man," said the Rector. "His death is a great -loss." But here Elizabeth, weary of listening, softly turned the knob -of the window and stepped out on the lawn. - -What a beautiful night it was outside! The long twilight was fading -into dusk, but the moon silvered the shadows that the trees cast -across the road. Elizabeth walked to the gate and stood leaning -against it. In the distance she heard distinctly the sound of a -horse's hoofs. It grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments a man -on horseback was beside her, and drew his rein abruptly before this -figure in white, which stood like an apparition in his path. - -"Elizabeth," he said. "Elizabeth, is it you?" - -"Did you think it was my ghost?" she asked, with a soft laugh. Her -white gown shimmered in the moonlight, her hair framed in her face -with a vivid halo, her eyes shone like stars. Gerard sprang from his -horse. - -"Elizabeth," he said "were you waiting for me?" - -"Yes," she answered, "I was waiting for you." - -And the next moment he had her in his arms, and she had forgotten all -other thoughts, all other claims, beneath the fervor of his kisses. - - - - -_Chapter XXVI_ - - -The summer passed for an eventful one at Bassett Mills, being marked -by at least two subjects of conversation; the one the engagement of -Elizabeth Van Vorst of the Homestead "that girl of Malvina Jones," to -a gentleman from town, who was reported to be "rolling in wealth;" the -second, the illness of Amanda Jones, of that fashionable disease -called nervous prostration, which no other girl at Bassett Mills but -Amanda, who had always given herself airs, would have had the time or -the money to indulge in. She had been taken ill while visiting her -relations in New York, and her mother had gone up to nurse her, and -announced on her return that Amanda was "that nervous" the -doctor--"the best that could be had," as she observed with pride, had -recommended complete rest, and sending her to a sanitarium for a few -months. - -"But there really ain't much the matter with her," Amanda's mother -explained rather tartly to Elizabeth, who inquired for particulars as -to her cousin's illness. "She has fits of crying, and then of sitting -still and staring straight before her, like as if she was in a trance, -and then she'll get up, and walk up and down the room for hours, and -sometimes she'll notice you, and sometimes she won't--but dear me, -it's all nonsense, I say. If she had some hard work to do, it would be -better for her--but the doctor didn't seem to think so, and so I let -her go to the sanitarium. No one shall say that I grudge the expense, -as, thank Heaven! I don't have to, though there ain't another person -at The Mills that wouldn't." - -"I'm sure I hope it will do her good," Elizabeth said, kindly. She -felt so glad to have Amanda, whatever the reason, away from Bassett -Mills that she was conscious of a sudden pang of remorse, which -increased when she received a letter from her cousin, congratulating -her upon her engagement. It was a perfectly rational letter, with only -slight references to her illness, and none at all to that unpleasant -last interview in town; and Elizabeth answered the congratulations in -the same amicable spirit in which they were offered, reflecting that, -after all, much of Amanda's peculiarity must be excused on the ground -of her persistent ill-health. And yet, as she sealed and directed her -own letter, she breathed again a fervent thanksgiving that Amanda was -safely out of the way. - -There was another person for whose absence just then she felt devoutly -thankful. When her engagement was announced, early in July--against -her own wishes and in deference to Gerard's--she had received a -terrible letter from Halleck, denouncing her perfidy, and threatening -to come up at once. She had answered it as best she could, imploring -his silence, and enclosing a sum of money which she borrowed from her -aunts, on the plea of urgent bills--far from mythical, unfortunately, -but which remained unpaid. Whether or no Paul granted her request, he -pocketed the money, and she next heard of him as having gone abroad -for the summer. The piece of news, casually mentioned one day in the -course of conversation, thrilled her with a sense of overpowering -relief, a suggestion, against which she struggled in vain, of possible -accidents, of all the things that might reasonably happen to those who -travel by sea or land. Elizabeth breathed a devout wish--it might -almost be called a prayer--that this particular traveler might never -return. - -Meanwhile, the summer passed; a cool, delightful summer, rich with a -succession of fragrant, sunshiny days and long, balmy evenings; and -signalized by what for the Neighborhood was an unusual amount of -gaiety. Several entertainments were given in honor of Elizabeth's -engagement, among others a large dinner at the Van Antwerps'. And for -this Elizabeth wore--it was Gerard's fancy--the same white gown in -which he had first seen her, which he vowed that he cared for more -than all her other gowns put together. And though she had pouted a -little and declared that the others were far more smart, she yielded -to his wishes in this, as she did in most things. Yet during the -evening she noticed now and again his eyes fixed upon her with an odd, -doubtful expression, as one who searches his memory for the details of -a likeness, and finds inexplicably something lacking. - -"I know what it is," he announced, abruptly, when they had wandered -after dinner for a little while into the conservatory. "I was -wondering what it was I missed, and now I know. You haven't got on -your pearls. You wore them that night--in fact, I never saw you in -full dress without them." - -She flushed beneath his wondering gaze, reflecting how constantly he -had observed her, wishing--almost--that he had not observed her quite -so much. - -"Did you forget them?" he asked smiling, as she made no response, but -merely put up her hand to her white neck, as if just reminded of the -fact that it was unadorned. - -She plucked a rose from a plant near by, and began, nonchalantly, to -pull it to pieces. - -"Oh, I--I didn't feel in the mood to put them on," she said -carelessly. "I--somehow I think I shall _not_ be in the mood to wear -them again for a long while." - -He was watching her lazily, an amused smile gleaming in the depths of -his dark eyes. "What an odd, capricious child you are!" he said. -"You're all made up of moods. I never know what to expect next." - -She was picking the rose to pieces very deliberately, petal by petal, -her eyes cast down. "Yes, I'm all made up of moods," she echoed, -softly. "You must never be surprised at anything I do or say." - -"I'm not," he returned, smiling. "And yet," he went on, after a -moment, "I confess I'm a little surprised--and disappointed at this -last one. I was thinking, to tell the truth, as I had an idea you -valued those pearls particularly, of asking you to let me have them, -so that I could get you another string to match them exactly." - -The last petal of the rose fell from Elizabeth's hand, she stared up -at Gerard with an odd, frightened expression. "Don't," she broke out, -harshly. "I--I hate pearls." Then with a sudden change, as she saw the -absolute bewilderment in his face, she laid her hand gently on his -arm. "Dear," she said, very sweetly, "you must have patience with my -moods. I've got an idea, just now, that pearls are unlucky. It's very -silly, I know, but--don't argue with me. Bear with me, Julian, let me -have my own way--a little." - -They were alone in the conservatory. He put his arm around her and -pressed his lips to hers. "A little," he murmured. "Have your own -way--a little! Didn't I tell you, my darling, that you should have -your own way in everything?" - -She seemed to shrink away with an involuntary shiver at the words. -"Ah, but I don't want it," she protested. "It's the last thing I want. -If"--she freed herself from his hold and stood looking him, very -sweetly and steadily, in the face--"if we are married, Julian"-- - -"_If!_" he echoed, reproachfully. - -"It's always safer to say 'if'" she said. - -"Ah, but that's a suggestion I won't tolerate," he declared, firmly. -"I'll have my own way in that, if in nothing else. But, _when_ we are -married, Elizabeth"--he paused. - -"When we are married, then,"--she ceded the point resignedly, -blushing rosy red--"when we are married, Julian, it must be your way, -not mine. Yours is far better, wiser--yes"--she stopped his protest -with an imperious gesture--"I feel it, even though I try sometimes to -dispute it. I shall never do that--later. I shall try, with all the -strength I have, to be more worthy of your love. But now--just now, -Julian"--she looked at him anxiously, and a note of appeal crept into -her voice--"if I seem odd, wilful, don't blame me, don't--doubt me"-- - -"Doubt you?" He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. "I -shall never doubt you--again, my darling, no matter what you do or -say." - -There was the ring of absolute confidence in his voice. Yet it might -have been that which made her shiver and shrink away, almost as if he -had struck her a blow. - -"I--I think we had better go back to the others," she announced, -abruptly, in a moment, and her intonation was quick and sharp, almost -as if she were frightened and trying to escape from some threatened -danger. "It"--she smiled uncertainly--"it's not quite good form, I -think, for us to wander off like this." - -"Hang good form!" said Gerard, but still he followed her back -resignedly to the other room, and she gave, as they reached the lights -and the people, a soft sigh of relief, which fortunately he did not -hear. Yet he noticed that for the rest of the evening she was paler -than she had been at first. - -This pallor increased when Mrs. Bobby, too, voiced the question which -had been perplexing her all the evening, as to why she did not wear -the pearls. Elizabeth did not mention her moods--it is evident that -women cannot be put off, in such important questions as that of -jewelry, with the vague answers that might satisfy a man. She said -that the string had broken, and she had sent them to town to be -re-strung. Her aunts knew that they had been there for that purpose -since early spring, and they could not understand why she did not send -for them, since other things had been left at the same jeweler's--notably -that little jeweled watch, which they had heard of, but never seen. It -was odd that Elizabeth should have lost, to so large an extent, her -taste for pretty things. - -Gerard, too, noticed this, but he would not ask her any more -questions. Later he gave her a string of emeralds set with diamonds, -which she wore to entertainments in the Neighborhood that autumn, and -no one asked any more questions about the pearls, since it was natural -that she should prefer to wear his gift. - -His trust in her was absolute, as he had said. It seemed as if he -would make amends now by the plenitude of his confidence, for that -former instinctive, reasonless distrust. And then she was so different -from the frivolous girl he had first imagined her. Every day he -reproached himself with his old estimate of her character, as he -discovered in her new and unexpected depths of brain and soul. She -read all the books that he recommended--some of them very deep, and -she would once have thought very tiresome--and she surprised him by -the intelligence of her criticisms, she took a sympathetic interest in -those articles by which he was making a name for himself in the -scientific world, and she entered with an apparently perfect -comprehension into all his hopes, thoughts and aspirations. There was -only one thing in which she baffled him, one point where her old -wilfulness would come between them. This was her obstinate and -unaccountable refusal to name their wedding day. - -The Neighborhood was exercised on the subject. It had been decided by -unanimous consent that the wedding should be in the autumn--"quite the -best time for a wedding" as the Rector's wife observed, and lay awake -one whole night planning the most charming (and inexpensive) -decorations of autumn leaves and golden-rod. But all the reward she -received for her pains was the information that Elizabeth did not care -for autumn weddings, and as the Misses Van Vorst at Gerard's request, -had taken a small apartment in town for the winter, the Rector's wife -had many pangs at the thought that the Bassett Mills church and her -husband would lose all the prestige that would attend this great -event--to say nothing of the fee. - -But when Gerard, as a matter of course, spoke of their being married -in town, Elizabeth looked up deprecatingly into his face. - -"Wait till I'm twenty-one," she pleaded. "This is my unlucky year, you -know. Do please, Julian, wait till it's over." - -But Gerard's face was set in rigid lines, like that of a man who is -determined to stand no more trifling. Elizabeth's unlucky year would -not be past till April. - - - - -_Chapter XXVII_ - - -It was a bleak December day and Central Park seemed the last place -where one would wish to loiter. The sky hung lowering overhead, gray, -cold, heavy with the weight of invisible snowflakes. The wind made a -dull moaning sound, as it stirred the bare branches of the trees. The -lake, where at another season you see children sailing in the -swan-boats, was nearly covered with a thin coating of ice. But -Elizabeth Van Vorst as she stood with eyes intently fixed upon the -small space of water still visible, did not seem to notice either the -cold or the dreariness of the scene. She was leaning against a tree, -and looking at nothing but the lake, till at the sound of foot-steps -on the path, she turned to face Paul Halleck. - -"So you got my note," she said, speaking listlessly, without a sign of -surprise or satisfaction. She did not give him her hand, which clasped -the other tightly, in the warm shelter of her muff. - -"Yes, I got it; but I could wish you had chosen a warmer -meeting-place, my dear." The last months had changed him, and not for -the better. His figure had grown stouter, his beauty coarser. She -shrank away in invincible repugnance from the careless familiarity of -his manner. - -"It was the best place I could think of," she said, curtly. "At home, -we are always interrupted; at your studio--it is impossible. I had to -see you--somehow, somewhere." She sat down on a bench near by, and -shivering drew her furs about her. - -"You do me too much honor," Paul returned, lightly. He took the seat -beside her, his eyes resting, in involuntary fascination, on the -rounded outlines of her cheek, the soft waves of auburn hair beneath -her small black hat. "It's a long time since you have wished to see me -of your own accord, my dear," he said, in a tone in which resentment -struggled with his old, instinctive admiration of her beauty. - -She turned to him, suddenly, her eyes hard, her face very white and -set. "You know the reason." "I had to see you, to--to talk things -over. You assume a right to control me, you ask me for money, you try -to frighten me with threats. There must be an end of it. I"--she -paused for a moment, and drew her breath quickly, while she flushed a -dull crimson. "I have promised--Mr. Gerard," she said "to--to marry -him next month." - -He interrupted her with a scornful laugh. "To marry him--next month," -he repeated. "And how about that ceremony which we know of--you and -I--in the church at Cranston?" - -The crimson flush faded and left her white, but still she did not -flinch. "I have thought of that," she said, steadily, "and I have -decided that it should not--make any difference. I don't believe the -marriage would be legal--but that's neither here nor there. I don't -want a divorce, I don't want the thing known, I don't consider that we -were ever married. I don't think such a marriage as ours, which we -both entered into without the slightest thought, which we have -repented of"-- - -"Speak for yourself," he interposed. - -"Which I have repented of, then," she went on, "ought to be binding. -The clergyman who married us is dead; the witnesses, so old that they -are childish, probably remember nothing about it. There is no one now -living who remembers, except you and I. And for me I have determined -to think of it as a dream, and I want you to promise me to do the -same." - -"But--there is the notice in the parish register." He was staring at -her blankly, admiring in spite of himself, the calm resolution of her -manner, the business-like precision with which she was unfolding her -arguments, as if she had rehearsed them many times to herself. - -"I have thought of that, too," she said, in answer to his last -objection, "and I don't think it in the least likely that any one will -ever see it. Why should they, without any clue? At all events, this -is--the only way out." She faltered as her mind wandered for a moment -unwillingly to another way which she had now despaired of--too easy a -solution to her difficulties ever to come true. What a fool she had -been to think that he would die! People like that never die. As she -saw him now, in the full pride of his health and good looks, it -seemed impossible to believe that any misfortune could assail -him--least of all death! ... - -"There is--no other way," she repeated, with a little, involuntary -sob. "The risks are not great--but, at any rate, I must take them. -Now, there is only one other thing"--She paused for a moment and then -drew out of her purse a plain gold ring, and showed it to him. It was -the ring which she had once worn on her finger for a few minutes, -which she had kept carefully hidden ever since. She glanced about her; -there was no one in sight except the policeman, who in the distance -near the carriage-drive, was pacing up and down at his cold post and -beating his hands to keep them warm. Elizabeth rose and went to the -edge of the lake. With well-directed aim, she threw the tiny circlet -of gold so that it struck the fast-vanishing surface of water and -quickly disappeared. She drew a long sigh of relief. "There," she -said, "that is over." - -Paul watched her curiously. He saw that she attached to this little -action a mysterious significance. He sneered harshly. "Very pretty and -theatrical," he said. "But do you really think that by a thing like -that--throwing away a ring--you can dissolve a marriage?" - -She turned to him, her white face still resolute and intensely solemn. -"I don't know," she said, quietly, "but I wanted to throw it away -before you, so that you would understand that everything is over -between us, and that day at Cranston is as if it never had been. -_Never had been_, you understand," she repeated, with eager emphasis. -"I want you to promise to think of it like that." - -He shrugged his shoulders. "How we either of us think of it, I -suppose, doesn't make much difference so far as the legality of the -thing goes," he said. "But,--have your own way. If you choose to -commit a crime, it's not my affair." - -"A crime!" She started and stared at him. "Do you call that a crime?" - -He smiled. "It's a rough word to use for the actions of a charming -young girl," he said "but I'm afraid that the law might look at it in -that light." - -Elizabeth returned to the bench and sat down. She seemed to be -pondering this new view of the matter. "I can't help it," she said at -last, in a low voice. "If that's a crime, why--I understand how people -are led into them. And I can't ruin his happiness, crime or no crime." - -"And my happiness?" he asked her bitterly. "You never think of that? -You professed to love me once. You took me for better, for worse, and -how have you kept your word? If my life is ruined, the responsibility -is yours. If you had gone with me as I wanted you to, I should have -been a different man." There was a curious accent of sincerity in his -voice. He really believed for the moment what he said. - -The reproach was not without effect. She looked at him more gently, -with troubled eyes that seemed to express not only contrition, but a -certain involuntary sympathy. "It's true," she said. "I have treated -you badly, and broken the most solemn promise any one could make. I -don't defend myself; but--I'm willing to make what amends I can. I -can't give you myself, but at least I can give you what little money -you would have had with me. When I am married to"--she paused and -flushed, but concluded her sentence firmly--"to Mr. Gerard, I will -give you--all the money I have." - -Paul paced up and down, apparently in deep thought. It was evident -that her offer tempted him, yet some impulse urged him to refuse it. -He stopped suddenly in front of her. "Principal or interest, do you -mean?" he asked, in a tone in which the thirst for gain distinctly -predominated. - -The doubtful sympathy in Elizabeth's eyes faded, and was replaced by a -look of unmistakable disgust. "I suppose I could hardly give you the -principal," she said, coldly. "But I will pay over the income every -year." She named the sum. "Isn't it enough?" - -"That depends," he said, looking at her coolly. "It is enough, of -course, for Elizabeth Van Vorst, but for Mrs. Julian Gerard"-- - -He stopped as an electric shock of anger seemed to thrill Elizabeth -from head to foot. "You don't suppose," she cried, "that I would give -you _his_ money?" - -"Then," said Paul, curtly, "he doesn't know?" - -"Certainly not," she said, haughtily. - -He began again reflectively to pace up and down. "I don't see," he -said, "how you are to pay me over this money without his knowing it." - -"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Elizabeth, contemptuously. -"Mr. Gerard will never ask what I do with my money." - -"Well he has enough of his own, certainly," said Paul, -philosophically. "And yet, poor fellow, I am sorry for him if he ever -finds out how you have deceived him." - -"He never _shall_ find out," said Elizabeth. She rose and pulled down -her veil. "It is so cold," she said shivering, and indeed she looked -chilled to the core. "I cannot stay here any longer. This thing is -settled, isn't it? You will promise?" There was a tone of piteous -entreaty in her voice. - -"How am I to know," he asked, still hesitating "that you will keep -your word? Once married to Gerard, you might--forget." - -"If I do," she returned quietly, "you will always have the power to -break yours and ruin my happiness." - -"So be it, then. I won't interfere with you. After all, we probably -shouldn't have got on well. Come--let us part friends, at least." - -He held out his hand, but hers was again securely hidden in her muff, -and the smile that gleamed on her face was pale and cold as the winter -day itself. "Good-bye," she said, and turned away. He fell back, with -a muttered oath. - -"Upon my word, my lady," he said, "you might be a little more -gracious." At that moment Elizabeth came back. There was a softer look -on her face. - -"I loved you once," she said. "Good-bye." And she held out her hand. -He took it in silence. Thus they parted for the last time. - -It had been a successful interview. She had gained all that she dared -hope for. Seated in the warm car going home, and shivering as from an -ague, she told herself that she had silenced forever all opposition to -her wishes. Yet it did not seem a victory. Words which Paul had said -lingered in her mind, stinging her with their contempt, the fact that -even he could set himself above her. "A crime!" She had never -considered it in that light. Surely it was impossible on the face of -it that she, Elizabeth Van Vorst, could commit a crime.... And then -again--what was it he had said? "Poor fellow, I am sorry for him, if -ever he finds out how you have deceived him." - -"But he never shall," she said to herself, resolutely as before. -"Crime or no crime, his love is worth it. He never shall find out." - - - - -_Chapter XXVIII_ - - -Elizabeth had little time in those days for thought. There was still -less time, even, when she was alone with Gerard. The days passed in a -whirl of gaiety, in which she had been swallowed up since her return -to town. It was a state of things which bored Gerard extremely, but -secure in the promise he had at last obtained from her that the -wedding should be at the end of January he possessed his soul in such -patience as he could muster. And when he requested as a special favor, -that she would refuse all invitations for the thirty-first of December -and see the Old Year out in peace, she consented at once, and the hope -of a quiet evening buoyed him up through other weary ones, when he -would lean in his old fashion against the wall, and watch her across a -ball-room, the center of an admiring court. Yet, even as he did so, -the proud consciousness of proprietorship swelled his heart. She was -his--his! He had no longer any doubt of her, or jealousy of the men -who talked to her. - -Why then was the expected evening, when it came, fraught with an -intangible sense of gloom, of oppression, which made the time pass -heavily? The old Dutch clock, which the Misses Van Vorst had brought -with them from the country seemed to-night to mark the hours with -extraordinary slowness, as if the Old Year were in no hurry to be -gone, even though the noises in the street, the blowing of horns and -of whistles were enough, one might have thought, to hasten his -departure. - -Elizabeth was pacing restlessly up and down the room. Her hands were -clasped carelessly before her, her long house-dress of white cashmere, -belted in by a gold girdle, fell about her in graceful folds. There -was a flush in her cheeks, a somewhat feverish light in her eyes; she -started nervously now and then as some enterprising small boy blew an -especially shrill blast on his horn. - -"I don't know why it is," she said at last with a petulant little -laugh, coming back to her seat by the fire opposite Gerard, and taking -up a piece of work, in which she absently set a few stitches, "New -Year's Eve always gets on my nerves, I think of all my sins--and -that's very unpleasant!" She broke off, pouting childishly, as if in -disgust at the intrusion of unwelcome ideas. - -He was watching her lazily, with the amused, indulgent smile which -certain of her moods had always the power to call forth; the smile of -a strong man, who felt himself quite able to cope with them. "With -such terrible sins as yours, Elizabeth," he said, "it must be indeed a -dreadful thing to think of them." - -She turned quickly towards him. "You don't think that they can be very -bad?" - -"I should be willing to take the risk of offering you absolution." - -She bent down over her work so that her face was hidden. "Ah, you--you -don't know"----she rather breathed than spoke. He only smiled -incredulously, as one who knew her better than she did herself. - -"Play for me, darling," he said, after awhile, and she went -mechanically to the piano. But her playing was always a matter of -mood, and to-night her fingers faltered, the keys did not respond as -usual. She passed restlessly from one thing to another--snatches of -Brahms, Chopin, Tschaikowski, with the same jarring note running -through them all. - -She broke off at last, with a wild clash of chords. "I can't play -to-night," she said, and came back to the fire. "How calm you are!" -she said, standing beside Gerard and looking down at him with eyes -almost of reproach. "This horrible evening doesn't get on your nerves -at all." - -"How can it?"--Gerard possessed himself of her hand and raised it to -his lips.--"How can I waste any regrets on the Old Year," he said, -"when the New Year is to bring me--so much happiness?" - -She started and caught her breath, as if the words held a sting. "Ah, -yes," she repeated, very low "it is to bring you--so much happiness!" -For a moment she left her hand in his and then withdrew it with a -stifled sigh. She went back very still and pale, to her seat on the -other side of the fire, and taking up her work, she fixed her eyes -upon it intently. - -"And so you think it is to bring you happiness?" she said, in a low -voice, continuing the subject as it seemed in spite of herself. "You -are quite sure of that, Julian, you have--no doubts?" She raised her -eyes with a wistful questioning that puzzled him. - -"Doubts, Elizabeth!" He stared back at her reproachfully, his brows -drawn together frowning. "Why do you harp so much on that, my darling? -Why should I have doubts?" - -"Why, some men might, you know."--Her eyes were bent again upon her -work.--"You yourself--you had them, you know, when you first knew me." - -He flushed. "Don't remind me of that," he said, hastily. - -"Well, it may have been a true presentiment."--She gave him an odd, -furtive look. "I've wondered--sometimes--if I were as nice naturally -as other girls I know. I hadn't, to begin with, the sort of mother -that--most girls have"----She hesitated, a painful crimson flooded her -face, her eyes filled with tears. Gerard stared at her in amazement. -He had never heard her allude to her mother before, and had supposed -her entirely ignorant of all painful facts in the family history. - -"Darling," he broke out, indignantly, "who has told you--things like -that?" - -"Who? Oh! I don't know."--She put the question aside listlessly.--"One -always hears unpleasant facts, somehow. I always knew that she wasn't -the--the sort of person that the Neighborhood would call on"--a -painful smile hovered about her lips. "It used to make me very -unhappy--but lately--it hasn't seemed to matter. And yet--I think of -it sometimes"----She broke off suddenly and looked at Gerard with a -strange light in her eyes. "Doesn't it make a difference to you? -Doesn't it occur to you sometimes that I may be--my mother's daughter; -that it would be wiser to--distrust me?" Her voice died away at the -last words into a hoarse whisper. - -"Elizabeth!"--Gerard sprang to his feet. He went over to her and took -both her hands in his strong grasp. "Elizabeth, never let me hear -these morbid fancies again. Never suppose that anything your mother -did or left undone, can make a difference in my faith in you!" - -He stood looking down at her with eyes full of an imperious -tenderness. She trembled and shrank away before them, as if -frightened. "You trust me, then?" she repeated, and she drew a long -sobbing breath. "You're quite _sure_ you trust me?" - -"Absolutely."--Gerard's smile lit up his face.--"How often, you -exacting woman," he asked, "do you want me to promise that I will -never doubt you again." - -There was silence for a moment. The noises in the street sounding -suddenly with redoubled violence in the stillness, seemed to punctuate -Gerard's words with an outburst of derision. To Elizabeth's fancy the -whole atmosphere of the room was tense, vibrant, filled with jarring -echoes of the noise without. Even the old Dutch clock, whose ticking -was one of her earliest memories, seemed to beat with a new, -discordant note of mockery, as if it too were uttering its ironical -comment on the wisdom of a man's faith. - -Elizabeth shuddered and thrust Gerard's hands away. "I wish--I wish I -deserved your trust, Julian," she broke out, wildly. Then she laid her -face on the arm of the chair and sobbed. He fell back and stared at -her aghast. The tender smile was arrested, frozen on his lips. For -him, too, as for her, the room was suddenly filled with discordant -vibrations, a sense of unreasoning dread. - -In a moment Elizabeth looked up; with a great effort she conquered her -tears. She went to Gerard and put her hand on his arm. The face she -raised to his was white, trembling in a pathetic appeal. The tears -still glistened on her long lashes, there was a tremulous sweetness in -her great dark eyes, in the quivering lines about her pale lips. -"Julian," she said, "if I'm not--not worthy of your trust--not worthy -of your love, even"--she faltered--"if I had deceived you--_were_ -deceiving you still"----she paused and looked him in the face with an -agonized questioning. - -"Yes?"--Gerard's hoarse voice urged her on.--"If you were deceiving -me? It isn't--it can't be true, but if you were?"---- - -"If I were," she went on, steadily, "if I had kept one thing from -you--against my will--oh, God knows! sorely against my will"--her -voice broke--"if it had been a weight on my mind day and night--if I -had longed to tell you and had tried to do it and always--my courage -failed me, and--and--if at last--at last, I told you--would -you--think me so very much to blame, couldn't you--forgive?"--Her -voice again faltered piteously, the last word was barely audible. - -He broke away from her and took two or three turns up and down the -room, breathing heavily, like a man who had been running. "Tell me -what this secret is?" he broke out, fiercely, pausing suddenly in -front of her. "How can I tell if----I could forgive, till I know what -it is?" - -Again the silence. Elizabeth's white lips tried, apparently in vain, -to form an answer. The courage which a moment before had possessed -her, seemed to shrivel up and die away, before that fierce light in -his eyes. - -"Tell me," he repeated, inexorably, "what it is." - -She put out her hand suddenly with a pleading gesture. "Ah, let us -first see the Old Year out together," she murmured, "as we planned. I -should like to feel that you loved me till--the very end of it. You -may not--afterwards. It won't be long. See--it's nearly time." She -glanced up at the clock. It was ticking faster now, as it seemed, and -steadily, the hour hand well towards midnight. - -Elizabeth went to the window and flung it open. The current of cold -air which flooded the room seemed to give her relief; she leaned out -as far as she could, inhaling it in long, fevered gasps. Gerard -followed and stood behind her, in an agony of impatience, distraught -by a hundred incongruous, terrible suggestions. The prolonged suspense -seemed, in his over-wrought state, a very refinement of cruelty, yet -some instinct kept him silent, left to her the mastery of the -situation. - -In the street there was unwonted stir and bustle. A crowd assembled to -greet the New Year. Small boys, whose horns made the night hideous, -pranced about like uncouth imps of darkness; the street-lamps, as they -flickered, cast a weird, uncertain light on the snow-covered ground. -But the moon, riding overhead, shone peacefully, and myriads of stars -studded the wintry sky. Down towards the Battery one could hear, above -all coarser sounds, the chimes of Old Trinity ringing faint but true. - -Elizabeth's eyes were riveted upon St. George's clock, which stood -out, not many blocks away, above the roofs of intervening houses. Her -lips moved, but no sound came; one hand grasped convulsively the -curtain behind her. To Gerard as he watched her those fifteen minutes -before the New Year were the longest of his life. - -Suddenly all noises slackened; upon the listening crowd outside there -fell a pause, a hush of expectation. St. George's clock boomed out the -hour in twelve majestic strokes. The old Dutch clock within the room -echoed it in quieter tones. And then, as the last stroke died away, -the crowd stirred, there arose a hideous Babel of sound--cat-calling, -shouting, blowing of horns and whistles; pandemonium set loose. It -raged for several minutes, and stopped abruptly, exhausted by its own -violence. There was again silence, and then a burst of laughter. Some -one in the crowd cried loudly and heartily: "Happy New Year!" - -Elizabeth shivered, as if with a sudden consciousness of the cold. She -shut the window and faced Gerard. Against the vivid background of the -crimson curtain, in her clinging white dress, her pale beauty, crowned -by her red-gold hair, stood out with a strange, unearthly quality, -like that of some pictured saint. There was a look on her face which -was tragic in its despairing resolution, yet which had in it a certain -exaltation, as if she had risen for the moment at least, above -herself, to heights hitherto unknown. - -"You shall know the worst of me, at last. You won't"--she gave an odd -little laugh--"you won't grant me absolution, Julian, I'm afraid. But -oh, I'm sick--God knows, I'm sick of lies!" She paused and caught her -breath as if for one supreme effort. "This is the truth," she said. "I -was married to Paul Halleck--before I knew you, more than a year ago." - -He staggered back, as if she had struck him a blow. "You -were--married--to Paul Halleck?" - -"Yes," she repeated, in a dull monotone, "married to him--more than a -year ago." - -He was still staring at her as if stupefied. "Married!" he repeated, -"married all this time!--when you professed to love me! When"--a -pause--"you promised to marry me! Oh, it's impossible," he cried, with -a sudden flash of incredulity, and he put out his hand and touched her -involuntarily. "Say you're only playing with me," he begged her, -"trying my faith--say it's not true." His voice shook, unconsciously -his hand closed upon her wrist with a grasp that might have hurt her, -had she been capable just then of feeling physical pain. - -"It--it is true," she said, and stood motionless, white and rigid as a -statue, her head bent. - -He still stared incredulous for a moment, and then the reality of what -she said seemed to sink into his soul. With a quick, involuntary -gesture, which wounded more than words, he let her hand fall, and -began to pace up and down the room. - -"Good God!" she heard him mutter. "Married all these months!--and I, -who loved you, trusted you!"----He broke off with a gesture of angry -despair. Her lip quivered, her eyes followed him for a moment and then -filled with tears. She went over to the mantel-piece, and resting her -arms upon it, she hid her face. - -It was a long time before he stopped beside her, but then his voice -showed recovered self-control. "Will you tell me," he said, "exactly -how and when this marriage took place?" - -She turned with a little shuddering sigh and raised her white, -exhausted face to his. "It was at Cranston," she said, quietly, "one -day in July. I did it hastily. My aunts were opposed to it, and--I -hated to make them unhappy. But I--I thought I loved him. It was a -mistake. I went up to Cranston to meet him, and--we were married. It -was in church--there were witnesses, we signed a register--it was all -legal, or at least I suppose so. And then--when we came out"----she -paused. - -"Yes--when you came out?"--Gerard repeated the words hoarsely, his -brows drawn together, his eyes fixed upon her in an agonized -questioning.--"What then, Elizabeth?" - -She hesitated, staring straight before her, as if she were trying to -recall the whole thing exactly as it happened. "When we came out of -the church, I felt--I don't know why--I felt frightened. I seemed to -realize--indeed, I think I _had_ realized all the time--what a mistake -it was. He begged me to come away with him, and I--I refused. He had -promised me that I should go home, and that he wouldn't claim me for -six months, and--I held him to it. He gave in at last, and so--we -parted"---- - -"Ah!"--Gerard drew a long breath.--"You--parted?" - -"Yes. I left him and came home. I got there about four--my aunts -suspected nothing. He went abroad. And--after a while he stopped -writing, I thought he had forgotten me. It all began to seem like a -dream. And then--Eleanor Van Antwerp asked me to come to town, -and--the rest you know." - -"No, not all." Gerard insisted. "When the fellow came home, why didn't -he claim you? How have you kept him quiet, all this time?" - -"Ah, that was easy."--She spoke listlessly.--"He didn't care anything -about me; I used to give him money. I sold my pearls--all my jewelry, -in fact. Yes"--as Gerard uttered a horrified exclamation--"it was a -terrible bondage, but what could I do? He had me in his power. I used -to wonder if the marriage were legal, but there was no one whom I -dared ask. And then I thought sometimes that he might die--I had all -sorts of wild ideas; but nothing happened, and meanwhile he -threatened--to tell you everything. I bought him off twice, and -then--this last time"--she paused--"this last time I promised him all -my income if he would give me up forever, and never trouble me again. -Ah, you think it unpardonable, I see"--she put out her hand with a -deprecating gesture--"but you don't know what it is to be -tempted--desperate. I was determined I wouldn't ruin my life. And -then--then"--her voice faltered--"this evening when you seemed so -happy, so trustful--that was what hurt me, Julian--it was easier when -you were jealous, suspicious, as you were at first--it came to me -suddenly that I couldn't begin the New Year--I couldn't begin our life -together with this--this terrible secret weighing on my soul. And so -I--I told you"---- - -Elizabeth's voice faltered, she raised her eyes in a half conscious -appeal. It seemed to her for the moment as if the agony of that -confession must make amends to some extent even for such deceit as -hers. But Gerard's face did not soften. Her whole conduct seemed to -him monstrous, incredible. He could not accept as atonement this tardy -repentance, the fact that she had told him the truth--at the eleventh -hour. - -The thought occurred to him, which she had herself suggested, earlier -in the evening. He remembered chance gossip of the Neighborhood about -her antecedents, listened to vaguely even before he knew her, and -haunting him afterwards in the first days of their acquaintance, till -love had made him cast it aside, as a thing of no importance. Now it -recurred to his mind as the only explanation--he did not accept it as -an excuse--of this weakness which seemed otherwise inexplicable. No -doubt there must be, he told himself, in the child of such -parents,--it would be strange if there were not--some hereditary -taint, some lack of moral fibre, which curiously imperceptible in -other ways, must needs assert itself in any great moral crisis. The -thought, which might have softened him, seemed at the time only to -steel him the more against her. - -He fell again to pacing up and down, thinking it over; seeing past -incidents afresh in the merciless light of his present knowledge; -recalling this or that insignificant circumstance which at the time -had aroused, unreasonably as it seemed, his distrust;--her occasional -uneasiness and distress, that air she had of being on her guard, the -look in the picture--ah, he understood it now! It was the shadow of -falsehood, which for months had clouded her every thought and action. -What a fool he had been, he reflected fiercely--how he had allowed -himself to be deceived--made an easy prey by the extent of his -infatuation--how she had juggled with the truth, telling him the worst -of herself in such a way that he had believed, all the more -determinedly, the reverse. - -He stopped at last his restless pacing to and fro and paused beside -her. The fierce tide of anger, the first bitterness of his -disillusion, had subsided. He was cold, with the coldness of despair. -His face was worn and haggard, as if from the suffering of years, but -it was set in rigid lines, from which all feeling seemed to have -vanished. His eyes were dry and hard. - -"I think," he said, and there was a dull, toneless sound in his voice; -he spoke slowly, like one who either weighed his words with great -care, or was afraid to trust himself too far, "I think there had -better be an end to this. I should only say, if I said all I thought, -things I might afterwards--regret; and I wouldn't"--his voice broke -ever so little--"God knows I don't want to be unjust! But I -cannot"--he let his hand fall with a look of dull despair--"I _cannot_ -understand how you have kept this from me all these months!" - -He paused, as if expecting an answer, an excuse, perhaps of some sort; -but she said nothing, and he went on, after a moment, his voice -growing more uncertain: "It isn't so much the marriage--that could be, -perhaps"--He hesitated, his heavy brows drawn together frowning--"The -man must be an absolute wretch," he said, suddenly, "there must -be--for your sake I hope so--some way out"---- - -"Oh, for me"--she made a little gesture of utter carelessness--"for me -it can make no difference--now." - -"For myself," he went on, not heeding her words, perhaps not fully -grasping their meaning, "I couldn't--whether the marriage held or -not--I couldn't forgive--being so deceived." - -He stopped and again seemed to expect some protest, but she only -repeated, in a dull voice of complete acquiescence: "No, I didn't -think you could forgive--being so deceived"---- - -"Even if I could forgive," he said, "I could never trust"---- - -"No," she repeated, "you could never trust." Her face was colorless, -but impassive, as if it had been turned to stone, her voice was almost -as firm as his. "You are quite right," she said. "I deserve all the -harsh things you could say. It is kind of you to say--so few. Perhaps, -later, you'll judge me more gently; but--I couldn't expect it now. And -so"--she faltered and caught her breath, as if her strength failed -her--"and so good-bye," she said at last. "I think it can only hurt us -both to--discuss this any longer." - -Her calmness stunned him. He had been prepared for tears--excuses--but -she offered no defence and made no effort to arouse his pity. There -was a dignity in her complete submission. He looked at her, his face -working with varied emotions; and then he said "Good-bye" mechanically -and took her hand for an instant. It was icy cold and lay impassively -in his. He dropped it and moved towards the door, as if under some -spell, deprived of all capacity for thought or feeling. Involuntarily, -her eyes followed him. Was this the parting, after so many months? But -at the door he paused, he looked back. The firelight played on her -hair, on her white dress, the drooping lines of her slender form, the -deathly pallor of her face, the despair in her eyes.... He softened, -perhaps, or it might be that the mere physical spell of her beauty -held him, even when all that made the glory of his love, had been -rudely shattered. He came back, caught her in his arms, and pressed -burning kisses on her lips. She trembled as if they had been blows, -but she made no effort to free herself. And then, as if ashamed of his -weakness, he let her go and went out hastily. A moment later she heard -the front door close, with a dull sound that echoed through the quiet -rooms. - -She stood where he had left her, staring blankly about her at the -familiar objects which seemed to have acquired, during the last hour, -an air of change, of unreality. What had happened, what had she done? -Awhile ago she had been borne up by a courage that seemed almost -heroic, a sense of moral victory. Now that had failed her. She was -simply a woman despised and heart-broken, who by her own suicidal act -had destroyed her happiness. - -"How--how can I bear it?" she broke out, at last, fiercely, and -sinking down on the hearth-rug, she lay prostrate, her face hidden, -while her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. The old Dutch clock -ticked softly, pitifully, in the silence; the fire flickered and died -away. But outside in the street spasmodic whistles kept on blowing, -and belated wayfarers still bade each other, with laughter and -jollity, "Happy New Year." - - - - -_Chapter XXIX_ - - -It was eight days later. Elizabeth's trouble and the New Year were -both a week old. She had lived through the time somehow or another, -had even faced those smaller trials which follow in the wake of any -great catastrophe. She had told the whole truth to her aunts--it was -only less hard than telling Gerard--she had written to her friends to -announce the breaking of her engagement, and had countermanded the -orders for her trousseau. These affairs disposed of, she was ready to -face the world with such strength as she had left. - -For Gerard the situation was simpler. He had taken at once his man's -way out of it, and pacing the deck of an ocean steamer, he tried to -distract his mind and forget his trouble in plans for extensive travel -and scientific research. They had been his resource once before, when -a woman had disappointed him. - -He had not seen Elizabeth again. He dreaded, perhaps, to trust -himself, or perhaps his anger was still too great. But he had written -before he left to her aunts, urging them to consult a lawyer and take -steps at once to free her from the results of her rash marriage. To -himself, he justified this weakness--if it were weakness--by the -thought of Halleck's baseness. "I could not bear to think of her as -his wife," he said to himself, "a fellow who could give her up for -money!" - -Upon Elizabeth's aunts the affair had come like a thunderbolt. They -were quite unprepared for it, though many suspicious circumstances--the -mystery as to Elizabeth's jewels, her own occasional words--might have -suggested the idea that something was amiss. But absorbed in their -delight in the engagement, their affection for Gerard, they had not -the heart to formulate any doubt they might have felt. Now, in the -first shock of their awakening, they remembered unwillingly the same -facts of family history which had occurred to Gerard. What could they -have expected from Malvina's child but deceit, folly and disgrace? But -they were gentle souls, and had no reproaches for Elizabeth, only a -silent, sorrowful pity, which hurt the girl's proud spirit more than -the sharpest words. - -She was lingering that morning, pale and languid, over her untasted -breakfast, and Miss Cornelia, from behind the coffee-urn, stole -anxious glances towards her, all sense of injury lost in her distress -over the girl's wretched looks, and fear that she was going to be ill. -They two were alone, Miss Joanna having already started to do her -marketing, when the maid entered with the belated newspaper. Miss -Cornelia held out her delicate, tremulous hand for it, nervously -apprehensive of that paragraph which no doubt in the society columns, -announced that the engagement between Miss Van Vorst and Mr. Gerard -had been broken "by mutual consent." - -It was not this notice which met her eyes, but some exciting -head-lines on the first page which had already attracted the attention -of the cook and the housemaid. - -"Elizabeth," said Miss Cornelia, in a stifled voice. "Elizabeth--what -is this?" - -Elizabeth raised her vacant eyes, and saw Miss Cornelia deathly white -and staring in horror at the paper. "Is it?" she said. "It must be. -What a dispensation! So young, too." - -"Auntie," said Elizabeth, impatiently, "why don't you say what it is?" - -"I am afraid he was very ill prepared," said Miss Cornelia, apparently -talking to herself and oblivious of her niece's presence. But suddenly -she seemed to realize it and placed her hand over the paper. "My dear, -don't look at this yet," she faltered. "You--it will be a shock, -Elizabeth. Prepare yourself." - -Elizabeth did not wait to hear more, but went to her and seized the -paper from her hand. The headline told, in large type, how Paul -Halleck, the prominent young singer, had died the evening before of a -mysterious draught of poison, which had been sent to him by mail. - -There followed in smaller type the details of the affair, but -Elizabeth did not read them. She sank into the nearest chair and sat -staring before her with dilated eyes, that seemed to express less -surprise or terror than a sort of awe, as at some unexpected -manifestation of Providence. - -"It was I who killed him," she said. She spoke in a dull, dream-like -way, not in the least conscious, as it seemed, of anything -extraordinary in the words. Poor Miss Cornelia could form no other -conclusion than that she had suddenly lost her mind. - -"Elizabeth, my darling," she remonstrated, "what do you mean?" But -Elizabeth was still staring before her vacantly, absorbed in her own -thoughts. - -"And so it has happened!" she said, in a low voice, "at last!--when I -had given up hope!"--She was quite oblivious of her aunt's horror or -of the staring eyes of the maid, who stood listening, the coffee-pot -in her hand, her mouth wide open. But at that moment Miss Cornelia -suddenly remembered her presence and signed to her to leave the -room--an order obeyed reluctantly. - -"Now, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia faltered out, as the door closed, "do, -my darling, explain what you mean. It's quite absurd, you know, to say -that you had anything to do with this." - -"I wished it," said Elizabeth, gazing at her with dull, expressionless -eyes. "I wished, I even prayed, that he might die. And my wishes -always come true--only it is in such a way that it does no good." - -"But you can't," urged Miss Cornelia, in desperation, "you can't kill -people by _wishing_, Elizabeth. Of course, there are things that one -can't--feel as sorry for as one would like"--Her voice faltered, as -she thought of certain individuals connected with her own life, whose -death it had been hard to regard in the light of an affliction. "We -can't help our thoughts," she murmured, "we can only pray not to give -way to them." - -"Ah, but I didn't," said Elizabeth. "I encouraged them. And now I -shall have remorse, I suppose, all my life." She sat pondering a -moment, while the expression on her face grew softer. "I am sorry he -is dead," she said, at last. "It does me no good now--and he seemed so -full of life the last time I saw him. But it was his fate, no doubt--a -fortune-teller told him he would die before the year was out. It was -his unlucky year, as well as mine. And the prediction has come -true--in both cases." - -"But how did it happen?" urged Miss Cornelia. "Do read, Elizabeth, how -it was. Did he drink poison by mistake?" - -Elizabeth took up the paper and read the story, which grew to be a -famous one in the annals of New York crime. Halleck had received on -New Year's Eve a package which contained a small hunting-flask of -sherry. There was no name or card with the present--if present it -_were_; nothing to identify the giver, except the hand-writing on the -package, which he did not recognize. - -He suspected nothing, however, imagining the card to have been -forgotten, and accepted the flask as a belated Christmas present; but -kept it unopened, in the hope of discovering from whom it came. He had -brought it out and showed it the night before to some friends, and the -flask and the box in which it arrived were passed from one to the -other, but each disclaimed all knowledge of them. - -"To me," said D'Hauteville, who happened to be present, "it looks like -a woman's handwriting, disguised to seem like a man's. Perhaps"--he -smiled--"it contains a love potion." - -"Or a death potion," suggested another man, laughing. - -"I'm not afraid," said the young singer, lightly, "of either -catastrophe." With a smile he poured some of the wine into a glass and -raised it to his lips. "To the health," he said, "of the mysterious -giver." He emptied the glass and put it down, observing that it must -be, after all, a woman's gift, since no man would have chosen such -poor wine. "Try it," he said, but by some fortunate chance no one did. -And in a few minutes Halleck was taken desperately ill, and died -before the hastily-summoned physician could save him. - -This is, briefly put, the account which Elizabeth read, at first with -a strange sense of unreality, as if such tragedies, of which she had -often read before in the papers, could not possibly occur within the -circle of her own acquaintance. Then followed a growing horror, a -feeling of passionate remorse for her own indifference. - -"Read it, auntie," she said, thrusting the paper into Miss Cornelia's -hand. "I--I must be alone to think it over." She went quickly and shut -herself in her room. But when there she did not lie down and cry, as -might have been best for her; she had not shed any tears since New -Year's Eve. She paced up and down, going over the whole thing in her -mind, imagining the details with a feverish vividness, struggling, -above all, with this irrational, yet terrible sense of guilt. - -It _was_ irrational--this she realized even in her state of feverish -excitement. The vindictive wish which had crossed her brain would -never have gone beyond it and resolved itself into action. She would -not even--she knew this now--have been a passive factor in Paul's -death; she would have been the first to go to his aid, had she seen -him suffering. No selfish remembrance of her own gain would have -stopped her. And yet--and yet--with all her reasoning, her mind always -returned to the same point. She had wished for his death, and her -wishes had been fulfilled, too late for her own advantage, only as it -seemed, to add to her punishment. - -The idea occurred to her all at once that she must go and look at his -dead body. It presented itself, in some irrational way, in the light -of an atonement. The fever in her blood, the beginning of an illness, -made the strained, hysterical thought seem natural and almost -inevitable. She was not conscious of doing anything unusual. Hastily, -she dressed herself, choosing instinctively a black gown and tying a -black veil over her face, and went out into the street, where the cold -air, which she had not faced for a week, blew refreshingly on her -burning cheeks. She walked all the way, rapidly, choosing unfrequented -avenues, and looking neither to the right nor the left, her mind -intent on the one object, yet with a strange relief in motion and the -intense cold. She reached Carnegie Hall in a surprisingly short time, -but here she encountered unexpected difficulties. - -"Take you up to Mr. Halleck's studio?" said the elevator-man, looking -with surprise and suspicion at this veiled young woman, who made such -an extraordinary request. "I can't take you up. The police has charge, -and there ain't a soul allowed to go in but Mr. D'Hauteville." - -Elizabeth was not in a mood to be gainsaid. She placed a coin in the -man's hand. "I must see him," she said, in a hoarse whisper. "If you -won't take me up, I'll walk. I am his wife," she went on, as he still -stared at her, wondering. "I have a right to see him." - -"Well, it's the police that settles that," he rejoined, gruffly, but -still he took her up, reflecting that, after all, it was no business -of his. He brought the elevator to a stand-still, with a shake of the -head and an anxious look towards the fatal studio, but Elizabeth moved -towards it as if she had no doubt whatever of entering. And at the -same moment, Mr. D'Hauteville opened the door of his rooms on the same -landing, and came face to face with her. - -"Miss Van Vorst!" he exclaimed, staring at her; then, in a lower -voice: "For Heaven's sake, don't come here. Halleck is dead. Haven't -you heard?" - -"Yes, I--I have heard." She looked pleadingly at him. "Mr. -D'Hauteville," she said, "take me in to see him. I--I must see him. It -was such a shock. I am his wife, you know," she added. The -disclosure, which she had once so dreaded, fell from her lips -indifferently, as if it were a thing of small importance, compared -with the gaining of her purpose. - -"His wife!" D'Hauteville fell back and stared at her incredulously. -Then his mind quickly grasped the explanation of facts which had -puzzled him. He looked at her and saw that she was suffering from -terrible distress and excitement. "Do you really wish to see him?" he -said. "It would be painful." - -"Yes, I--I must see him." Elizabeth raised confidingly her troubled -eyes, and D'Hauteville apparently could not resist their appeal. -Slowly and reluctantly he unlocked the studio door and allowed -Elizabeth to enter. The hall was empty, but from behind the portière -at the end came the sound of voices. D'Hauteville cast an anxious -glance towards them, but he opened quickly another door, and led the -way into the bedroom, which was still and dark, and close with a -strange, oppressive atmosphere. D'Hauteville, treading softly, drew up -the shade. Then he fell back and turned his eyes away. - -Elizabeth felt no fear, though her only recollection of death was -connected with a horrible moment in her childhood, when they had led -her in trembling to look at her father in his coffin. But now she felt -indifferent to any trivial terrors. She stood by the bedside looking -down at the dead man, and put out her hand and touched the curls which -clustered about his forehead. He was not much changed; the greatest -difference which death had made was in a certain look of dignity, -which his face had never worn in life. It was impossible, standing -there, to think of his faults, or of any harm that he had wrought in -her life. She only remembered that he had been her first -lover--nothing more. - -A few moments passed, and then D'Hauteville pulled down the shades and -drew her gently from the room. The tears were falling fast behind her -veil, and the hand that rested against his was icy cold. - -"I had better see you home," he said anxiously, but she shook her -head. - -"No, no, thank you. You have been very kind, but I--I would rather -not. Mr. D'Hauteville," she said, raising piteous eyes to his -"who--who could have done it?" - -"God only knows!" said D'Hauteville, with a sigh. "No one else, I -believe, ever will." - -He had rung the bell, and they stood waiting for the elevator, when -she turned to him. "It was not I," she said, "don't ever think that it -was I." And at that moment the elevator stopped and she was borne -away, before there was time for further words. But D'Hauteville stood -paralyzed. - -"For Heaven's sake," he asked himself, "why did she say that? Who -accused her?" - -Elizabeth, as she went her way, was quite unconscious of the -impression her words had produced. Her head felt confused, and after -she left Carnegie there followed a blank interval, during which she -wandered aimlessly, but found herself at last, as if led by some -involuntary instinct, in the Park beside the lake, into which a few -weeks before she had thrown her wedding ring. Now, as before, it was -nearly covered with a thin coating of ice, yet there was a strip of -water visible, and upon this her eyes fastened with a thrill of -terrified fascination. She pictured it involuntarily, closing over -her, dragging her down, blotting out all thoughts, all feelings.... A -moment of agony, perhaps, and then? Rest, oblivion, an end of all -struggle, no more to-morrows to be faced, no more regrets.... The -thought of death, the one way out, the only remedy, swift and sure, -appealed to her with a force almost irresistible. - -If only the water were not so cold!--In an instant there swept over -her, quite as inevitably, the natural, healthy reaction; the revulsion -against the icy pond, and all the weird, uncanny, frightful, -unpleasant associations that it conjured up. Ah, she had not the -courage!--not then, at least. She closed her eyes, shutting out the -strange fascination of the water gleaming in the pale chill sunlight, -and promising its sure and terrible relief--she closed her eyes and -turned resolutely away. A horror seized upon her of herself and of -loneliness, of the bleak desolation on every side. She hastened, -breathing heavily, towards the entrance of the Park, her hurried -foot-steps on the crisp, hard path sounding unnaturally loud in the -wintry silence. - - - - -_Chapter XXX_ - - -Several weeks later the Halleck poisoning case was still, so far as -the general public was concerned, an impenetrable mystery. For a day -or two various clues were investigated, with a great appearance of -zeal; and then a lull fell upon the efforts of the police. Their final -investigations, if they made any, were conducted behind closed doors. -But no result appeared from their labors; the coroner's inquest was -postponed from week to week for lack of sufficient evidence. The -public grew impatient, and clamored that some one should be -arrested;--it did not seem greatly to matter whom. And then there -began to be strange rumors of influence exerted to conceal the truth, -of suspicion which pointed in such high quarters, that the police were -afraid to continue their search. - -These rumors were still comparatively new when Eleanor Van Antwerp -took up one day a scandalous society journal--(one of those papers -which no one reads, but whose remarks, in some mysterious way, every -one hears about)--and came across a paragraph, which seemed to her at -once insulting and inexplicable. - -"They say"--it began with this conventional formula--"that certain -highly dramatic developments are to be expected soon in the famous -poisoning case. The evidence that the District Attorney has collected -is now said to be complete and to inculpate rather seriously a -well-known beauty. The lady is related, though on the father's side -only, to one of our old Dutch houses, and was introduced to society, -where she was before entirely unknown, by the representative of -another old Knickerbocker family. Under such circumstances her success -was certain. Not content with taking the town by storm, she made -special capture of a certain prominent society man and eligible parti, -to whom her engagement was announced. This gentleman has, however, -according to latest reports, left the forlorn beauty and fled to parts -unknown." - -What did it mean? The hot, indignant color rushed to Mrs. Bobby's -cheek, and then, retreating, left her deadly pale. She took the paper -to her husband, and pointing out the offending paragraph, she stood -beside him as he read it, her dark eyes fixed intently upon his face, -and seeing there, to her dismay, more indignation than surprise. - -"Well," she said, as he looked up at the end. "Tell me--what does it -mean?" - -"It--the editor of that infernal thing ought to be horsewhipped," he -said, fiercely. - -She put the remark aside as irrelevant. "Why, that should have been -done long ago. But what does it mean?" she persisted, holding to the -main point. - -He put the paper down with a sigh. "It means what it says, Eleanor, -I'm afraid," he said. - -She stared at him, a shade paler, while the dread in her eyes grew -more pronounced. "Means what it says?" she repeated. "Then it isn't -merely a wild concoction of the kind they're always inventing?" - -"It's more than that, I'm afraid." Bobby rose and began to pace up and -down. "They do say nasty things," he said, apparently addressing the -walls, or anything rather than his wife. - -Her eyes followed him with an intense anxiety, as her white lips -barely framed the question: "At the clubs?" - -He nodded. "Yes, there, and--at other places besides. At the District -Attorney's, for instance"-- - -"You don't mean?"--she began incredulously. - -"That they suspect her? Yes." - -Mrs. Bobby sat down as if her strength suddenly had failed her. "But -that's absurd--impossible!" she said, after a moment. - -"Perhaps; but--it's the impossible that some times happens." Mrs. -Bobby was silent in incredulous horror; and he went on, after a pause: -"You see, she's in a confoundedly unpleasant position. There are all -kinds of queer stories going the round. They say now that she was -secretly married to Halleck; that he had some kind of power over her, -at least; and then having every motive to get rid of him, being -engaged to Gerard"-- - -"Bobby," said his wife, in a horrified tone "how can you repeat such -disgusting gossip?" - -"I'm only telling you what they say," said Bobby, apologetically. - -"I don't wish to know it." Bobby held his peace. "Why should she have -any motive?" said his wife, after a moment's reflection "when her -engagement was broken?" - -"They say--but I thought you didn't wish to know." - -"I don't, but I suppose, I must know. What do they--these disgusting -people--say?" - -"They think that Gerard found out something which made him break the -engagement. As for the poison, that was sent before, you know"-- - -"Bobby," said his wife, with a little cry, "you don't mean to suggest -that she--that Elizabeth Van Vorst"--She paused as if at a loss for -words, and Bobby concluded the sentence. - -"Sent the poison?" he said, quietly. "No, I don't suggest it--not for -a second; I don't _believe_ it, even," he cried, with sudden emphasis, -"but there are other people who--who do both." - -"Then they must be fools." Bobby made no reply. "Where," she said, in -a moment, "do they suppose she got it--the poison?" - -"That they don't know--as yet; but they know--or they think they -do--where she got the flask. There's a shop in Brooklyn where they -sell others like it"--he stopped. - -"Well," she said, "what of it? I daresay there are a good many shops -where they sell them." - -"The man who keeps this particular shop, said, I believe, that he sold -one on the twenty-third of December to a young woman thickly veiled, -rather tall and with wavy red hair." - -"Her hair isn't red," said Mrs. Bobby, quickly. - -"Some people call it so, you know," said Bobby. She was silent. - -"Hundreds of women have that sort of hair," she said, presently. "Half -the actresses in town"-- - -"He said it seemed to him natural." - -"How should he know?" said Mrs. Bobby, contemptuously. "And why on -earth should she choose a place like Brooklyn? I don't think she ever -went there in her life." - -"She seems," said Bobby, gently, "to have done a great many things -that you--didn't think of, Eleanor." And again his wife fell silent. - -"Have they any other evidence?" she asked, after thinking a moment, -"or what they call evidence? I might as well know the worst." - -"They have her letters, which were found among Halleck's papers--she -told him to burn them, but he didn't. They were signed 'E. V. V.' One -of them was about her engagement to Gerard--it seemed he had -threatened her, and she offered him money to keep him quiet; the other -was just a line, asking him to meet her in the Park. It's evident that -she was afraid of him and had to keep him supplied with funds. She -sold all her jewelry, they say, to do it." - -"Ah--her jewelry!" Mrs. Bobby drew a long breath. "That is what she -did with it, then," she remarked, involuntarily. - -Bobby turned to her sharply. "You noticed, then," he said, "that she -didn't have it?" - -"Of course. There were her pearls, which she never wore last summer; -the watch I gave her, too--I used to feel hurt that she never carried -it, but I never suspected--Oh, what a fool I was--what a fool! And I -who thought myself so clever in bringing about a match between her and -Julian!" She stopped and suddenly burst into tears. "I made a nice -failure of it all, didn't I?" she said. Then in a moment, her mood -changed, and she turned upon Bobby indignantly. "Why didn't you tell -me all this before?" - -"I didn't want to tell you," said Bobby, slowly, "a moment sooner than -was necessary. Personally, I don't see the use of having all this -exploited--as a matter of fact, I'd pay a good deal to have it kept -quiet; partly for your sake, and partly because--well, I like -Elizabeth. She may not have behaved well, but I don't think she -deserves to be made conspicuous in this way. I don't mind confessing -that I've done what I could to arrest the zeal of the police, but I'm -sorry to say, without success." - -"You don't mean," she said incredulously, "that they refused money?" - -"Well, the new District Attorney is very zealous," Bobby explained, -"and, between ourselves, I think he wants the éclat of a sensational -case. To put a young society woman in prison, against the efforts of -all her friends, shows Roman stoicism,--or so he thinks." - -"But you don't believe," said his wife, piteously, "you don't think it -could come to that, Bobby?" - -"To prison?" he said. "I don't know, Eleanor--upon my word I don't -know." And he began again thoughtfully to pace up and down. - -"What did Gerard say," he asked presently, "when he wrote to you -before he sailed?" - -"It was just a hurried note, hard to make out. He said the engagement -was broken by her." - -"Of course he'd _say_ that. What did she tell you?" - -"That it was his wish, but he was not to blame, and she would tell me -more some other time. She looked so unutterably wretched that I -couldn't ask any questions just then." - -"Ah," said Bobby, softly. "I don't believe, poor child! that it was -her doing, Eleanor." - -"If it was Julian's," she said, "he must have had some good reason." -And with that they both fell into thoughtful silence. - -"I don't see," was her next objection, uttered musingly, "I don't see -how they ever thought of Elizabeth in the first place. It seems such a -wildly improbable idea." - -"It certainly does," Bobby agreed. "Then Elizabeth, poor child, as it -happens, rather put the idea into their heads herself. It seems that -she went to the studio the day after the poisoning and insisted upon -seeing him. She said she was his wife. D'Hauteville saw her, I -believe, but he said nothing about it. It was the elevator man who -told the story--he took her up and he heard D'Hauteville call her by -her name. He says that D'Hauteville took her into the studio, and when -she came out she was crying. And the man vows he heard her say 'I -didn't do it, don't think I did it,' or something of the kind." - -"Why, I never," broke in Mrs. Bobby, "heard anything so extraordinary. -The man must have been drinking. It's impossible that Elizabeth could -have done such a thing. Why, it was that day--that day"--she paused -and thought--"that day after the murder," she continued, triumphantly, -"I remember distinctly going to see her in the afternoon, and she was -ill in bed with grippe, and her temperature very high." - -"I can believe that," said Bobby, rather grimly, "after what she went -through in the morning. For I'm afraid there's not much doubt, -Eleanor, that it's true. One of the detectives, too, saw her pass -through the hall, and I don't think that D'Hauteville denies it. They -want him to testify at the inquest, but so far, they can't get him to -say one thing or another." - -"He would deny it, of course, if it were false," said Mrs. Bobby, in a -low voice. Her husband bent his head. "Well," she said, rallying, -"after all, I don't see anything in that. It would be pretty stupid, -if she were really guilty, to defend herself before she was accused. -No one but a fool would have done that, and the person who sent that -poison couldn't have been a fool. And she wouldn't have gone near the -studio; that's the last thing the real culprit would have done." - -"That's what I say," said Bobby. "It doesn't seem on the face of it -the act of a guilty woman. But they have some theory of hysterical -remorse, and there is other evidence I haven't heard which fits into -that. They say that when she heard that it had really happened she -lost her head completely. There have been such cases, you know. Oh, -and then another thing. They're comparing the handwriting on the -package with the letters"-- - -"The letters?" broke in Mrs. Bobby, anxiously. - -"Yes, that I told you of, you remember--written to him--they've got -experts examining them now." - -"Ah, well, if the experts have got hold of the case," said Mrs. Bobby, -resignedly, "we might as well give up hope. They'd swear away any -person's life to prove a theory." - -"Well, at least," said Bobby, "it's the life of a young and beautiful -girl. That really seemed to me, when I heard all this, the only hope. -Even handwriting experts are human." But his wife only sighed -despairingly. - -"I think," she said, after awhile, "I must go to Elizabeth. I haven't -seen her for several days, and she mustn't think that her friends are -giving her up." - -"You won't--tell her anything?" asked Bobby, anxiously. - -"Do you think she doesn't know?" - -"She would be the last person, in the natural order of events, to hear -of it." - -"Then I shall say nothing," said his wife, after a moment's -reflection. "You wouldn't, would you?" she added, as she caught an odd -look in her husband's eyes. - -"I--I don't know." Bobby seemed to reflect. "If--if she were to go -abroad just now," he said, doubtfully, "it might not be a bad plan." - -"Bobby!" Mr. Van Antwerp's wife faced him indignantly. "You wouldn't -have her--run away from all this? You wouldn't have her frightened by -anything those people can threaten?" Eleanor Van Antwerp's dark eyes -sparkled, she held her head proudly. Her husband looked at her half in -doubt, half in admiration. - -"You would face it?" - -"Yes, if it cost me my life." - -The look of admiration on Bobby's face brightened and then faded to -despondency. "Ah, well, you are right--theoretically, of course, -but--would Elizabeth, do you think, have the same courage? Or, if she -had, could you, knowing what you do, take the responsibility of -allowing her to face it?" - -This was the doubt--the horrible doubt, which troubled Mrs. Bobby as -she drove to Elizabeth's home, and at the thought of it her heart -failed her. Her husband had judged her rightly--she could be braver -for herself than for others. Would it not be better, after all, to -suggest to the Misses Van Vorst the desirability of a trip abroad? She -looked thoughtfully out of the carriage window. It was a bleak -February day, and people in the street had their coat-collars turned -up against the chill east wind. The climate of New York at this time -is detestable; a change would do any one good. She would go herself to -the Riviera and take Elizabeth with her. - -Mrs. Bobby had hardly reached this conclusion before the carriage -stopped in front of the quiet apartment house in Irving Place where -the Van Vorsts were spending the winter. It was an old-fashioned house -with an air of sober respectability, that seemed to make such wild -thoughts as filled Mrs. Bobby's brain peculiarly strained and -improbable, like the hallucinations of a fevered brain. It was a -shock, keyed up as she was to the tragic point, to enter the peaceful -little drawing-room with its bright coal fire and general air of -comfort, and to find Elizabeth prosaically engaged in looking over -visiting-cards and invitations. And yet Mrs. Bobby was shocked by the -change in her appearance, which every day made more apparent. Her face -was haggard, there was a deep purple flush in her cheeks; her lips -were dry and feverish, there was an odd, strained look in her eyes. -The hand she held out to her visitor burned like fire. - -"I'm so glad you came in," she said, with a wan smile. "I've been -looking over these stupid things and my head aches. You see, I've -neglected my social duties shamefully--not sending cards, or even, I'm -afraid, answering some of my invitations. People must think me -horribly rude." - -"Oh, they know you've been ill," Mrs. Bobby answered vaguely. She sat -down, all the wind taken out of her sails, and stared wonderingly at -Elizabeth. How could she--how could she look over visiting-cards and -talk about invitations, with this terrible danger hanging over her -head? Was it possible that she had no suspicions? And yet--did not -her eyes betray her? But Mrs. Bobby could not think of any way of -introducing the subject of which her mind and heart were full, and -there was silence till Elizabeth spoke again. - -"It's odd, isn't it," she said languidly, "that Mrs. Lansdowne hasn't -asked me to her ball. Have you cards for it?" - -"I--I believe so." - -"Well, she has left me out," said Elizabeth. Mrs. Bobby started and -looked at her with some interest. "I suppose she thinks," Elizabeth -went on, "I--I'm not much of an addition just now. I certainly am not, -to look at." She laughed a little, in a feeble way. "Of course I -shouldn't go," she added, "but it isn't nice to be--left out." - -"Perhaps it's a mistake," suggested Mrs. Bobby, not very impressively. -She was quite convinced to the contrary. - -"Perhaps," Elizabeth acquiesced, "but if so, several other people have -done the same thing. The Van Aldens never asked me to their dance, and -I haven't had an invitation to a dinner for weeks. People forget one -quickly in New York, don't they?" And she made another painful attempt -at a laugh. - -"I suppose," said Mrs. Bobby, "they think you don't want to go." - -"I don't," said Elizabeth, "but they might at least give me the -opportunity of refusing." And then there was a pause, in the midst of -which Miss Joanna entered. - -"Oh, Mrs. Van Antwerp," she said, "how glad I am to see you! Do tell -Elizabeth that she ought to be in bed. You can see for yourself she -has fever. It is the grippe, of course--she has never really got over -it." - -"Yes," said Mrs. Bobby, looking doubtfully at Elizabeth, "it is the -grippe, of course." - -"The grippe is a convenient disease," said Elizabeth, in a low tone, -"it means--so many things." She took up a sheet of paper and began to -write hastily. "It does me good," she said "to employ myself. And I -can't stay in bed--it drives me wild." Miss Joanna, as if weary of -expostulation, moved to the window. - -"Yes, I declare," she announced, in the tone of one who makes a not -unexpected discovery, "there are those men again. Every time I look -out, one or other of them seems to be watching the house." - -"Watching the house?" repeated Mrs. Bobby, startled. - -"Yes, that's what it looks like, at least. And the other day, when I -went out, one of them stared at me so--most impertinent. I declare, if -it goes on, we shall have to make a complaint. And one of them -followed Elizabeth--didn't he, my dear?" - -"I thought he did," said Elizabeth, indifferently, "but I didn't -notice much. I have thought several times lately that there were -people following me. Perhaps it is because my head feels so queer." - -"What do the men look like?" asked Mrs. Bobby. - -"Oh, quite respectable," said Miss Joanna. "They don't look like -beggars, certainly. Cornelia thought they looked rather like -detectives--she said they made her feel nervous; but that, of course, -is quite ridiculous." - -"Quite ridiculous," echoed Mrs. Bobby. To herself she was saying, "Ah, -that trip abroad!" - -"Eleanor has an invitation for Mrs. Lansdowne's ball, auntie," said -Elizabeth, suddenly changing the subject, which did not seem to -interest her, by the introduction of one that evidently rankled in her -mind. "She thinks it is odd I wasn't asked. I told you," she went on, -with a bitter smile, "that people are giving me up since my engagement -was broken off." - -"But that is nonsense," remonstrated Miss Joanna, in distress. "Tell -her," she said, turning pleadingly to Mrs. Bobby, "that that isn't -so." - -Mrs. Bobby started up and took Elizabeth's hand. "I don't know," she -said, speaking with strange earnestness, "who gives you up, Elizabeth -dear, and I don't care. I never will. Remember that, dear child. I -will stand by you whatever happens." And then, as if conscious of -having said too much, or fearful perhaps of saying more, Mrs. Bobby -swept hastily from the room, leaving her hearers petrified. - -Miss Joanna was the first to speak. "How very strange she was!" she -said, in a low voice. "What--what do you think she meant?" - -Elizabeth was staring vacantly at the door, but at her aunt's words -she turned. - -"I don't know," she said, "what she meant, but one thing I -understand--that my social career is ended." With a little pale smile, -she swept aside the cards of invitation, locked them into a drawer and -left the room. - - - - -_Chapter XXXI_ - - -Mrs. Bobby regained her carriage, and consulting her engagement book, -she ordered her coachman to drive her to the house of one of her -friends, whose "day at home" it was. It was a sudden resolution. She -had gone about very little that winter, since she had no longer the -incentive of chaperoning Elizabeth, and had not paid a visit for -weeks, on the plea of mourning for an uncle. But now she set her teeth -and said to herself that she must mingle with the world to find out, -if possible, what the world was saying. - -Was it fancy, or did she distinguish, as she stood in the hall of Mrs. -Van Alden's house leaving cards, amidst the hum of voices in the -drawing-room, words that bore upon her own fevered anxiety? "Shocking -affair," and "so she is really involved in it"--surely she heard those -sentences. And then the conversation ceased abruptly as the butler -drew aside the portière and she stood for a moment on the threshold. -Her eyes were bright, her head erect; she glanced around taking mental -stock as it were of the company. Five or six women were seated about a -blazing wood fire, with an air unusual at functions of this kind of -having come to stay and of forming--or this again might have been her -fancy--a sort of council of justice. There was Mrs. Lansdowne, to -whose ball Elizabeth had not been invited; and there was Sibyl -Hartington, and one or two others who knew Mrs. Bobby and did not, as -it happened, love her very much. "Enemies," she thought, drawing her -breath sharply, "and discussing Elizabeth and me! It's the same -thing--I'm sure I feel as if it were I under suspicion." Eleanor Van -Antwerp had certainly never known such a feeling before, but her -bearing had never been more instinct with the nonchalant confidence of -a woman who seems absolutely unconscious of her position, for the -reason that it has never been questioned. - -"I seem to have interrupted the conversation," she observed, lightly, -after she had been rather nervously greeted and kissed by her hostess, -and had taken her place in the circle. "Some one was telling a very -interesting story--I caught fragments of it as I came in." She glanced -her eye round the group. "It was you, Kitty, I think," she said. -"Won't you--please--begin the story over again and tell it for my -benefit?" - -"Kitty," thus appealed to, colored and bit her lip. "Oh, the story -isn't really worth repeating," she said, hastily. She had no wish to -offend Mrs. Van Antwerp, and was heartily wishing that she had not -spoken so loud. Sibyl Hartington helped her out by observing, with her -placid smile: - -"It's a story about a friend of yours, my dear Eleanor, so Kitty is -afraid to tell it." - -"About a friend of mine?" said Mrs. Bobby, and she opened her eyes -very wide. "Then there's all the more reason," she said, decidedly, -"why I should hear it." - -Her glance challenged the group, but no one spoke and at last the -hostess interposed. "My dear Eleanor, I'm sorry you should have heard -anything about it. We were only talking about poor Elizabeth Van -Vorst, and regretting that there is all this unfortunate gossip about -her. For my part, I don't believe there is a word of truth in what -they say, but it is certainly--uncomfortable." - -"It makes it hard to know what to do," said Mrs. Lansdowne, a woman -with a deep bass voice and an air of being not so much indifferent to, -as unconscious of other people's feelings. "I couldn't for instance -ask Miss Van Vorst to my ball while there are these queer rumors about -her. I was sorry to leave out any friend of yours, Mrs. Van Antwerp; -but if a young woman gets herself talked about, no matter how or why, -I can't encourage her--it's against my principles. Let the girl behave -herself, I say, and keep out of the papers. I'm sure that's simple -enough." - -"It's not always so simple," said Mrs. Bobby, and though the indignant -color had rushed into her cheeks, her tone was seraphic, "not so -simple for every one as it is for your daughters, Mrs. Lansdowne." A -subdued smile as she spoke went the round of the circle. Fortunately -Mrs. Lansdowne was not quick in her perceptions. - -"No, it's true," she admitted, "my daughters have had unusual -advantages. I can't expect every one to come up to the same standard. -But one has to draw the line somewhere, and when a girl has done such -queer things as Miss Van Vorst, there seems nothing for it but to drop -her." - -"But what--what has poor Elizabeth done?" asked Mrs. Bobby, with eyes -of innocent wonder, and again there followed an awkward silence. - -"Well, you know, Eleanor, they tell very queer stories," the hostess -said at last, deprecatingly. "I never pay any attention to gossip, but -these things are sometimes forced upon one. Haven't you seen that -thing in _Scandal_?" - -"I don't," said Mrs. Bobby, unmoved, "read '_Scandal_,' Mary." - -"And _Chit Chat_," chimed in some one else. "There was a long -paragraph in _Chit Chat_. It seems that she was mixed up in some way -in that dreadful poisoning case. They say that she was actually -married to that young Halleck." - -"At the same time that she was engaged to Julian Gerard," said Mrs. -Hartington, with her calm smile. "It's no wonder that he, poor man, -when he found it out, got out of the affair as best he could." - -Mrs. Bobby looked steadily at the speaker. "As a friend of Mr. -Gerard's, Sibyl," she said, "I can state on his authority that the -engagement was broken by Miss Van Vorst." - -Sibyl Hartington's calm, faintly amused smile again rippled across her -face. "I never doubted, my dear Eleanor," she said, "that Mr. Gerard -is a gentleman." - -The entrance of another visitor at that moment was not altogether -unwelcome to Mrs. Bobby, who felt that she was being worsted; but the -new-comer immediately continued the same subject. - -"I've just been hearing the most extraordinary news," she exclaimed, -sitting on the edge of her chair, and too much excited to notice Mrs. -Bobby's presence, "I heard it at luncheon. They say that Elizabeth Van -Vorst"--But here the speaker suddenly caught sight of Mrs. Bobby, and -stopped short. - -"Well, what do they say?" said Mrs. Bobby, with rather a bitter smile. -"Don't keep us in suspense, Miss Dare, and above all, don't mind my -feelings. I would rather know the worst of this." - -"Well, I don't believe there is any truth in it. They say that she is -really seriously implicated in that dreadful poisoning case; that the -police have letters she wrote to Halleck, and all sorts of unpleasant -things. But of course it's impossible--a girl like that, whom we all -know!" - -"Do we?" said Mrs. Hartington, softly. "Do you think that we, any of -us, know much about her? You didn't, Eleanor, did you?"--turning to -Mrs. Bobby--"You just took her up in that charming, impulsive way of -yours--didn't you?--because people in the Neighborhood didn't have -much to do with her, and you felt sorry for her?" - -Mrs. Bobby made a scornful little gesture. "You flatter me, Sibyl," -she said. "I'm afraid I'm not so charitable as all that. I 'took up' -Elizabeth Van Vorst, as you say, because I liked her, and for no -other reason. It was for my own pleasure entirely that I asked her to -stay with me, and I have never regretted it." - -Mrs. Hartington gave a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders. "I -congratulate you," she said. "It was a rash action, some people -thought at the time. A girl whom you knew so slightly, whose mother -was such an impossible person--or at least, so they say. I don't of -course," she went on, in her soft, drawling tones, "know much about it -myself, but it does make all this gossip seem less extraordinary--doesn't -it?" - -"Why, yes, of course, that accounts for it," said Mrs. Lansdowne, -looking relieved. "That sort of thing runs in families. A girl who has -a queer mother is sure to be queer herself and get herself talked -about." - -"I never thought her very good style," some one who had not yet spoken -now found courage to observe. "Her hair is so conspicuous. I never -could understand why men seemed to admire her." - -Mrs. Hartington raised her eye-brows. "Ah, the men!" she said, with -serene scorn. "She is exactly the sort of girl who would appeal to -men." - -Mrs. Bobby felt that she had stayed as long as the limit of human -endurance would permit. She rose to her feet, her cheeks were flushed, -her eyes brilliant, her voice rang out with crystal clearness. "It's -hardly necessary for me to tell you," she said, "that Elizabeth Van -Vorst is my most intimate friend. I love her very dearly and always -shall. What her mother may have been is no affair of mine. But as for -the men liking her"--she turned suddenly to Mrs. Hartington--"they do -like her, Sibyl, and I think they show good taste. But if you mean the -inference you seem to draw from that"--she paused and drew her breath -quickly--"why, it's not very flattering, I think, to either men or -women." - -Mrs. Hartington gave a short little laugh. "My dear, I'm not drawing -inferences one way or another. I merely stated a fact--complimentary, -one might think, to your protegée. But you take things so -seriously!"--She drew herself up with an air of some annoyance. - -Mrs. Bobby's hands were tightly locked together inside her muff, she -faced the group appealingly, her dark eyes wandering from one to the -other. "Certainly, I take this thing seriously," she said, and there -was a thrill of earnestness in her voice which moved more than one of -her hearers. "It's no light matter for me to hear my friend spoken -of--like this. I had Elizabeth Van Vorst with me all last winter, I -feel as if I knew her like my own sister. I believe in her implicitly, -no matter what any one may say. And if--if some of you"--instinctively -her eyes fastened upon one or two whom she felt she was carrying with -her--"if you would try to think the best, give her the benefit of the -doubt, show that women can stand by one another--sometimes"--Her voice -faltered and she broke off suddenly; there were tears glistening in -her eyes as she held out her hand to her hostess. "Forgive me, Mary," -she said. "I don't want to make a scene. But I can't help feeling -strongly, and in this case I want every one to know exactly how I -feel." And with that she left the room quickly before any one could -speak, yet conscious as she went of a subtle wave of sympathy, which -seemed to have made itself felt since her entrance. - -"But it's useless--useless," she said sadly to her husband when she -got home. "You might as well try to stop the course of a torrent as -fight against the world's disapproval, when it is once roused against -any poor, defenceless girl. And it isn't as if she were a great -personage, or even as if she were still engaged to Julian! They've -nothing to gain by standing by her. Yet there were one or two, I -think, even of those women this afternoon, who felt with me. And at -least"--she consoled herself a little--"at least they shall see that -she has friends!" - -"She'll need them, poor girl. The--the inquest--I've just heard--is -coming off next week." He took up a paper knife and played with it, -while he stole a furtive glance at his wife. "I think you had -better--prepare Elizabeth," he said. - -"Prepare her?" she repeated anxiously, as he paused. - -"For some confoundedly unpleasant questions! Yes. Have you the -strength to tell her?" His eyes questioned her anxiously. She was -white to the lips, but she met them without flinching. - -"One can always find strength." - -"It's confoundedly hard, I know." Bobby began to pace up and down -helplessly. "You don't know how I hate to have you mixed up in all -this, Eleanor," he said. "I'd give anything to have you out of it. -Wouldn't it be better for you to go abroad for awhile?" - -"And desert Elizabeth? My dear Bobby, you wouldn't have me do that?" - -"Well, you can't help her, you know," he urged. - -"I can show that I believe in her. And, thank Heaven! social position -does count for something. It may help me to fight Elizabeth's -battles." - -"It doesn't count for much, unfortunately, before the law." - -"Not theoretically, no," said his wife, sceptically. "But -practically--it counts with every one and everywhere. By the way," she -added, struck with a sudden idea, "what sort of man is the District -Attorney? I might ask him to dinner." And she looked prepared to send -the invitation on the spot. - -"My dear Eleanor, I'm afraid it's too late for that now. The thing to -do now, since matters have gone so far, is to prove Elizabeth's -innocence, and for that, the first step is to prepare her, so that she -won't be taken unawares. Her aunts too--they must be told, I suppose. -Poor things, I believe it will kill them!" - -"People don't die so easily. It would be more merciful, I sometimes -think, if they did." She sat and thought for a moment. "I think I had -better go there at once," she said, at last, nervously. "I couldn't -sleep to-night with this hanging over my head." - -And so, for the second time that day, she drove to the Van Vorsts' -apartment, feeling that her unexpected appearance in itself must -prepare them for some calamity. And indeed the telling proved easier -than she feared. She saw Elizabeth alone, and sat holding the girl's -hand, trying by many tender circumlocutions to break the force of the -blow. But Elizabeth understood almost immediately. - -"They think I sent the poison--is that it?" she said, going at once to -the point which her friend was approaching so carefully. "Well, that -isn't so strange. Sometimes I feel," she added, wearily, and putting -her hand to her head, "as if I had done it myself. I think I--I might -have done it." - -"Elizabeth, Elizabeth, what do you mean?" - -"Because I wished it, you know," Elizabeth went on to explain quite -calmly. "I was married to him, and I wished that he might die, so that -no one would ever know it, I didn't tell any one but Julian--I -wouldn't have told him if I could have helped it. That was the reason -he gave me up--because I told him that I had been secretly married all -the time. He was angry because I hadn't told him before." - -"But," interrupted Mrs. Bobby, with intense anxiety, "you did tell -him, at last?" - -"Yes, of course I told him," said Elizabeth, in surprise. "I told him -New Year's Eve. Why else should he have given me up?" - -"Then," cried Mrs. Bobby, rising to her feet in her excitement, "that -seems to me an unanswerable argument. If you had--had expected Paul -Halleck's death, you certainly wouldn't have told Julian Gerard of -your marriage. That's clear as daylight. Oh, Elizabeth, how fortunate -that you told him!" - -"Fortunate?" said Elizabeth, listlessly. "I don't see that it is very -fortunate, since he has given me up and will never forgive me." - -"But it may save you." Elizabeth looked at her blankly. "Oh, my dear -child," cried Mrs. Bobby, "don't you understand that they suspect you -of--of the murder?" - -"You don't mean that they would put me in prison?" - -Mrs. Bobby only answered by her silence. Elizabeth sat staring at her -for a moment, then the color rushed into her white face, her eyes -flashed. "How would they dare do that," she cried, "when I am -innocent?" - -"Of course you are," said Mrs. Bobby. "No one but a fool would think -otherwise. And we will prove it, never fear. But you mustn't talk any -more of this morbid nonsense about being guilty of his death and all -that. I know what you mean well enough, but the general public doesn't -understand such psychological subtleties. And besides, it's not true. -The guilty person had no thought of doing you a service--be sure of -that. Paul Halleck would have died, my dear, if you had never known -him. And now keep up a brave heart, Elizabeth. Your friends will stand -by you, and when all this is over--happily over, you will look back -upon it as a bad dream--nothing more." - -Mrs. Bobby had almost talked herself into feeling the confidence she -expressed; but Elizabeth listened languidly, with drooping head. All -color had faded again from her face; it looked haggard, worn; her -hands plucked nervously at some fringe on her gown. When she wiped her -eyes at the last words, the smile she conjured up was piteous. - -"It's a dream," she murmured, "that is lasting--a terribly long time." - - - - -_Chapter XXXII_ - - -There is an old prison well in the heart of the city, which presents a -grim, mediæval front to the busy world outside. Elizabeth knew that it -existed, but had never seen it. She did not know even where it was, -till she found herself condemned to spend eight months within its -walls. - -This was after the inquest, when the evidence had gone as she had seen -herself, very much against her. It was a curious feeling--this -bewildered perception of a net closing round her, whose meshes she had -woven herself. The verdict of the jury was hardly a surprise. And then -they broke to her gently the fact that bail was refused, and they -brought her across the Bridge of Sighs, the name of which gave her an -odd little thrill, into the prison. - -The inmates of The Tombs are mostly of the lowest class. Such a -prisoner as Miss Van Vorst was disconcerting to wardens and matrons -alike. The situation was unprecedented, they hardly knew how to deal -with it. - -Elizabeth was placed in one of the ordinary cells; no other indeed was -to be had. It was small and dark, and had for furniture a cot-bed, a -faucet set in the wall, and one cane chair. Light and air--what there -was of either--came in through the corridor, above and below the iron -grating which barred the doorway. There was no window. - -Elizabeth, to whom an abundance of light and air had been one of the -necessities of life, who had a passion for space and luxury, for -fresh, dainty surroundings, looked about her in blank dismay. Yet she -said nothing. From the first she seemed to school herself to a silent -stoicism, which her friends called courage and her enemies -insensibility, and which may have been a combination of both. The last -two months had been crowded with so many startling events, so intense, -conflicting a tumult of thought and emotion, that her capacity for -acute suffering was for the moment exhausted. - -Yet the mere physical horror that the cell inspired her with was very -great. The first time that the key was turned upon her, and she was -left entirely alone, with the twilight coming on, with no power to -free herself, nothing to do but wait for the matron's return, she felt -as she had felt once when for some childish offence, she had been -locked into a dark closet. Now as then she threw herself against the -door, trying with fierce, unreasoning efforts to force the lock, -uttering hoarse cries for help. Then the door had been quickly opened, -her aunts had let her out with remorseful tears, and the experiment -had never been repeated. Now no help came to her, and she was left to -adapt herself to the situation as best she might. The struggle left -deep marks on her young face, a look in her eyes which they never -afterwards lost. - -There were many ways in which the prison routine was softened in her -favor. Social distinctions count, as Mrs. Bobby had said, with every -one and everywhere. Money is powerful, even in The Tombs. The warden -and the other officials reaped in those days a harvest of gold coins -from Mrs. Bobby. - -A more comfortable bed, a hand-mirror, all sorts of forbidden -luxuries, found their way into Elizabeth's cell. Neither warden nor -matron apparently recognized their existence. She was permitted to -receive her visitors alone, to have a light in her cell after dark, to -walk for an hour a day in the corridor or the court. At these times -she would see those other women, her fellow-prisoners, huddled -together in an abject group, and feel thankful that at least she was -not obliged to mingle with them. Her meals were served to her in her -cell, and she could order what she wanted. Her friends sent her -constantly an abundance of fruit and flowers. - -The people who came to see her, and there were many of them, used to -go away wondering at her calmness. They went prepared for tragedy, and -Elizabeth received them as she might in her own drawing-room. They -noticed no change in her, except that her head had never been held so -proudly, and she had never looked so pale. But there were no -confidences, no tears, no consciousness apparently of the -extraordinary state of things. Even to her aunts, even to Eleanor Van -Antwerp, she maintained this attitude of proud reserve. They could -only guess at the thoughts which lay beneath it. There were times, -indeed, when she did not think, when her brain would seem dazed. In -those days she would read eagerly all the books that people brought -her; read them through from beginning to end, but she had never any -idea of what they were about. - -There was one form of reading which no one suggested, which she did -not, apparently, think of herself. No one brought her a newspaper, and -she never asked to see one. Perhaps she did not realize how much her -case was discussed, perhaps she realized it only too well. Her aunts -were thankful for her lack of curiosity. They could not themselves -open a paper, or enter a street-car, without an agony of dread as to -what they might see or hear. - -For the yellow journals, of course, were exploiting the affair--it was -Mrs. Bobby's opinion, indeed, that it had been started originally on -their account, for the enlivenment of a dull season. This may or may -not be true; but certainly they made the most of it. They published -Elizabeth's picture, and long accounts of her conquests. There were -pictures, too, of her grandmother, that stately beauty whose fame was -traditional, and of old Van Vorsts who had held important offices, and -served city and state with credit in colonial and revolutionary times. -Then, by contrast, there were accounts of her mother's past and her -mother's kindred through several generations of moral and social -disrepute. The Neighborhood was overrun by disguised reporters who -made copious notes of local items, and took photographs of the Van -Vorst Homestead, of the village, of Bassett Mills and even of the -church--thereby causing the Rector's wife nervous spasms in her -anxiety lest any of Elizabeth's moral perversions should be laid to -the account of the religious teaching that she had received. Bassett -Mills was all a-flutter in its excitement over this gratuitous -advertisement. But in the Neighborhood--the staid, aristocratic old -Neighborhood--there was a feeling of humiliation, a presentiment that -it could never recover from the disgrace of such notoriety. - -And yet, in spite of all discredit, what a subject for -conversation--in the Neighborhood as well as Bassett Mills! Nothing -else was talked of at the various tea-parties, of which so many had -never been given before. People who had guests took them over on -Sunday afternoons to the Homestead, and wandered about the grounds -relating the family history, while the strangers stared with interest -at the old house, and the horse-shoe on the door. There was a dreary -look about the place for the Misses Van Vorst were not coming back -that summer, and the old gardener left in charge had not the heart -under the circumstances to keep it in order. Grass grew in the -gravel-walks, the flowers in the garden hung their heads, the foliage -was sadly in need of clipping. A shadow seemed to brood over house and -grounds, as in the day of old Madam Van Vorst. - -In town, where there were more things to talk about, the great -poisoning case still took precedence of all other subjects, and -society was divided on account of it into warring camps. There were -those--a very large number--who followed Mrs. Hartington's lead, and -spoke of Elizabeth as a sort of adventuress, who had thrust herself -into circles which she had no right to enter; a party which disowned -her entirely and believed implicitly in her guilt. But there was -another party, smaller perhaps but not less influential, which took -uncompromisingly the opposite side. The people who composed it were -friends, many of them, of Mrs. Van Antwerp, and there were others who -had cared for Elizabeth for her own sake, and again others to whom the -romantic facts of the case appealed irresistibly, inducing them to -espouse her cause regardless of reason. These all spoke of her as a -suffering martyr and regarded her imprisonment as an outrage. They did -not discuss the evidence, but met all doubts with the one unanswerable -argument of their own intuitions. - -But the first side had in point of logic, so much the best of it! This -conviction intruded itself reluctantly on Eleanor Van Antwerp's mind, -as she looked up from an exhaustive summary of the case for the -prosecution. The article presented, in clear, remorseless details, all -the links in the terrible chain of evidence--her hasty marriage, and -then her repentance; her efforts to buy off her husband; the trouble -she had to supply him with money; her evident fear of his betraying -her to Gerard; her refusal to name her wedding day, till she had in -sheer desperation decided on the murder; then when the thing was at -last accomplished, her sudden remorse, her strange actions; the rumor -that she had in the first excitement confessed her guilt before -witnesses; the description too, of the woman who had bought the -flask, and which fitted Elizabeth exactly in height, coloring and -general appearance; the resemblances which the experts were said to -have discovered between her letters and the handwriting on the -package--never was chain more strongly forged! And what, the article -further demanded, had her friends to offer in rebuttal but her social -position, her youth and her beauty? - -"It's not much, certainly," Mrs. Bobby's anxiety admitted. "And yet a -good deal, too," her aristocratic instincts involuntarily responded; -"and will have their weight with the jury," her cynicism added. But -then again despair overwhelmed her, and she put the unavailing -question: "Bobby, is there--do you think there is any hope?" - -Bobby stared back at her, his face hardly less white than hers. - -"God only knows, Eleanor! If she were just a man, or even an ordinary -woman, I should say 'no;' but for a young girl, there's always a -chance. Let her"--he dropped his hand on the table beside him with a -deep sigh--"let her look as pretty as she can. It seems to me about -the only hope." - -"She won't look pretty," his wife returned, with a little sob. "She is -just the shadow of her old self; if she stays in that place much -longer, I believe it will kill her. Bobby," she cried, with a sudden -burst of indignation, staring up at him with tragic eyes, "if that -child dies--there, it will be murder! And yet you say the law is -just!" - -Bobby had said so much in the last few weeks in perfunctory defence of -the law that he was weary of the subject, and so he attempted no -further protestations, but watched his wife sadly as she walked -impatiently to and fro; a slight, childlike creature, her cheeks -flushed, her eyes brilliant with impotent anger, dashing herself as it -were against impenetrable barriers. Only once before in her life had -Eleanor Van Antwerp been confronted with an obstacle that did not -yield to her wishes. That was when the baby died, and she had resigned -herself to what she believed to be Divine Providence. But this seemed -mere human stupidity. - -"If only men were not so logical!" she exclaimed, despairingly. -"Women, if they intended to get her off, would do it, no matter what -the evidence was; but men!--they are so bound hand and foot by their -sense of justice, their respect for law, and Heaven knows what! that -they are quite capable, even if they believe her innocent, of finding -her guilty, just because the evidence was against her." - -"Well that's what they're supposed to do," Bobby put in, -deprecatingly, "they've got to abide by the evidence." It was the -twentieth time that he had made this explanation, and for the -twentieth time, she brushed it aside. - -"What does it matter," she demanded, "about the evidence, when any one -with common-sense must _know_ the girl is innocent? But I see how it -is, Bobby," she went on, her lip quivering. "You don't really believe -in her the way that I do. You have doubts--at the bottom of your heart -you have doubts. Tell me the truth, and I'll try to forgive -you--_haven't_ you?" - -She stopped before him, her dark eyes, fastened upon his, seemed to -read his soul, but he answered steadily: "Eleanor, upon my honor, I -believe in that child's innocence as you do. I'd give anything in the -world to get her off. (Yes, and I would," he added to himself "for -your sake, if she had committed twenty murders.") - -She drew a long sigh of relief. "Oh, Bobby, you _are_ nice," she said, -gratefully. "You've been very good to me all this time--never once -saying 'I told you so,' when the whole thing has been all my fault for -not taking your advice." - -"Your fault, you poor child! How do you make that out?" - -"If I had never asked Elizabeth to stop with me," she said -tremulously, "all this wouldn't have happened. You warned me--don't -you remember?--and you were right. I've come to the conclusion, Bobby, -that you generally _are_ right and I wrong." - -Her tone of submission was as edifying as it was surprising, but Bobby -with unwonted quickness cut it short. "Nonsense!" he said almost -roughly. "You were right in that case, as you generally are, and I was -wrong; and no harm would have come of it if Elizabeth--well, I don't -want to hit people when they're down," he said, apologetically "but if -she had only been frank with us from the first, all this wouldn't have -happened. My dear"--this in response to a reproachful look from his -wife--"I don't mean to be hard on her, but I can't hear you blame -yourself for what has been poor Elizabeth's own fault, helped out by -a most extraordinary train of circumstances." - -"She was to blame, certainly," faltered his wife, reluctantly, "but I -can understand--I believe I should have done the same in her place." - -"No, Eleanor," said Bobby, briefly and with some sternness, "you would -not." - -"It's true," she admitted, "I don't think I could keep a secret if I -tried. But then neither apparently could Elizabeth--to the bitter end. -That is one thing I can't understand," she went on, "why you don't any -of you attach more importance to the fact that she told Julian -herself." - -"Because," said Bobby, slowly, "we have only her own word that she did -so." - -"But her aunts"--began Mrs. Bobby. - -"They can't know what passed between them. What people think is that -he discovered the marriage and charged her with it. It seems -improbable that after deceiving him so long she should suddenly -repent. And of course he would shield her as far as possible, so his -version goes for nothing." - -"All the same, I should like to hear it," said Mrs. Bobby decidedly. -"If I were Mr. Fenton, I should summon him at once as witness." (Mr. -Fenton was the counsel for the defence.) - -"Why, Fenton thought of it," said Bobby. "He spoke about it to -Elizabeth, and she cried out 'Oh, not he--not he of all people' in -such a way that he--well, he thought he'd better not send for him, for -fear of discovering something that would go very much against us. It -did look badly, you know, that she should dread Gerard's evidence so." - -Mrs. Bobby's reply to this was unexpected. "Is Mr. Fenton considered a -clever lawyer, dear?" she asked. - -"The best that money can get," said Bobby, somewhat taken aback. "But -why, Eleanor?"-- - -"Oh, well--I hope he knows more about law than he does about women, -that's all. Now I say, send for Julian at once." - -"Well, you know, Eleanor, I can't help thinking that if he knew of any -evidence in her favor he'd have turned up of his own accord before -this. It looks badly, I think--his staying away; as if he were afraid -of being questioned if he came." - -Mrs. Bobby sat for a moment reflecting deeply, her brows knit. "I -don't believe," she said, suddenly, "that he knows a thing about it. -Where is he, do you know?" - -"Some one saw him ages ago in London," said Bobby. "Goodness knows -where he is now. But in all events, he must have heard." - -"I doubt it. It happened, you know, while he was on the ocean, and by -the time he had landed, the first excitement was over, and there was -nothing about it in the papers for a long time. So that, even if he -bought an American paper, he might not see anything about it, and the -foreign ones of course would have nothing--you know how little -interest they take in us over there. Oh, it might easily -happen--strange as it seems, that he has heard nothing." - -"But why is it, do you think," said Bobby, "that Elizabeth doesn't -want him here?" - -"My dear Bobby, how dull men are! Of course, she doesn't want to call -upon him in a time like this. She's too proud. But nothing will -prevent him--if I know him rightly--from coming at once, if there is -anything he can do to help her." - -"Well, if you think it's any good, I'll send a detective after him," -said Bobby, with the composure of one to whom money is no object. - - - - -_Chapter XXXIII_ - - -The services of a detective proved imperative in finding Gerard. His -banks when applied to by cable, regretted to reply that they did not -know his address. He had left no directions to have his mail -forwarded. Apparently his one idea had been to efface himself and -break with some home ties. It was a proceeding which did not -altogether surprise Mrs. Bobby, who understood the phase of mind which -it indicated; but to Mr. Fenton it was proof positive of his own -suspicions, that Gerard dreaded to be summoned as witness on behalf of -the woman whom he had once loved. - -"She is glad to have him out of the way," thought the astute lawyer to -himself. "No doubt he has evidence which she is afraid of. Yes, she -lied no doubt when she said she had told him herself of her marriage, -just as she lied when she said she couldn't remember what she had done -on the twenty-third of December. She remembered--I could see that -plainly--very well." The counsel for the defence was reluctantly -convinced of his client's guilt, but he had good hopes of saving her -nevertheless, though he did not think it was to be done by means that -were strictly legal. He said little and accepted Gerard's -disappearance with philosophy, even though he did not absolutely -discourage Bobby Van Antwerp from sending a detective on his track. It -could at least, the lawyer argued, do no harm, since he was quite -certain that Gerard however urgently summoned would not come. Bobby -lost heart and would have let the matter drop, but his wife's -influence again carried the day. The detective started, with urgent -directions from Mrs. Bobby to find the witness at any cost, and -equally urgent directions from Mr. Fenton by no means to find him, -unless his evidence were desirable. - -Meanwhile the summer came and life in The Tombs assumed a different -phase. - -The atmosphere in Elizabeth's cell grew unbearable, and the warden -allowed her to spend a large part of her time in the prison court. -Here, too, since the intense heat, the other women assembled for an -hour every day, and she was brought in actual contact with them for -the first time. The court was large, and she could sit on the bench -which the warden had placed for her in the shadow of the wall. And -yet, though she tried to, she could not ignore them; she found -herself, little by little, observing them, taking even some faint -interest in them. She grew to know them by name, and would talk to -some of them, asking timid questions, partly with an instinctive -desire to get away from her own thoughts, partly with the feeling that -they were human beings, in trouble like herself. There was a lurking -sympathy in her heart for even the most depraved. She would share with -them her fruit and flowers, or make little presents of one kind or -another, even though the matron, discovering this assured her that -they were in many cases quite unworthy of her kindness. - -"They won't thank you for it, Miss," she said "they won't indeed. -They're just as likely as not to say the worst things of you behind -your back." - -Elizabeth stared at her thoughtfully for a moment beneath knit brows. - -"I don't know that I care about their thanking me," she said at last, -"and even if they're not worthy, that doesn't make it any the less -hard for them, does it?" - -To the matron this sentiment had a taint of immorality and she drew -herself up primly. "Why, on that principle, Miss," she said, "there's -no use at all in good behavior." Her point of view was the correct -one, of course--at least for a prison official. But it was natural -that Elizabeth, in revolt against the hard judgment of the world, -should take the opposite side. And certainly the women, even the -roughest of them, seemed to be grateful in their own way for her -kindness, and respected absolutely the intangible barrier between -them. There were one or two, indeed, younger and more imaginative than -the rest, who would follow her with wistful eyes as she passed, or -flush in involuntary, awkward delight if she spoke to them; to whom -her presence in their midst appealed irresistibly, touching some -latent sense of romance, and lending a new interest to the prison -routine. There was something wraith-like, spiritual about her, as she -grew from day to day, more frail, her face more thin and wasted, her -eyes more unnaturally large and strained, and the shadows beneath them -deeper and darker. Her gowns, since the hot weather began, were always -white, unrelieved by color even at throat or belt. Only her hair made -a gleam of brightness, the more vivid for the pallor of her face and -the grayness of the prison walls. - -It was this soft, wavy hair at which visitors to The Tombs looked most -curiously, recognizing one of the strong pieces of evidence against -her. There was a number of visitors to The Tombs, even on those hot -summer days; people who only stared at one prisoner and asked before -they left one question of the prison officials, which met the one -answer. The warden--a gruff old man, hardened by long contact with the -lowest offenders--seemed when his turn came to hesitate. - -"Guilty, she?" he repeated, staring up at the questioner with his -shrewd old eyes. "Well, there ain't a guilty person in The Tombs--not -to hear them talk; but--she"--he paused a moment. "She never says -nothing; but--bless you"--carried beyond himself by an unwonted burst -of sentiment--"I'd as soon suspect an angel from heaven." - -"Ah, he has had a large fee," the more cynical would observe as they -left, and it was true. But the canny old warden was quite capable of -accepting all the money in the world, and reserving the right to his -own opinion, which he had stated in this case with absolute honesty. -And it was shared, moreover, by the entire prison,--jailers and -criminals alike. - -Elizabeth grew conscious of the general sentiment and it cheered her -more than its intrinsic value seemed to warrant. For it was based on -no tangible evidence, was the result of a hundred unconsidered, -unimportant words and actions, the effect of which, to those who had -not seen or heard them, it was hard to explain; and it could penetrate -little to the outside world. But she felt strangely indifferent to the -outside world. Her horizon was bounded by the prison walls. - -One day, sitting dull and languid on her bench in the shadow of the -wall, she chanced to overhear a fragment of a conversation between the -warden and a visitor. They stood within the door of the office, and -their voices came to her distinctly. "I tell you," the warden said, -apparently bringing his argument to a conclusion, "they'll never put a -woman--let alone a young and pretty one like her--in the electric -chair." - -"Ah, but if she's guilty,"--the visitor's voice demanded. And then, -with an odd grunt from the warden, they passed on. She could not hear -the rest. - -But what she had heard thrilled her with a new, sharp pang of terror, -the reason of which she could not have explained. There was nothing in -the warden's assertion, nothing even in the visitor's protest. She -knew of course that there were people who believed her guilty, and the -man's words were reassuring rather than otherwise. Yet something in -them called up before her vividly for the first time the very danger -which he disclaimed. Yes, she was to be tried for her life! Incredible -stupidity!--how was it she had never realized it before? - -There was after all nothing extraordinary, unprecedented in the idea; -it was one which had exercised over her in times past a curious -fascination. She remembered well having read a graphic account of the -last hours of a noted criminal, everything that he had said and done, -the way in which he had met his fate, his last words ... it all came -back to her with startling distinctness. She had tried at the time to -put herself in his place, to think how she would have felt.... It was -so futile, she had desisted from it at last with a smile at her own -absurdity, the healthy instincts of her warm young life asserting -themselves, as they generally did, against the occasional morbidness -of her imagination. Now, looking back on it, the whole thing seemed -one of those presentiments with which people doomed to misfortune are -visited. - -Yet the idea was absurd, even now. There was no danger, for she was -innocent. That man was guilty--or so the papers said. She remembered -that he had protested his innocence--to the end. And perhaps he had -spoken the truth. - -What did the papers say about her own case? The evidence against her -was strong--she had always vaguely known that. But--what was it the -man had said?--they'd never put a woman, guilty or innocent, in the -electric chair. But what woman would accept her life on such terms as -that? Elizabeth raised her head with that characteristic, proud little -motion which not all the humiliations of prison life had availed to -break her of entirely. "I would rather die," she said to herself, "I -would rather die." - -And then she remembered how she had shrunk from death--that morning -months ago in the park. She felt again the intense physical repulsion, -the instinctive clinging to life, the dread of the unknown.... - -That evening when the younger matron--the one she liked the best--came -with her dinner, she put her through a series of questions, which -embarrassed the kind woman not a little. Had she ever, Elizabeth -demanded, seen people who were condemned to death and how had they -behaved? Did they seem frightened, or were they calm and brave? Were -they--did the matron really believe that they were guilty, beyond -possibility of doubt? - -"Are innocent people ever condemned," asked the girl, sitting huddled -together on her bed and staring at the matron with haggard eyes. -"Surely there couldn't be--you don't suppose there could be--such a -terrible mistake?" - -"I"--The matron's voice suddenly failed her, her eyes filled with -tears. "Heaven knows I hope not, Miss," she said and went out hastily. - -Elizabeth sat still, staring before her. "She believes me -innocent--but she is afraid I will be found guilty." A little shudder -passed through her, in spite of the intense heat. And then again the -dull cloud of weary indifference descended upon her, and she said to -herself that she did not care. - -But as time went on, she knew that this was false. - -A few days later Mrs. Bobby came back, after spending a week in the -country much against her will. It seemed to her that Elizabeth looked -much worse than when she saw her last. She sighed as she realized, -more emphatically than ever, how much of the girl's beauty had left -her with that wealth of color and outline which had been its most -striking characteristic. Certainly any one who judged of her by the -famous picture, taken in her first bloom, would be wofully -disappointed now. There was only the soft sweep of the hair, and the -strange shadow in the eyes--of which the first premonition as it were -had somehow crept into the picture--but for these points of -resemblance one would hardly know her for the same woman. - -"No," Mrs. Bobby reflected, "they won't acquit her for her beauty." -But aloud she talked cheerfully, giving the Neighborhood news--what -there was of it, skimming the cream of her letters from friends at -gayer places--profoundly uninteresting just then, and mocking the -scene about them with its frivolous incongruity--but what matter. -Anything to keep going the ball of conversation! But at last, in spite -of herself, there came a pause. - -It was intensely hot. The sun beat down upon the rough uneven stones -which paved the prison court, it baked the wall against which the two -women leaned. Before their eyes there rose up sharply the walls of -the men's prison, and beyond a fragment of the Court-house, with which -the Bridge of Sighs formed a connecting link, invisible from where -they sat. A little way off, in a small circle of shade, a group of -women prisoners gathered silent, inert. A great stillness brooded over -the place, broken only by the buzzing of flies and the noises in the -street, which sounded dreamily as if it were many miles away. A man -was crying "Strawberries, fresh strawberries!" and his voice floated -in to the prison, bringing with it a tantalizing suggestion of -coolness and freedom and green fields. - -Involuntarily Elizabeth made a gesture of weariness, and raised to her -parched lips the great bunch of roses, fresh from the country, which -Mrs. Bobby had brought. They already hung their heads. - -"I suppose," the girl said dreamily, her eyes half shut, "our flowers -must be all out at the Homestead. It always looks so pretty there now, -before the heat has lasted too long. I can see it--the river with the -sails on it, and the fields covered with daisies--they must be out -now--ah, and the wild-roses!"--She drew a long breath. "Oh, I am sick -sometimes for a sight of it all," she broke out with sudden vehemence. -"I'd give anything to lie down in the grass with the trees over me, -and the cool wind in my face, and so--sleep"--Her voice sank away, she -made a weary gesture. "I'm so tired," she said, "I'd like to sleep -forever." - -"My dear child." Mrs. Bobby caught her breath, a mist of tears in her -eyes. "Don't you ever sleep here?"--she asked tentatively after a -moment, and Elizabeth answered in the same dreary way, unconscious, -apparently, that she was departing from her usual reserve. - -"No, I don't sleep often," she said, "especially since the nights have -been so hot. But when I do"--she paused and stared reflectively before -her, while the shadow in her eyes grew deeper. "There's a dream that -haunts me now," she said at last, "whenever I fall asleep. I dream -about my trial, and--it always goes against me. I stand there all -alone, the judge pronounces sentence, and I--I try to speak, I try to -tell them that I'm innocent, but--the words won't come--I wake up half -strangled"--she broke off shuddering. "Ah, you can't imagine how -horrible it is," she said, "worse even than--lying awake." - -Mrs. Bobby was silent for a moment, but when she spoke her voice was -steady. "It's a horrible dream," she said, "but it's impossible--quite -impossible that it should come true. You won't be left alone, we shall -all stand by you, you will be acquitted surely--surely"--in spite of -herself, her voice suddenly faltered, in a way that belied her words. - -"You think so?" Elizabeth said, quickly. "You _hope_ so. But--if you -should be mistaken?" She put out her hand and grasped Mrs. Bobby's -wrist. "Tell me the worst," she said. "I'd rather know it. Is there -much danger, do you--in your heart of hearts, do you think that I -shall be acquitted?" Involuntarily her grasp tightened, her strained, -dilated eyes searched her friend's face with a look that seemed to -compel only the truth--to tolerate no evasions. And Eleanor Van -Antwerp, with all her courage, could not meet it. She turned her face -away with a little sob. - -Elizabeth sat rigid for a moment, waiting for the answer that did not -come; then her fingers relaxed their hold, she took her hand away and -sank back against the wall. - -There was a long silence. The noon-day sun crept towards them, -dazzling the eyes, a few flies buzzed aimlessly about. Upon Eleanor -Van Antwerp's mind the prison court, as she saw it then, baking in the -noon-day heat--the group of women huddled together, the rags of some, -the tawdry finery of others, the look of dogged misery on their coarse -faces--the whole scene impressed itself, calling up always in after -years a sense of powerless despair. - -At last Elizabeth turned to her, and a faint smile hovered about her -white lips. - -"Do you know," she said, "did the warden show you? in that corner -there they have--the old scaffold--what's left of it, at least. They -keep it as an interesting relic. Oh, he wouldn't show it to me"--she -smiled again painfully--" he's too considerate--I heard him telling -one of the visitors. They don't have anything of the kind now, he -said,--there is--Sing Sing and the electric chair. And that is--or so -they say--more merciful. But is it--do you really think it can be?" -She paused and stared up at Mrs. Bobby with eyes full of a dawning -terror. "To have a hood put over one's face," she went on, her voice -trembling, "that's how they do it, isn't it?--to wait--wait for the -shock." ... She stopped, the look of terror in her eyes grew deeper. -She lifted the roses from her lap and held them up before her face, as -if to shut out, with their color and fragrance, some horrible vision. -"Oh, I see it day and night," she said, "day and night! If I see it -much longer, I shall go mad." - -Mrs. Bobby's hand tightened convulsively upon hers. - -"Elizabeth, my dear," she cried, "you mustn't think of such -possibilities. It could never--come to that, they would never--carry -their cruelty to that extent"--Her voice faltered. - -Elizabeth put down her roses and looked up at her. Her face showed -recovered self-control. "Why--because I'm a woman?" she asked, with a -pale little smile. "That's what the warden said--that they wouldn't -condemn a woman to death. But even if they--stopped short of that, -would imprisonment--would this sort of thing, or worse"--she swept her -hand with a comprehensive gesture round her--"wouldn't death, on the -whole, be better?" - -And Mrs. Bobby could not answer, for she thought in her heart it would -be--infinitely better. - -But in a moment she rallied her energies. - -"Elizabeth," she said, "there's no necessity to consider--either -alternative. I believe firmly that we shall get you off. But in order -to do it you must help us--to defend you. You seem indifferent about -it; Mr. Fenton complains that you keep things back. You can't afford -to trifle--tell us everything. Isn't there"--she leaned forward -eagerly and grasped Elizabeth's hand--"doesn't Julian Gerard know -something that would help us?" - -She felt Elizabeth start and shiver; then stiffen into sudden -rigidity. The hand she held was withdrawn, and with the action the -girl seemed to release herself, mentally and physically, from her -grasp. - -"I don't know," she said, and her voice was cold, almost as though she -resented being questioned, "I don't know why you think that." - -"I don't think--I feel it! There is something that he can say." Mrs. -Bobby's eyes seemed to challenge a denial. Elizabeth met them with a -look of defiance. - -"There is nothing," she said. "He knows nothing; or if he did"--she -lowered her voice with a sudden change of tone--"if he could save me, -I'd rather die than have him sent for." - -"Ah--you'd rather die?" Mrs. Bobby caught her breath. "And you think -that is fair--to yourself, to your aunts, to us all?" - -"I don't know." The girl's voice had the ring of weary obstinacy that -suffering will sometimes assume. "I only know I don't want him--sent -for." - -Mrs. Bobby seemed to reflect. "We can't send for him," she said at -last, "we don't know where he is." - -Elizabeth started. "You don't," she repeated, in a low voice, "know -where he is?"-- - -"No, he left no address. His mail is at his banker's--they don't know -where to forward it." - -Elizabeth turned her face away. "Ah, I see," she murmured, "he doesn't -wish to be reminded of--anything at home." A pale cold smile flitted -across her white face. "It is better so," she said, firmly, "far, far -better. I am glad that he is away and that there is no use in sending -for him." - -"But if there were"--all Mrs. Bobby's self-control could not keep the -tremor from her voice--"if there were, Elizabeth, isn't there -something that he could testify in your favor? Do tell me, dear," she -urged; the girl sat silent. "You see I have guessed it--it can do no -harm for me to know what it is." - -Elizabeth spoke at last, low and hesitatingly. "He knows that on the -twenty-third of December, when--when that man said he saw me in -Brooklyn, I was with him--with Julian. I went out that morning, -meaning to do some shopping, but I met him accidentally. He persuaded -me to go up to the Metropolitan Museum--there was a picture he wanted -to show me. We were there some hours. And--and that is all." - -"And that was," said Mrs. Bobby breathlessly, "on the twenty-third of -December. You are _sure_?" - -"Quite sure," said the girl listlessly, "but what difference does it -make? I wouldn't tell Mr. Fenton--I said I couldn't remember what I -did that day, and I wouldn't tell you now, if I thought that you could -send for him. You can't send for him, can you?" She looked at Mrs. -Bobby with sudden alarm. "You really don't know where he is?" - -"Upon my word and honor," Mrs. Bobby assured her, "I don't." And then -she said little more, but kissed Elizabeth presently, bade her keep up -her courage, and left sooner than she generally did. - -"No, I don't know where he is," she said to herself, as the hansom -bore her swiftly up-town, and she stared out absently at the deserted -streets. "We don't know, but please God, we shall soon. If only that -man finds him, if he can only get him here in time." - - - - -_Chapter XXXIV_ - - -This was in the early summer; and Elizabeth's trial was to be in -November. The time approached, and nothing had been heard of Julian -Gerard. Efforts were made to postpone the trial, that this important -witness might have time to appear. But the influence of people like -the Van Antwerps, which seems in some ways all-powerful, is in others -curiously slight. The District Attorney was acting in the interests of -the yellow journals and they, according to their own account, in the -interests of the people, which required, as they set forth in -high-sounding editorials, that no more favor should be shown to Miss -Van Vorst than to the lowest criminal. - -After all, the girl's health had suffered so severely from the long -confinement that it seemed a cruelty to lengthen it, even with the -hope of Gerard's return. Mr. Fenton himself was of opinion that the -trial should not be postponed. He had done his best for his client, -though hampered more, perhaps, than he realized by his secret doubt of -everything she said. He did not believe in this alibi, which she had -trumped up, as he decided, when the one person who could confirm or -deny it was safely out of the way. Yet he tried to find some other -witness who remembered, or imagined having seen her at the Museum on -the morning when she was supposed to have been in Brooklyn. No such -person could be found. The case for the defence was lamentably weak. -Mr. Fenton admitted the fact to himself with a shrug of the shoulders, -and fell back philosophically on his conviction that no jury would -send a young woman of Elizabeth's position and attractions to the -electric chair. - -Perhaps the person most to be pitied in those days was Miss Cornelia, -who had been summoned as witness for the prosecution to corroborate -the testimony of Bridget O'Flaherty, her former waitress, as to her -niece's words and manner on the morning after the murder. The poor -lady was in a pitiful state of agitation. "What shall I say?" she -asked, looking appealingly from one to the other of Elizabeth's -friends and advisers. - -"Say anything," said Mrs. Bobby, hastily, "any--any lie that you can -invent." - -She stopped. Miss Cornelia drew herself up with dignity. "I don't -think our child's cause can be helped by--by lies, Mrs. Van Antwerp," -she said. - -Mrs. Bobby felt herself rebuked. "Well, I am not given to lies myself, -as a rule," she explained, apologetically, "but in a case like this it -seems to me that the end justifies the means. It's a doctrine brought -into discredit, I know, by the Jesuits, but still it seems to have a -certain foundation in common-sense." - -"I don't know anything about the Jesuits," said Miss Cornelia, with -some stiffness, "but I shall try to act as our Church would advise, -even--even if Elizabeth"--here her voice broke. - -"I think," said Bobby Van Antwerp, coming to the rescue, "that Miss -Cornelia is right, Eleanor. It is much better to tell the exact truth, -and Fenton will make the best of it.--Good Heavens," he said -afterwards to his wife, "you don't suppose that the poor lady could -invent a plausible story, or even keep back anything that wouldn't be -brought out in cross-examination and make a worse effect than if she -gave it of her own accord!" - -But upon Miss Cornelia the opposite side of the question was beginning -to make an impression. Her mind moved slowly. It was not easy for her -to break from old tradition. Her conscience had hitherto recognized -the broadly drawn line between right and wrong; no indefinite, subtle -gradations. As she had said once to Elizabeth, fully meaning it, one -could always do right if one tried. But if--if one could not tell what -the right was?... - -Miss Joanna, sitting opposite to her in the twilight, broke the -silence hesitatingly. "I suppose, sister," she said, "I suppose you -remember--exactly what the poor child said--that morning? You -haven't"--Miss Joanna caught her breath--"you haven't forgotten?" -There was a note of entreaty in her voice. - -Miss Cornelia could see it so plainly; the breakfast table and the -paper with those startling headlines, and the look on Elizabeth's -face, when she had made that extraordinary assertion. A confession of -guilt! That was the way in which it would be construed--there seemed -no way out of it. Miss Cornelia did not think that the most merciful -jury could acquit her after that. And yet the child was innocent--Miss -Cornelia knew that as surely as she knew that the Bible was inspired. -Was it reasonable, was it right that she should be required to give -evidence against her? Over Miss Cornelia's mind there swept a sudden, -sharp sense of injustice, a passionate rebellion against fate. - -But a life-long habit of truth-telling is hard to overcome. She -answered Miss Joanna after a moment. "I--I haven't forgotten, sister," -she said, and the hot tears scorched her eyeballs. - -Miss Joanna put away her knitting with a hopeless sigh. "Well, of -course, sister, you must speak the truth," she said, drearily, -"but--it does seem hard." Then she went out of the room, crying -quietly. - -Miss Cornelia sat motionless in the twilight, while that new tumult of -rebellion still raged within her. Ah, yes, it seemed more than -hard--it seemed cruel, unjust, that such a thing should be required of -her. Those strange people, the Jesuits, whom she had always held in -horror, had some reason on their side after all. There were cases to -which the simple, old-fashioned rules of right and wrong did not -apply, which were extraordinary, unprecedented.... Miss Cornelia could -not help asking herself--with a thrill of self-condemnation, indeed, -and yet another feeling which defended the question--whether in -certain circumstances, the wrong were not more to be commended, wiser, -better than the right. - -She spent a sleepless night, thinking it over. The whole foundations -of her life, of her faith seemed shaken. She looked the next morning -so exhausted, when she went down as usual to The Tombs, that Elizabeth -at once divined that some new misfortune had happened, and it was not -long before she drew it out of her. - -She sat for a long time very still, one hand clasping Miss Cornelia's, -the fingers of the other tapping on the ledge of the wall beside her. - -"Of course, auntie," she said at last, quietly, "you must tell exactly -what happened. There's no good to be gained by lies; at least"--she -made an attempt at a smile--"my own success in that line hasn't been -very striking. I was a little out of my head that morning, and I don't -remember exactly what I said! but whatever it was"--she raised her -head proudly--"I don't want anything kept back. Let them know the -whole truth; then, if they condemn me, well and good. At least I -shan't have anything"--her voice faltered--"anything _more_ to -reproach myself with." - -"Elizabeth!" The older woman gazed up at her admiringly. "You are so -brave--you are a lesson to me! But you--you don't realize, my -darling--" sobs choked her voice. - -"Oh, yes--I realize." A pale smile flitted across the girl's face. "I -have realized--quite clearly--all these months. But that's no reason, -auntie, why you should save me by lies." - -And then she turned the subject, and began to talk calmly enough, -about one of the women prisoners, in whose case she took a keen -interest. Nothing more was said about her own affairs. She had -relapsed, since that conversation months before with Mrs. Bobby, into -her old reserve, and spoke very little of herself. The cooler weather -was helping her. She seemed stronger, and always quite calm. Miss -Cornelia went away, feeling rebuked for her own cowardice. Elizabeth -was right, she thought with a pang of self-reproach; nothing but the -truth must be told in her defence. But meanwhile Miss Cornelia tried -to reconcile two opposite instincts; offering up day and night two -apparently irreconcilable petitions; that she might be enabled to -speak the truth exactly, and yet do no harm to her niece's cause. - - - - -_Chapter XXXV_ - - -It was the first day of Elizabeth's trial. She could hardly realize -that it had come--this event which they had anticipated so long, the -thought of which had lately crowded out every other. There was nothing -alarming about the present proceedings--the appearance of one jury-man -after another, generally followed in each case by a peremptory -challenge. One was objected to because he was thought to have formed a -favorable opinion, another an unfavorable one, and still another -because he was apparently incapable of forming any opinion at all. If -she had not been on trial for her life, she might have thought it -dull. - -Her gaze wandered to that wide court-room window opposite, from which -she could see an expanse of roofs, flag-staffs and chimneys, full of -charm and excitement after the unbroken outline of blank walls, which -for many months had bounded her view. Then, forgetting herself, she -glanced about the room, quickly turned and shrank back, while the -color rushed into her white face. There were some women whom she knew, -thickly veiled, in the crowd behind her--women who were against her. -Those who were her friends had the consideration to stay away. And -there were others whom she did not know, who crowded as close to the -bar as they could, eying her with eager curiosity, making remarks -about her in a stage whisper. As the heroine of this sensational case, -she was a disappointment both in dress and appearance. - -"Well, her hair waves prettily"--the words came distinctly to -Elizabeth's ears in a lull in the proceeding--"but that's about all. I -don't see why she was ever called a beauty, do you?" - -"Why, no, indeed. Her features aren't regular--not a bit. And isn't -she thin and white!" - -"Hush!" a kindlier voice broke in, suppressing the others. "It's no -wonder, poor thing. Most people would lose their looks, if they'd been -through what she has." - -A pang shot through Elizabeth none the less distinct because the -reason was, in view of what was going on, so trifling and absurd. She -had dressed herself that morning with unusual care, resolved to -present as far as possible an undisturbed front to the world; and she -had not realized that the plain black gown, and the unrelieved -sombreness of the black hat, which would once have thrown into more -dazzling relief her fresh young beauty, now emphasized with startling -plainness the change in her appearance. For a moment, the fact forced -itself upon her and hurt even then. When a woman has always been -regarded as a beauty, it is hard to become accustomed to a different -point of view. After all, what difference did it make? She had not -realized the effect which her looks were supposed to produce on the -jury. - -For a while the prospect of any jury at all seemed dubious. The hours -passed, the day came to an end, and there were exactly two men in the -box. It was not till the end of the third day that the number was -complete--twelve most unhappy men, whose faces Eleanor Van Antwerp -scanned eagerly. Some, she decided, were kind; others--too logical; -all of them were more or less intelligent. There were one or two, she -thought, to whom the pathos of Elizabeth's pale and faded looks might -appeal with an eloquence that fresh coloring and rounded curves would -have lacked entirely. Upon these men she based her hopes. - -And so the trial, once fairly started, dragged on its weary length. -Mrs. Bobby spent her days there, sitting beside Elizabeth; her whole -life, just then, seemed bounded by the court-house walls. She had no -interest in anything outside. And Elizabeth's aunts, too, came every -day. It was pathetic to see these timid, elderly women, plunged for -the first time in their sheltered lives into this fierce glare of -publicity, under which they bore up unflinchingly, in the effort to -show to all the world their firm faith in their niece's ultimate -acquittal. - -As for Elizabeth, she had little hope; but neither had she, except at -times, any great fear. The worst had been that first day, and now she -was used to being stared at; used even to the thought that she was -being tried for her life. The scene and its accessories--the -listening, eager crowd behind her, the judge before her with his -impassive face, in which she thought she could perceive, now and -again--or did her hopes deceive her?--a gleam of sympathy; the jury -weary but resigned, the reporters taking notes, scanning her with eyes -that noted every detail of her manner and bearing, placed upon them -Heaven knows what construction! Bobby Van Antwerp moving restlessly -about, holding long conferences with the lawyers; her counsel and the -District Attorney wrangling, glaring at each other over the heads of -unfortunate witnesses--the whole thing lost its terrors, grew to be an -accepted part of her life's routine. - -The evidence at first was technical. There was much she did not -understand--she wondered if the jury did. There were the doctors, -showing with many long words and tedious explanations, with what sort -of poison the murder had been committed; and then there were the -handwriting experts, with still longer words and more tedious -explanations. Now--what was it that they had brought out? Those -unfortunate letters which she remembered so well having written, in -great haste and anxiety. The experts were pointing out numerous points -of resemblance between them and another piece of paper, which she had -never seen before. And now it was the secret marriage they were -proving--though what was the use of that, when no one denied it? The -question of motive was absolutely clear; the District Attorney had -expatiated upon it at great length in his opening speech. - -All this Elizabeth grasped more or less distinctly. She realized that -the evidence was strong against her. But she could not, weak and dazed -as she was, keep her mind on it. The voice of the witnesses would -grow indistinct, a mist would pass over the anxious faces around her, -a lull would come in the nervous tension of the atmosphere; the blue -sky, which she saw from the window, would seem very near, and she -would float off into phases of oblivion, from which she would be -roused, perhaps, by a touch on her arm, or a voice in her ear. -"Listen, darling, that was a point in your favor," her aunts or -Eleanor Van Antwerp would say. - -These points were few and far between. But there was one which -Elizabeth understood--she hoped that the jury did. - -Mr. Fenton was examining one of the medical experts for the -prosecution, a man who had had large experience in poisoning cases. -The counsel for the defence was putting him through series of -questions, the drift of which was not altogether plain. What sort of a -crime did he consider poisoning? An atrocious one, was it -not?--generally committed by hardened criminals? Had the witness ever -been in contact with a case of poisoning where the whole scheme had -been concocted and carried out by a girl of twenty, far removed by -education, friends and antecedents from any connection with crime? No, -the witness could not, in his own experience, recall any such case, -but he had no doubt that it had been known, though he agreed in -response to Mr. Fenton's next question, that it would be slightly -abnormal. And here the District Attorney interposed with one of those -objections which each lawyer seemed to make mechanically, whenever a -question proved inconvenient to his side; but the Judge decided in -favor of Mr. Fenton, and he went on imperturbably, shifting his ground -a little. - -"Poisoning is a crime--don't you think so?--that calls for a great -deal of thought and calculation?" - -"Yes," the witness thought it would undoubtedly. - -"The person who planned it would have plenty of time to consider the -consequences?" - -The witness responded: "I should think so." - -"He or she--whoever it was that planned it--would be probably of a -cold-blooded and calculating disposition?" - -"Probably." - -"And not likely, do you think so?--to suffer from hysterical remorse -as soon as the act was accomplished?" - -Here the opposing counsel again intervened, and was again silenced by -the Judge. Mr. Fenton repeated his question. - -"I ask you," he said, addressing the witness with a certain solemnity, -"as a man who has had experience with criminals and human nature, -whether you think it likely that a woman, strong-minded and -cold-blooded enough to commit this diabolical crime, on hearing of its -accomplishment--a thing she has been expecting for days--would be -seized with a fit of hysterical remorse, would utter wild, -incriminating words, in the presence of--no matter whom, any one who -chanced to be present, and would rush up at once to look at the body -of the man whom she had murdered?" - -The witness hesitated. "It--it doesn't seem likely," he admitted at -last. - -"It would be much more, don't you think," said Mr. Fenton quietly, -"like the conduct of an innocent woman, who was suffering from a -nervous shock, and had no thought of controlling her actions because -she had no idea of being suspected?" - -The witness, after a long pause: "Yes, it--would certainly seem so." - -"It certainly does," said Mr. Fenton. "Thank you, doctor. I have no -more questions to ask." And he sat down with the air of one who has -scored a point. - -Thereupon the prosecution, as if to prove the strength of the evidence -which he had anticipated, placed upon the stand Bridget O'Flaherty, -formerly maid-servant to the Misses Van Vorst, who swore upon her -solemn oath that the prisoner had in her hearing declared herself -guilty of the murder of Paul Halleck. Yes, those were her very words, -the maid declared--"that she had killed him," and she had added that -"it had come at last--just as she despaired of it" or something of the -kind, referring no doubt to the fact that Halleck had kept the poison -some time before taking it. The woman's testimony was full and -circumstantial, and she gave the impression of telling the truth. - -Mr. Fenton, on cross-examination, proved that she had been dismissed -without a character from the services of the Misses Van Vorst, also -that she had been paid for her evidence by a yellow journal. Its -effect was distinctly undermined when he permitted her to leave the -stand. And with that the prosecution called upon Miss Cornelia to -corroborate the maid's statement. - -Miss Cornelia was deathly white; her head shook, her thin, silvery -curls fluttered, as if they had caught the infection of her own -nervousness. In one hand she grasped her smelling-salts desperately, -with the other she revolved in an agitated way a small black fan. A -murmur of sympathy ran through the court-room as she took her place. -Even the District Attorney seemed sorry for her and put his opening -questions with unwonted gentleness. His tone was still bland when he -came to the important point--had she noticed anything peculiar in her -niece's manner on the morning after the murder? - -Miss Cornelia's answer was low, but it was quite audible. "She -was--shocked, naturally." - -"Naturally. But did she seem surprised?" - -Miss Cornelia's answer was this time still lower, and given with more -hesitation. "I--I think so." - -"You mean you are not sure?" - -"I--I was so upset myself"--began Miss Cornelia. - -"That you did not notice?" - -"No, I--I did not notice," said Miss Cornelia, relieved. - -"You thought that her manner was unremarkable, and simply what you -might have expected under the circumstances?" - -"Yes, I--I thought so," said Miss Cornelia. She added to herself the -mental reservation that she had no idea what sort of manner under the -circumstances, she should have expected. - -The District Attorney assumed a more impressive manner. "Miss Van -Vorst," he said, "do you believe in the sacredness of an oath?" - -"Yes, I--I certainly." - -"You would not speak anything but the truth?" - -"No," said Miss Cornelia, this time more firmly. - -"Then I ask you," said the District Attorney, suddenly drawing himself -up to his full height, and fixing his eyes upon her, "I ask you, on -your sacred oath, did your niece, or did she not, on the morning after -the murder of Paul Halleck, say to you that she had killed him, or -words to that effect?" - -There was a long silence. Miss Cornelia looked desperately about her; -at the Judge, whose face showed more than ever a touch of human -sympathy; at Mr. Fenton, white with anxiety, trying to telegraph a -hundred things which she could not understand; at the jury, bending -eagerly forward; then back at those most interested,--her sister in an -agony of suspense, Mrs. Van Antwerp flushed and trembling in her vain -desire to intervene. Lastly, Miss Cornelia's haggard eyes sought -Elizabeth herself; the girl was sitting white and rigid, motionless as -a statue, her hands clenched, her eyes resolutely bent upon the floor. -If it was a terrible moment for her; how much worse was it for the -aunt who had brought her up, who was now called upon by a refinement -of cruelty to destroy what seemed to be her only chance. Oh, for the -courage--it seemed to her almost noble!--to utter one good lie! But -there were the lynx-like eyes of the District Attorney fixed upon her, -there was the oath she had taken, weighing upon her conscientious -soul.... Suddenly she felt, with a sense of despair, that her silence -had already spoken louder than speech. And, even as the thought passed -through her mind, her answer framed itself on her lips and seemed to -be uttered without her own volition; one word, barely audible, but -caught at once and registered by twenty reporters, while a suppressed -sigh went the round of the court-room. - -"Yes." - -"Thank you," said the District Attorney. "That is all I wished to -know." - - - - -_Chapter XXXVI_ - - -There was still cross-examination. - -Mr. Fenton, too, began with unimportant questions. He gave Miss -Cornelia, who looked ready to faint, time to recover herself a little. -The questions he asked were easy to answer. Had her niece, in the -course of her education, given them much trouble, had she ever -deceived them, kept anything from them before this fatal secret? Ah, -no, no! Miss Cornelia gave her answers tremulously, yet with a fervent -relief, an eager desire to make herself heard throughout the -court-room. - -"Then with your knowledge of your niece's character," Mr. Fenton -asked, speaking almost carelessly, "you didn't think of her as the -sort of person likely to commit a crime?" - -Miss Cornelia drew herself up with sudden dignity and her voice was -plainly audible, and without a tremor. "Most certainly not," she said. - -"Then how," inquired Mr. Fenton calmly, "did you account for her -extraordinary assertion that she had committed this murder?" - -Miss Cornelia hardly hesitated. "I thought she was out of her mind," -she said. "I couldn't account for it in any other way." - -"It never occurred to you for a moment that it was true?" - -"Not for a moment." The words came out indignantly. - -"You naturally did not suppose that were she really guilty, she would -proclaim it quite so readily as that?" - -Miss Cornelia stared. "I never," she said, simply, "thought of such a -thing as her being guilty." - -"But you asked her, did you not, for some explanation of her words?" - -"I asked her," faltered Miss Cornelia, "what she meant by saying such -a dreadful thing. And she said--she said"---- - -"Yes," said Mr. Fenton, encouragingly. "Take your time and tell us the -exact truth. What did she say?" - -"She seemed to be rather dazed--She said that she had wished so much -for it to happen that when it did, it seemed almost like an answer to -her wishes--as if she were accountable for it." - -"And you accepted her explanation?" said Mr. Fenton. "It seemed to you -plausible?" - -"I knew what she meant--yes. But I could see that she was over-wrought -and excited, or she wouldn't have thought of it." - -"Did she seem distressed over Halleck's death?" - -Miss Cornelia hesitated. "N--not at first," she said. "She couldn't -seem to realize it." - -"And afterwards?"---- - -"Yes, she seemed distressed then. I thought," said Miss Cornelia -firmly "that she felt very badly indeed when she realized it." - -"And there was nothing in her manner that could induce you to believe -that she expected it, or knew a thing about it beyond what she read in -the papers?" - -"Nothing." - -With this word, firmly pronounced, Miss Cornelia's ordeal came to an -end; she descended white and dazed. Elizabeth leaned over as she -returned to her place and pressed her hand with a faint little smile. -"It's all right, auntie, I'm glad you spoke the truth." And so the -episode passed. - -"She really has done no more harm than we expected," Bobby Van Antwerp -observed to his wife. "It is one of those things which sound much -worse than they really are. After all, what does it amount to? The -hysterical assertion of an excited girl! A guilty woman is more -careful what she says." - -"I will tell Elizabeth," said his wife, in relief, "what you say." But -though she found an opportunity after the day's session, to whisper -this encouragement into the girl's ear, Elizabeth listened vacantly -and did not seem fully to grasp it. The maid's evidence, her aunt's -corroboration, had brought up vividly to her mind the danger that -existed all the time behind these slow, technical deliberations. That -night the horrible waking dream, from which for awhile she had been -free, returned more startlingly real than ever, and the face of the -Judge who sentenced her was the same face in which, during the long -days in the court-room, she had thought she detected some involuntary -gleams of sympathy. It had seemed a kind face in the day-time, but in -her dream it was inexorably stern. - -The next morning, at the trial, her mind did not wander; she kept it -resolutely fixed on the evidence. Mr. D'Hauteville was on the stand, -and she wondered what more fatal revelations were to be made of her -words and actions on that unfortunate morning, when she hardly knew -what she said or did. But no new developments were brought out. There -was no trace in Mr. D'Hauteville's evidence or his easy, unembarrassed -manner of the suspicions which he had been perhaps the first person in -town to entertain. - -Yes, he had seen Miss Van Vorst on the morning after the murder, and -had himself taken her into the studio. Was there anything peculiar in -her manner? Certainly; she seemed much distressed, as was natural, he -thought, under the circumstances. Had she tried to possess herself of -the fatal flask, or of any other incriminating objects, as for -instance her own letters? No, most emphatically no. Was it true, as -the elevator man had already stated, that she had defended herself -against his accusations? He could not remember anything of the kind; -certainly he had not accused her, as he had no reason to suspect her. - -Mr. Fenton on cross-examination, drew from him a description of her -tears, of the fearless way in which she had entered, her apparent -indifference to being observed. Was it, Mr. Fenton demanded, the -manner of a guilty woman? The witness fully agreed that it was not. -And then he left the stand, saying to himself philosophically that all -was fair in the cause of a beautiful and unfortunate girl, whom he had -admired extremely, and with whom his friend Gerard had been, and might -be still, desperately in love. - -The next witness was the Brooklyn tradesman, whose evidence had been -already so much exploited by the yellow journals that it lacked the -force of novelty. He deposed to having sold the flask on the morning -of the twenty-third of December, to a woman in black, thickly veiled, -slight and tall, and with reddish hair. The witness was quite sure -about the date, and as to the time he was less explicit, but convinced -that it was somewhere between the hours of ten and twelve. He was a -middle-aged man with a plain, honest face, and evidently anxious to -tell what he knew and no more. When the District Attorney, in a -dramatic manner, desired him to look at the defendant, and declare if -she were the woman to whom he sold the flask, he seemed to shrink in -distress from the terrible responsibility thus placed upon him. - -"I--it is so long ago," he protested, "and--you--must remember that -she wore a veil." - -"Which entirely obscured her face?"---- - -"No, not entirely," the witness reluctantly admitted. - -"Look at the defendant," the District Attorney insisted, "and tell the -court if her general appearance recalls that of the woman to whom you -sold the flask." - -He turned to Elizabeth and requested her to rise. She grew a shade -paler and stared at him for a moment as if startled; then slowly, she -obeyed him, and stood facing the witness, who brought reluctantly his -anxious gaze to bear upon her. She was ashy-white, but she held her -head erect, her eyes met his without flinching. Thus they stood for -fully a minute, and the silence in the court-room was tense with -nervous excitement. Then the witness spoke. - -"I--there is a certain resemblance," he said. - -"Then you identify her?" said the District Attorney. - -The witness was silent. He looked again at Elizabeth. She was -trembling now, and caught hold of a chair as if for support. The -witness cleared his throat. He was thinking that he had a daughter of -about Elizabeth's age. - -"I--I really could not tell," he began. - -"Take your time," said the District Attorney, impressively. "This is a -very important point." - -And then there was again a long silence. In the midst of it the sun, -bursting through a gray mass of clouds, touched Elizabeth's hair with -a wave of light. It stood out, a shining halo, against the rim of her -black hat. The witness stared at it as if fascinated. Then he uttered -a sound--it might almost have been a sob--of relief. - -"That is not the same woman," he said. "The hair is quite different! -That other woman's hair was a much deeper red--it didn't shine and -glisten. And her whole air, the way she held herself was different. I -am sure it is not the same." - -And this opinion, once announced, he clung to tenaciously--nothing the -District Attorney said could shake it. Mr. Fenton would not even -cross-examine, and there was great rejoicing in the ranks of the -defense. - -But the next day the prosecution placed upon the stand a druggist's -clerk, who remembered having sold a bottle of arsenic to a woman -dressed in black on the morning of the twenty-third of December. The -occurrence was impressed on his mind because he had demurred as to -selling poison, and she had presented a physician's certificate. She -was handsomely dressed and seemed like a lady; he had noticed -particularly that her hair was reddish. And when asked to identify -Elizabeth, he swore unhesitatingly that she was the same woman. - -Upon Mr. Fenton's cross-examination, it became evident what important -questions may hang on the color of a woman's hair. - -_Mr. Fenton_: "You said, did you not, that the woman's hair was red?" - -_Witness_, cautiously: "I said, reddish. That's not quite the same -thing." - -_Mr. Fenton_: "Explain the difference." - -_Witness_, confused: "Well, I--I don't know. I meant to say it was -sort of--sort of light"---- - -"You meant to say, in other words, that it was not black?" - -_Witness_, recovering himself and speaking stubbornly: "No, I meant to -say that it was reddish--sort of sandy"---- - -"Ah--like the District Attorney's moustache, for instance?" - -There was laughter in the court-room. The District Attorney's -moustache was a brilliant carrot color, which at the opposing -counsel's words, was emulated by his face. - -"I object to these personalities," he said. - -Mr. Fenton was instructed by the Judge to be more serious, but held to -his point. - -"Your Honor, it is necessary to find out what the witness means by the -vague word 'reddish.' If he thinks it applies to the District -Attorney's moustache"---- - -"But I don't," objected the aggrieved witness, to the renewed -amusement of the court-room. "I call that carroty." - -"Then point out, among people present, what hair you consider -reddish." - -The witness's eyes wandered till they alighted upon the distinctly -sandy locks of one of the experts for the prosecution. "I call that -hair reddish," he announced, with some satisfaction at finding a way -out of his dilemma. - -"Ah--now oblige me, by looking at the defendant's hair and tell us if -you think it is like that of this gentleman." - -The witness glanced helplessly at Elizabeth. "It--isn't much like it," -he admitted. - -"And yet you describe both as 'reddish?'" - -The witness was desperate. "Well, I--I don't exactly know"--he said. - -"What you mean by 'reddish?'" said Mr. Fenton. - -"Well--no," said the witness. - -"I see that you don't. It's not necessary for you to tell us that. You -are color blind evidently, and by 'reddish' you simply mean anything -between black and tow-color. But you can't swear away a woman's life -with such vague descriptions as this. You can go now. I have no more -questions to ask." - -The crestfallen witness gladly retreated. But in spite of his -discomfiture, his evidence had been a serious blow to the defense, and -when, a few days later, the prosecution closed its case, it was -admitted on every side to be a strong one. - -The defense opened quietly enough. Mr. Fenton, too, brought out his -handwriting experts, who were prepared with an equally startling array -of technical details, to swear to the exact opposite of what had been -solemnly declared by the experts for the prosecution. The court -settled down into a dreamy mood, and the spectators for the most part -went to sleep. - -There was a break in the monotony, and one which created much -excitement, when Elizabeth took the stand on her own behalf. She had -been very anxious to do this, and Mr. Fenton had reluctantly -consented, with many misgivings and elaborate instructions, to which -he saw, to his alarm, that she listened almost vacantly. But when she -began to testify his doubts disappeared. She gave her evidence very -simply and directly, and there was something in the soft, low tones of -her voice, an indefinable ring of girlishness, of youth and -inexperience, which carried with it an illogical thrill of conviction. - -She had never, she said, bought the flask which contained the poison, -nor had she ever seen one exactly like it. She had not gone to -Brooklyn on the twenty-third of December--she had never gone there in -her life. She had spent the morning of the twenty-third of December at -the Metropolitan Museum. She had not bought the bottle of arsenic, and -knew nothing of it. She had no reason to expect Paul Halleck's death. -She had read of it in the papers. No, she had not meant the assertion -literally when she said that she had killed him; she had been startled -because his death had seemed to come in direct answer to her wishes, -and she had somehow felt accountable for it. Yes, it was a morbid -idea--she realized it now, but she had not been at all well at the -time. That was the reason she had gone up to the studio; she had been -in a state of nervous excitement and hardly knew what she did. No, she -had not thought of the police suspecting her in consequence; such an -idea had never entered her mind. - -On the whole, Mr. Fenton was satisfied with the effect that she was -producing. He had made the agreeable discovery that he was beginning -to believe in her himself; and if this conviction was impressing -itself more and more upon his own suspicious mind, it must, he -thought, be all-powerful with the jury, whom he had already mentally -appraised as kindly men, anxious to escape from an unpleasant duty, -and willing to give the prisoner the full benefit of every doubt. - -But when Mr. Fenton at last sat down and the District Attorney took -his place, then, indeed, began a very bad quarter of an hour for -Elizabeth. Question by question, the lawyer drew out of her her -reasons for keeping her marriage secret and for wishing Halleck dead, -her engagement to Gerard and the manner in which she had deceived him. -Her color changed from white to red and back again to ghastly pallor, -her voice faltered and broke piteously, but still the terrible inquiry -proceeded. Behind her, her aunts were biting their lips in agony and -Mrs. Bobby was beside herself with indignation. "I'd give anything in -the world," she said to her husband, "to get even with that man." -Elizabeth's counsel was keeping up a running fire of objections, but -in vain. The District Attorney got in his questions somehow or -another, and Elizabeth answered them as best she could. - -"Why," she was asked among other things, "was your engagement to Mr. -Gerard broken off?" - -"Because," she faltered, "I--I told him of my marriage." - -"Why did you suddenly tell him, when you had kept it concealed so -long?" - -Elizabeth looked up with a piteous appeal in her eyes, which was -answered by an objection on the part of her counsel, and she was told -by the Judge that she need answer no question unless she wished. But -by this time she had recovered herself. - -"I am quite willing to answer," she said. "I told him because I was -sorry I had deceived him. I had no other reason." - -"You are quite sure that you _did_ tell him, and that he did not--find -out for himself?" - -There was an insulting tone to the question, but she answered it -steadily, without anger. "I am quite sure," she said. - -"Who was with you on the day that you say you went to the Metropolitan -Museum?" This was the next question, put with disconcerting -suddenness. - -She turned still whiter, if that were possible, than before, and her -answer was barely audible. "Mr. Gerard." - -"Was any one else with you?" - -"No one." - -"Is he the only person who can corroborate your statement?" - -"Yes." - -"Then it is a pity he is not here." - -She was silent. - -"Mr. Gerard," observed Mr. Fenton, "when he went abroad left no -address. We made efforts to communicate with him, but so far, we have -not succeeded. It is most unfortunate." - -"Most unfortunate, certainly," echoed the District Attorney, "for the -defendant. But perhaps he was not anxious to be summoned. We have -heard of witnesses who went to the ends of the earth to avoid it." - -He turned to Elizabeth. "Do you know of any reason," he asked, "why he -should not wish to come?" - -Elizabeth's hands were clasped together nervously. "I--I cannot tell." - -"Did you send for him, as soon as you knew that his testimony was -needed?" - -"I did not." - -"_Why_ did you not?" said the District Attorney, in his sneering -voice. - -The color flushed into her face. "Because I--because I"--Her voice -faltered and broke. "I did not _wish_ him sent for," she said, with a -sudden flash of defiance. Then she turned deathly white, and put up -her handkerchief to her lips. "I--will not answer any more questions," -she added, faintly. - -After all, it had been very bad--worse, far worse, than she had -expected. She felt as she left the stand that she had done her cause -only harm. It seemed to her moreover, that whether she were acquitted -or found guilty, she could never, after the abasement of that -cross-examination, hold up her head again. - -The outlook was gloomy, and the case for the defence was almost -closed. But when Mrs. Bobby arrived in court the next morning, she was -greeted by Mr. Fenton with a broad smile. - -"We must put the handwriting experts on again," he said, cheerfully. -"It will be dull, but anything to gain time. I have had a cable from -Mr. Gerard. He will be here in a few days." - - - - -_Chapter XXXVII_ - - -Julian Gerard paced impatiently the deck of the steamer on which, for -eight miserable days, he had existed without sight of a newspaper. It -was early dawn; the outlines of the Goddess of Liberty loomed -uncertainly through a thick fog. He remembered how, when he had last -seen his native shores, he had been distraught with bitter anger -against the woman to whom his heart now turned with an eager longing, -a passionate remorse. - -For the hundredth time his mind analyzed and condemned that strange -whim, the expression of a passing but very real phase of his -disappointment and disillusion, which had led him to cut himself off -from the world he had left behind. He had no wish to hear from home, -to be reminded of home ties, or of the woman whom he had resolved to -forget. Beneath his self-repressed exterior there was a strain of -adventure in his blood, which made him turn, in a crisis like this, to -the primitive resources of uncivilized life. - -He had left home with no definite plans; but in London he met a -friend, who was about to start for his farm in South Africa. Gerard at -once decided to accompany him. South Africa was as good a place as -any other, when all one desired was solitude and hardship, and to get -away from one's self, and the unsatisfactory tone of the world. - -The farm was deep in the interior of the country, many miles distant -from railroad or telegraph station. For months the two men saw no one -but the natives; they had no connection with the outside world. Gerard -rode and hunted and studied, and took notes on the condition of the -country. It was not a bad life on the whole, with a certain charm for -a man satiated with all that wealth can give. He might even have -enjoyed it, if he could have forgotten what had driven him to it, or -erased from his memory the one face which haunted him. - -The worst of it was, that she always seemed to be unhappy; he always -saw her as he had left her, white and sad, with pathetic eyes. The -thought of her which he had carried away that night seemed to have -entirely effaced his earlier impressions of her, as she had first -flashed upon him in the vivid radiance of her fresh beauty, as he had -seen her often in a ball-room, a being meant only for smiles. He had -never pictured her then as suffering; but now, he could not think of -her in any other way. - -One evening, as he and his friend sat together smoking, he found -himself impelled, as it were, in spite of himself, to tell his story. -The doubts, the misgivings which tortured him had grown too strong; it -was a relief to put them into words. He spoke low and bitterly, in -hurried phrases that were evidently the expression of his constant -thoughts; not excusing the conduct of the woman who had deceived him, -dwelling upon it rather with some harshness, for the very wish perhaps -which he was conscious of to do the reverse. The other man, as he -spoke, scanned his face keenly. At the end he made only one comment. -"And yet she loved you?" - -Gerard stared at him for a moment, the color flushing into his dark -cheek. And then his face softened. Yes, it was not his money and -position--he could at least do her that justice. "I believe she did," -he said at last in a low voice. - -"Then, for Heaven's sake," the other man flashed out, "what more do -you want? Why, good Lord, if a woman _loved_ me!"--and here he broke -off and sat in silence, staring fixedly into the fire. - -Gerard paced the floor that night, and his friend in the next room -smiled grimly to hear him. The same smile flickered across his -impassive features when Gerard, the next morning, announced his -departure. His reasons were plausible; he wished to go about the -country and study for himself the political situation of which he had -hitherto seen little or nothing. His host, after that first -involuntary smile, heard him through unmoved and expressed his -approval. He escorted him to the nearest town, wrung his hand at -parting, and went back, with a grimmer look than ever, to his own -solitude. - -Gerard had no plans; he was conscious of only one wish--to be where he -could have news of home. At Cape Town he met the detective, who had -followed him, led astray by various false clues, till he had at last -found the right track. An hour later the two men started for New -York. And now at last the wretched journey was over, and Gerard paced -the deck of the ship and wondered miserably what new developments -might have occurred. - -There was a sensation in the court-room when he appeared. There had -been rumors for days that the trial was being delayed for the arrival -of an important witness, but it had hardly been expected that this -would prove to be Elizabeth's missing lover, who had disappeared from -view, as the prosecution had asserted, to avoid testifying against -her. At least that reason for his absence could not be true, since it -was Mr. Fenton who was bringing him in, with an evident air of -triumph. Gerard himself had a worn and haggard look, which showed even -through the sun-burn which had darkened his face. He had grown very -thin, and there were white threads in his hair which were not visible -a year before; his features were set in lines of absolute, impassive -rigidity. He glanced neither to the right nor left, but sat down at -once in the ranks of witnesses. - -There was a short pause of breathless expectancy, and then the -prisoner was brought in. Her aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp were with her -as usual, and behind followed the police officer--a little in the -background, and with the air he considerately wore of effacing himself -as much as possible. Those who were near Gerard saw him wince and -flush painfully. He had been prepared for this, but the reality -shocked him, almost beyond his powers of self-control. How changed she -was! Paler even than he remembered her, and thin and worn till, but -for her eyes and hair, he might scarcely have known her. It gave him a -shock, too, somehow to see her all in black; he had always pictured -her, illogically, in white as she had been that last evening.... For a -moment she hardly seemed the same woman he had thought of, dreamed of, -all these months. A rush of remorseful tenderness swept over him, all -the greater because she was so changed. He would have liked to go to -her before them all, and proclaim to the whole world his love and -faith. But what he actually did was to turn his eyes away, to spare -her. - -She knew that he was there. She had read the news in the trembling joy -depicted on her aunts' faces, before Eleanor Van Antwerp had -whispered: "Darling, prepare yourself! He has come--he has come to -save you." It hardly seemed a surprise, now that it had happened; she -had always known in her heart that he would come. But she was not -glad, she did not wish to be saved--by him. She still felt as she had -felt from the first, that she would rather die than sit in her place -of humiliation and see the pity in his eyes.... Ah, thank Heaven, he -had turned them away; for him, no doubt, as for her it was a painful -moment. He felt sorry for her, of course--a woman whom he had loved -once, who was being punished more than she deserved. But there was an -invincible pride in her nature which rebelled against his pity, which -would have preferred condemnation, contempt. Yet, after all, pity was -all that she deserved; she had never been worthy of his love. Let her -take what poor remnant of it was left and be thankful. Yet deep down -in her heart, there was, in spite of herself, a feeling of joy that -the world would know that he had not forsaken her. - -There was little time for these conflicting thoughts to oppose each -other in Elizabeth's weary brain. Gerard was called to the stand, and -then she could do nothing but listen--and listen gratefully--while in -quiet, even tones, speaking very simply and to the point, he -corroborated all that she herself had testified. Yes, he remembered -perfectly the morning of the twenty-third of December. He had spent it -with Miss Van Vorst at the Metropolitan Museum. They had been at the -Museum for several hours, and he had left her at her home at half-past -one. Had he known then of her marriage to Halleck? No, not then, but -soon afterwards. She had told him on New Year's Eve. No, he had not -suspected it, or drawn out the avowal in any way. It had been entirely -voluntary. Naturally their engagement had been at an end, and he had -gone abroad immediately. That was his evidence. It materially -strengthened the defence on two points; first, that the prisoner had -not bought either the flask or the poison; second, that she had not -expected Paul Halleck's death. - -The District Attorney, realizing this, tried to undermine its -credibility. It was not an easy thing with a man of Gerard's character -and high standing; but after all, a man in love is hardly an -accountable being. The District Attorney dwelt sarcastically on the -improbability of his having remained in ignorance all this time of the -impending trial, and insinuated that he must have had serious -objections to returning, which had been finally overcome by the -efforts of the defense. He asked his questions in a blustering way, -which fell just short of insolence. Gerard answered them quietly, -apparently unmoved. Yes, he admitted, it seemed improbable that he -should not have heard of the trial, but it was nevertheless absolutely -true. He had spent the greater part of his absence on a farm in South -Africa; he had led a rough, solitary life, read no newspapers, -received no letters. He had first heard that his evidence was needed -at Cape town, five weeks before. No, he had not received a letter from -the defendant, urging him to come to her rescue, nor did he believe -that any such letter had been sent. It would have been quite -unnecessary. - -"Your disinterested chivalry, in other words," sneered the District -Attorney, "was sufficient, without such an appeal?" - -"It is not a question of chivalry," said Gerard, coolly, "it is a -question of telling the truth." - -"Which of course you are anxious to do." - -"Of course." - -His imperturbability seemed proof, against all the offensiveness of -the other's manner. The District Attorney, shifting his ground, -questioned him as to the broken engagement; and here he was rejoiced -to find his man more vulnerable. A tremor would cross Gerard's face, -he changed color more than once. But still his answers were given -quietly, in low, measured tones. Yes, it was true that Miss Van Vorst -had kept him in ignorance of her marriage; but he did not think that -her reasons for her silence need be discussed, since they were quite -irrelevant. - -"And you mean to assure us," said the District Attorney, -incredulously, "that she told you at last of her own accord, without -the slightest necessity?" - -"Most certainly." - -"And what she told you then was the only information you received of -her marriage?" - -"Yes." - -"It was the only reason for breaking the engagement?" - -"Yes." - -"And now that that reason no longer exists," said the District -Attorney, "the engagement, I suppose, is likely to be renewed?" - -The question was so unexpected that Mr. Fenton was not ready with an -objection, and Gerard spoke before he could interpose. - -"I don't think that I am bound to answer questions as to what may or -may not occur in the future." - -Mr. Fenton hastily agreed with him, and he was sustained by the judge. -But the District Attorney defended his line of inquiry. - -"Your Honor, it is important for me to show how far this witness is -biassed in favor of the defendant. He has wished to marry her once, it -is possible, apparently, that he may be in the same position again. -You won't deny," he went on, turning to Gerard, "--that there _is_ -such a possibility?" - -Gerard hesitated for perhaps a second. Then he looked the lawyer -squarely, defiantly in the face. He was very pale, but there was an -angry light in his eyes; his voice rang out clearly. "I deny nothing," -he said, "except that my feelings toward Miss Van Vorst have -influenced the truth of anything I said." - -Mr. Fenton again formally entered his objection, and after some -wrangling, question and answer were stricken from the record. Still, -the jury had heard them and could form their own conclusions. Mr. -Fenton was not dissatisfied; there was a romantic element in the -situation which must, he thought, appeal irresistibly to the popular -imagination. And indeed, as Gerard left the stand, the general -sympathy was on his side, even among those who secretly thought that -he had stretched a point here and there, on behalf of the woman he -loved. It was possible that his evidence was false; but the people who -thought thus, if they were men, did not blame him; if they were women, -they admired him rather the more. - -The eyes of the court-room were fixed upon him as he crossed over to -where Elizabeth sat and shook hands with her quietly, as if they had -parted yesterday. And then he seated himself near her, in the little -circle of her supporters. Eleanor Van Antwerp put out her hand to him, -her dark eyes shining through a mist of tears. - -"Julian, you don't know how happy I am to have you back." - -He shuddered, "Don't speak of it, Eleanor. I can never forgive myself -for having gone." - -Elizabeth heard the words, but her eyes were resolutely bent on the -ground, and she refused to take any of the comfort that his presence -might have imparted. It was natural that he should feel remorseful, -eager to show to the world as much as possible that he had not -forsaken her, that he thoroughly believed in her innocence. But for -anything more, such a possibility as the District Attorney had -suggested, which he did not deny, could not, of course, very well deny -under the circumstances?... Ah, no, there could be no question any -more of love between them. Her own pride would not permit it, even if -what she called his pity could influence his judgment to that extent. -And then, with a start, she remembered that she was still on trial for -her life, and that all thoughts of love and marriage were incongruous, -almost grotesque. The case for the defense was closed, the District -Attorney was to make his final address the next day. The thing would -soon be decided, one way or the other. - -The next morning, a box of flowers was brought to her; the white roses -which he had always sent her. For a moment she hesitated, touched them -lovingly, and then at last she took one of them and fastened it in her -belt. "It may bring luck," she murmured, as if to excuse her action, -and then she bent her head, and pressed her lips to its fragrant -petals. - -A little later, when she entered the court-room, the eyes of all were -fixed on the flower. It was the first touch of color that had ever -relieved her black gown. - -"You see," one woman whispered, "it's the sign of innocence." - -Her companion, less easily moved, replied cautiously: "Perhaps." - - - - -_Chapter XXXVIII_ - - -The tide of popular sentiment was turning in Elizabeth's favor. It had -not been with her at first, in spite of her youth and the pathetic -circumstances of her position; nay, against her all the more on that -very account with many people, who feared a display of mawkish -sentiment, and to whom the cold-blooded character of the crime stood -out the more harshly, by contrast with her soft and girlish looks. But -now one thing and another--an intangible something in her manner on -the witness-stand; Gerard's return and his evidence on her behalf; his -apparently unchanged devotion--all this had created a strong revulsion -of feeling, which was increased rather than diminished by the District -Attorney's charge. - -The District Attorney was in a brutal mood. He did not spare -Elizabeth, he left it, he said, to the jury to determine the weight of -Gerard's evidence. For himself, he would not for the world suggest -that a gentleman of Mr. Gerard's high character would testify falsely; -yet he might be--mistaken; he might easily make some slight error in -dates, misled by his--his interest in the defendant. While he talked -Gerard bit his lip, inwardly cursing that dictate of civilization -which had abolished duelling, and made even horsewhipping a doubtful -expedient. Mrs. Bobby was considering ways by which one could be -avenged on "a horrible man, not in society, whom one couldn't snub by -not asking him to dinner, or anything of that kind." Elizabeth felt, -with a new thrill of pain, that she was involving Gerard in her own -disgrace. But Mr. Fenton surveyed the District Attorney unmoved -through half-closed eyes, and said to himself coolly that he was going -too far. - -His own charge was a skillful defense of Gerard's evidence, a -criticism, not too violent, of the District Attorney's brutality, and -an appeal, not too open, to the sympathies of the jury. Elizabeth -flushed as she realized that this was the point, after all; she was to -be saved on issues that would not have been effectual with a man. And -then the Judge's charge began, and she forgot all sense of -humiliation, forgot everything but the thought that her fate hung in -the balance, to be decided one way or the other by those -carefully-balanced, judicial phrases. Did she imagine it, or was -there, through all the calm analysis of evidence, the impartial -weighing of this or that detail, a conviction of her innocence so -decided that it made itself felt almost unconsciously? - -"Strong on our side!" Bobby Van Antwerp's voice, unusually animated -and exultant, sounded in his wife's ear at the end. "The prosecution -are furious--they say it's horribly unfair. But of course, we won't -quarrel with that." - -Eleanor was deathly white; her hands were tightly locked together. At -Bobby's words she gave a little sob of hysterical relief. "Oh, -Bobby," she murmured, under her breath, "thank God that judges are -human, after all! Now, if the jury are anything short of brutes, -they'll acquit her at once and make an end of this." - -But the jury fell short of this test of humanity, and retired to -deliberate. Mrs. Bobby scanned their faces anxiously, as she had done -at the beginning of the trial. They were care-worn and gloomy--naturally, -with a woman's life in their hands; but surely--surely they should -look happier, since it was in their power to save her? - -"I wish, Bobby," she murmured, with that sob again in her throat, but -this time not one of relief, "I wish we had tried if they wouldn't -take money!" - -"Don't, Eleanor," said Bobby. "They're all honest men--and besides, -one can't do such things!" To himself he was thinking that women -really seemed on such occasions as this to be entirely without -principle, and yet that somehow one liked them all the better for it. - -This was at two o'clock. Three, four, five o'clock came, and still -they made no sign. The long deliberation seemed ominous to the anxious -group who waited in a small, dark room on the ground floor of the -court-house, starting at every sound and counting the moments as they -dragged wearily along. Mr. Fenton and the other counsel came -restlessly in and out, with a cheerful air that covered but -indifferently their intense anxiety; Bobby and Julian Gerard stood by -the window, talking occasionally in low tones, more often silent and -gazing at the prison walls that rose up grimly before their eyes. -Elizabeth sat at a small table in the middle of the room, and her -aunts and Mrs. Van Antwerp sat around her in a forlorn circle. It was -a long while since any one had spoken; all consoling suggestions were -exhausted. - -Elizabeth's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes, wide-open -yet unseeing, stared steadily before her. Vaguely she was conscious -that there were people in the room, that by the window stood the man -whose presence might have mattered more to her at some other time than -anything else on earth; that her aunts and Eleanor Van Antwerp were -beside her, and would bend forward now and then, one or other of them, -to press her hand. In a dull, mechanical way, she was thankful to know -that they were there; yet nothing they said or did could help her, a -great gulf seemed to yawn between her and the outside world.... It is -thus, perhaps, that the dying feel when they see, with their failing -sight, the faces of friends, and know that even love is powerless to -reach them. Elizabeth suffered, during those hours of suspense, the -agony of death a hundred times over. But as the afternoon wore on, -hope faded and the numbness of despair crept over her tortured nerves. - -"I don't like their staying out so long," Bobby Van Antwerp could not -help murmuring to Gerard. "After the charge, I thought they'd let her -off at once. They all want to--that's certain. But there were one or -two of them who looked--infernally conscientious." - -"I don't want any of them"--Gerard began, but stopped. "To go against -his convictions," was what he had meant to add, but the words remained -unspoken. There are limits to even a Puritan conscience. "Good God! -Bobby," he whispered, hoarsely, "a man who could convict her deserves -to be shot!" - -"I agree with you, old man," said Bobby, tranquilly. And then they -once more fell silent, and the shadows lengthened, and some one lit a -feeble gas-jet, which brought out, in ghastly relief, the look of -strained expectancy on each face. - -At six o'clock there was a rustle, an excitement. Mr. Fenton came in -and spoke to Bobby, and he spoke to his wife. She touched Elizabeth on -the shoulder. "Dear, we--we go up now," she said. Elizabeth rose and -mechanically put up her hand to her hair. - -"Do I look all right?" she said, and then smiled vaguely at the -commonplace question. A merciful stupor had descended upon her in the -last hour; when she looked at her aunts, she saw that they were -suffering far more than she. "I am not frightened," she said, "please -don't be frightened." She was determined that she would be brave. This -was the thought uppermost in her mind. - -They went up to the court-room, and on the threshold Mr. Fenton said -to her: "Remember, that even if the verdict is--is unfavorable, it is -not final. We shall appeal." She bent her head, wondering mechanically -that any one should speak of things to happen _after_ the verdict. Her -whole life seemed bounded by the events of the next few minutes; she -could not look beyond.... The thought crossed her mind of how slight a -thing would decide her fate--the difference between one word or two, -guilty or not guilty. A mere trifle--a word in three letters; yet all -the difference between honor and dishonor, life and death. Her mind -fastened upon the irrelevant detail and dallied with it; the while she -was conscious, with sickening intensity, of each movement in the -court-room--the breathless atmosphere of a suspense, in which the mere -rustling of a paper jarred upon the nerves; the jury filing in, the -formal opening question, "Gentlemen of the jury, have you decided upon -your verdict?" Her throat was parched, balls of fire danced before her -eyes, there was a sound in her ears like the rushing of many waters. -Guilty or not guilty? One word or two? The question beat upon her -brain with a dull persistence, and she was conscious, vaguely, that -the answer was of vital importance, but somehow she could not bring -herself to realize it. - -"_Not Guilty._" - -The words rang clear and confident, across that gulf which separated -her from the outside world. As through a mist she saw the relief on -the faces of those around her, but still she herself was conscious of -no feeling. She still sat white and dazed, staring before her, while -her lips moved mechanically, repeating the words that seemed so -meaningless: "_Not Guilty._" - -There was a pause, and then a stir, a murmur of relief. Some women -sobbed aloud. But she herself still sat staring before her, repeating -the answer that seemed to have no meaning: "_Not Guilty._" - - - - -_Chapter XXXIX_ - - -By the next morning, she had realized all that the verdict meant; she -had had time even to grow used to it. The first joy had spent itself, -the inevitable reaction was setting in. - -"Life isn't everything," she thought, and stared before her with knit -brows. The fire--it was a long time since she had sat beside one--gave -out a cheerful glow, the little drawing-room wore a festive air and -was bright with flowers that had been sent to her. A feeling of -physical ease and contentment, of relief in the mere change of scene, -stole over her wearied senses. But still it did not suffice; she -struggled indeed against it. - -She took up and re-read a letter which had been left for her a little -while before, and had caused her, in her state of exhaustion, -something of a nervous shock. - - _"They have just told me," it said, "that you are acquitted. - As for me, I am very ill. They say I can't live much longer. - That's why I ask if you will come and see me at once. There - are some things I'd like to tell you, and if you don't come - quickly it may be too late."_ - - _AMANDA._" - -The address was that of a hospital. - -"I didn't know," Elizabeth said, "that Amanda was so ill." - -Her aunts, who were hovering about the room, devouring their recovered -treasure with tender eyes, looked surprised at her introduction of an -irrelevant subject. - -"I heard that she had gone to a hospital," Miss Cornelia said, dryly, -"and her mother came down to be near her--but dear me, that girl -always has something the matter with her! I don't know why you should -trouble yourself about her, my dear. Both she and her mother have -behaved in a very unfeeling way all this time, never coming to see -you, or sending messages, or anything." - -"Well, Amanda has sent me a message now," said Elizabeth. "She wants -me to come and see her, and I think"--she hesitated a moment--"I think -I shall go at once," she announced with sudden decision. The words -sounded strangely to her as she uttered them. It was so long since she -had said that she would do this or that. And even now, her wishes met -with some faint opposition. - -Her aunts looked at each other. "But won't that be painful for you, my -dear?" urged Miss Cornelia, after a moment. - -"I'm used to painful things, Aunt Cornelia." The girl's smile was -bitter; there was a tone of petulant wilfulness in her voice. Her -aunts still looked at one another unspoken words trembled on the lips -of each. - -"My dear," Miss Joanna began at last, "Julian"--she stopped. - -"He said he hoped to see you this morning," said Miss Cornelia, taking -up the sentence. "He hoped that after you had rested"--she faltered as -a look crossed Elizabeth's face, which did not promise consent. And -then suddenly she took courage and crossed over to Elizabeth and took -her hand. "My dear," she cried, "you--you must see him. He has been so -unhappy. He--he loves you, Elizabeth." Again her voice faltered. The -girl sat passive for a moment, and then she flushed and dragged away -her hand. - -"I can't see him," she broke out, hoarsely; "it--it would be more -painful than seeing Amanda. And--if he loves me, why, so much the -worse!" Then softening, as she met their dismayed looks: "Oh, don't -you understand," she cried, "don't you understand that the kindest -thing I can do for him is--not to see him?" And then the tears sprang -to her eyes and she hurriedly left the room. - -When she came back a few minutes later, she was dressed for going out, -in the black gown and hat that she had worn at the trial. She had tied -a black veil over her face. - -"I must go to see Amanda," she said, speaking very quietly and without -any trace of emotion. "I should always regret it if--if anything -happened before I went." She paused as if in expectation of further -protest, and then as none came, she went to them and kissed them both -affectionately. "You--you don't mind, do you," she said, with a note -of apology in her voice. Her aunts sighed resignedly. - -"I wish you would let me go with you, Elizabeth," Miss Cornelia said, -feebly. - -Elizabeth smiled. "Why should you, dear?" she said, quietly. "I've got -to face the world alone some time, I suppose. And it will be nice to -see what it's like--I've almost forgotten." She gave a little sigh, -but checked it instantly, and went out before they could say any more. - -Once in the street the world seemed so strange that it was startling, -and for a moment turned her faint and giddy. It was a mild midwinter -day--the trial had lasted over Christmas and into the new year--almost -there seemed a foretaste of spring in the air. To Elizabeth the -sunlight was dazzling; she put up her hand to ward it off. She walked -slowly and feebly, as if she were convalescing from a long illness. -She had not realized before how weak she was. Fortunately there was -but a short walk before her, through the quiet regions of Irving -Place, past Gramercy Park, and on to the hospital. She met no one she -knew, but several strangers glanced at her curiously, or so she -imagined, as if they recognized her, even through her veil. They might -know her from the pictures with which the papers had been filled; they -had seen one, no doubt, only that morning, with an account of the -verdict. They were wondering still, perhaps, if she were guilty or -innocent. - -She was very tired when she reached the hospital, and the meeting -with Amanda loomed up before her like a nightmare. Her hand trembled -as she rang the bell. A woman in a sister's dress opened the door--the -hospital was under the charge of a Protestant order. There was -something conventual about the waiting-room, into which she was shown. -There was little furniture, pictures of saints hung on the walls, the -wide window was filled with stained glass, through which the light -streamed faintly and fell in bars of crimson and purple upon the -polished floor. The sister, speaking in the subdued voice which the -place seemed to demand, bade Elizabeth seat herself and took up her -name. - -Elizabeth sank down with a sense of physical relief, which obliterated -all other feelings. A moment later she looked up with a start. The -door opened and a woman entered. It was Amanda's mother. - -"Well Elizabeth, so you've got off!" she said, mechanically touching -with dry lips her niece's cheek. "I'm sure I'm glad enough, for the -sake of the family. And then I never thought you did it." - -Elizabeth flushed painfully. "That was kind of you, Aunt Rebecca," she -said. - -"Well, a great many people did, you know, and probably do still, for -that matter. But lor'--what difference does it make, as long as you've -got off? Some people might think all the more of you. There was that -girl at----who committed that murder that everybody talked about--she -got a hundred offers, they say, right after she was acquitted. And -everybody knew that she got off, just because she was a woman." - -Elizabeth shuddered. "Please don't talk about it, Aunt Rebecca," she -said, faintly. "Tell me about Amanda." - -A sort of contraction crossed Aunt Rebecca's face, which might in any -one else, have resulted in tears. "Oh, Amanda's pretty poorly," she -said, in an odd, dry voice. "I guess all those sanitariums and -new-fangled inventions, haven't done her much good. Why the doctor -sent her here, I don't know. It's a queer Catholic place, and I don't -hold with such notions, but Amanda seems taken with the sisters"--she -broke off abruptly as one of their number entered. - -She was a woman of middle age, with a grave, fine face and musical -voice which harmonized with the place and her own costume. In her -presence Amanda's mother, for all her uneasy contempt seemed to sink -at once into insignificance. The Sister took possession very gently, -but completely, of Elizabeth. Her charge had been very anxious, she -said, to see her; it was kind of Miss Van Vorst to come. And then she -led the way up the stairs, and down the long white corridors, talking -quietly as she went of Amanda's case. The girl was suffering from a -complication of maladies, and the Sister thought that there was, -besides, some trouble weighing on her mind, under the stress of which -she grew daily weaker. No, there was, humanly speaking, little hope, -though Amanda's poor mother did not realize it, but the Sister thought -it would do her patient good to see Miss Van Vorst, of whom she had -talked a great deal. All this time there was not a word, not a -curious glance, to show that the Sister knew that she had beside her -the subject of so much discussion. And yet Elizabeth felt herself -enveloped in an atmosphere of sympathy, a tacit recognition of the -fact that she had suffered, which held in it not a trace of blame or -suspicion. Elizabeth felt grateful. - -The private room which Amanda occupied as one of the few "paying -patients," was near the roof of the house, at the head of several -flights of stairs. Sunlight poured in through the window, the floor -was covered with matting, the walls bare and hung with religious -pictures. Opposite the small iron bed, and placed where the light fell -full upon it, was an engraving, the copy of a famous picture, of -Christ upon the Cross. It was singularly vivid, and the sorrowful -dignity of the face had attracted the eyes and soothed the sufferings -of many an occupant of the room. - -Amanda's strange, light eyes, as they stood out unnaturally large and -dilated in her thin, wasted face, were not fixed upon the picture; but -turned with eager expectancy towards the door. She was sitting up in -bed, her head propped with pillows. Her skin had faded to a duller, -more ghastly tint than ever, but a bright spot of red burned in either -cheek. As Elizabeth entered she started, and an odd look flitted -across her face--it was hard to tell whether it indicated relief, or -fear, or perhaps a mingling of both. - -"So you've come," she said, and drew a long sobbing breath. It was all -her greeting. Elizabeth, embarrassed, murmured a few words of -sympathy, as she sank into the chair nearest the door. The Sister, -with a keen glance from one to the other, left the two girls alone. - -Amanda immediately assumed control of the situation. - -"Sit there," she said, in a quick, sharp voice, and pointing to a -chair by the window, "sit there so I can look at you." Elizabeth -mechanically obeyed and threw back her veil. Amanda's eyes fastened -eagerly upon her face. - -"Why, you--you've lost your looks," she announced, abruptly. "Did you -know it?" There was a note of involuntary satisfaction in her voice. - -Elizabeth tried to smile. "Worse things have happened to me than that, -Amanda," she said. - -"I didn't think anything could be worse--to you," Amanda said, feebly. - -Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking that suffering had not yet -produced in Amanda any regenerating effect. - -"Well, after all, I guess it don't matter," Amanda said, drearily, -after a pause. "You're acquitted just the same, and Mr. Gerard is just -as crazy about you as ever, they say. I guess you've got the best of -me still." She sank into a gloomy silence. - -Elizabeth dared not speak. She was wondering if she could not escape, -since her cousin had nothing to say, beyond the old jealous complaint. -But suddenly Amanda turned to her. - -"I've something I want to tell you," she said, speaking feebly and -with difficulty. "Sister made me promise that I--would; she said that -if there was any--any way in which I'd injured you, it would ease my -mind to--tell you. But first you must promise"--she looked about her -suspiciously--"you must swear to me on your oath that you won't -repeat--anything I tell you." - -She raised herself up on her pillows, her breath came in convulsive -gasps, she fixed her eyes intently upon Elizabeth. "Promise," she -said, in her weak, hoarse voice, "swear to me on your oath that you -won't--repeat what I tell you now." - -Elizabeth trembled, her brain felt dazed. Those strained, eager eyes -held her with a terrible insistence. "I--I promise," she repeated, -hardly knowing what she said, conscious only of a wish to have them -withdrawn. - -Amanda sank back as if relieved, on the pillows, but still she -questioned, with a look of doubt. "You won't break your word. You are -sure?" - -"Quite sure," said Elizabeth. Her brain still seemed dazed, her lips -moved mechanically. - -Amanda seemed satisfied. Still, she did not speak, she lay quiet, with -half-closed eyes. At last, with a painful effort, she raised herself -up, and fixed her eyes again intently upon Elizabeth. "I sent the -poison," she said. The words came in a hoarse whisper. - -Elizabeth stared at her without moving; only a slight shudder passed -through her. The words echoed in her ear, beat upon her brain. The -odd part of it was that they did not surprise her. She seemed somehow -to have heard, or thought them, before. - -"Yes," Amanda repeated, after a moment, "I sent the poison. It was -after I had left the sanitarium--no one knew that I had left it. I -dressed as like you as I could, I copied your handwriting, I knew they -would think it was you. But I didn't"--a slight undertone of contempt -made itself felt in her voice--"I didn't know how easy it would be, -for I didn't suppose you'd do all those stupid things that made them -suspect you." - -She was silent. Elizabeth still stared at her motionless, aghast. "But -why--why," she faltered, "what object, Amanda, could you have?" - -A look of intense bitterness crossed the sick girl's face. She seemed -to flare up all at once into a red heat of anger, as dry, withered -wood will sometimes give out the fiercest flames. "What object!" she -repeated. "You ask what object!--and you know how he scorned me! -Didn't you wish him to die? You admitted it in court--because he stood -in your way; and do you think that is anything to being -humiliated--dragged in the dust, as I was?" - -She leaned back panting on the pillows; the fierce flame of anger -which passed over her seemed to consume her feeble strength. When she -spoke again it was much more feebly. "That time when I--I went to him -at the studio," she said, "I thought maybe he'd come back to me -again--seeing you didn't seem to want him. I thought--but there, I -was a fool. Most women are, I guess, when they care about a man. He -laughed at me and said that I'd deceived myself--that it was I who did -the love-making. That was a lie, but it was what he said, I guess, -about most girls--when he got tired of them. I got wild, it seemed as -if my brain was on fire, and I--I threatened him. He only laughed. And -then I taunted him--about you; that seemed to hurt him more. I said as -how you had so many beaux, you didn't care any longer about him. He -said then, I was mistaken, that you were just as fond of him as -ever--really, that you would do anything he wanted"-- - -She paused, her breath seemed to fail her. Elizabeth sat listening, -stupefied, incapable of speech or motion. Amanda went on presently, -huddling one word upon another: "I didn't believe him, I thought it -was only to make me feel worse. And then, when I went out, I met -you--the thought came to me that I'd find out the truth. I came back, -I'd left the door open, I saw you give him money--but there was a look -on your face that made me think you didn't do it--for love." - -She paused again and struggled for breath. Elizabeth spoke -involuntarily. "But how did you know," she asked, "about the pearls?" - -"What, that you'd sold them?" Amanda spoke quietly, with a slight -smile, as at the simplicity of the question. "I knew it the moment I -saw you--that evening, and you didn't have them on. Then when I spoke -of them, I saw I was right--I saw how I'd frightened you. There was a -secret--I didn't know what; but it was something you were ashamed of. -Then, when you got engaged to that other man, I understood--I knew you -were afraid of his finding it out. I used to write to him, warning -him. He never answered my letters, or paid any attention--I guess he -thought I was crazy; but I had to keep on writing--I couldn't help it, -somehow. I had to do everything I did. It seemed as if something urged -me on. The only thing that kept me from--from having my revenge was -that you might reap the benefit. And then this plan came to me, and I -saw how I could--get even--with you both." - -The hoarse, feeble voice grew fainter and died away, as if from sheer -exhaustion. Elizabeth interposed an indignant protest. "And so," she -said, "you wanted me to suffer--for your crime? You would have been -glad if they had found me guilty?" - -Amanda did not answer for a moment. "No," she said at last, "I didn't -want you to die. I knew you'd get off--every one said so--because you -were so pretty and so swell. They wouldn't"--the bitter smile again -hovered about her white lips--"they wouldn't have said that about me. -But--if they had found you guilty"--she paused--"I had quite made up -my mind to confess. It was horrible lying here, thinking it over--I -don't believe death can be worse. You couldn't have suffered--anything -like it; for you were innocent." - -She looked at Elizabeth with a strange horror in her eyes. Her face -was ghastly, beads of perspiration stood on her forehead, and on the -little rings of dark red hair, which clung about her temples. "Oh, -you don't know what it is," she said, "you don't know what it is. It's -the thought of that that's killing me inch by inch; it's not the -disease. And yet I'm afraid--I'm afraid to confess"--her voice broke -piteously. "You don't want me to--do you?--now that you've got off. It -won't do you any good--any longer, and as for me, though I don't want -to live, I'm afraid--to die." The feeble voice again faltered and died -away. - -Elizabeth sat silent, her brain in a whirl. Before her there rose the -thought of the long months of torture, the prison cell, the terrible, -unnecessary suspicion that still clouded her life.... If Amanda would -confess, it would be something. People would never again believe her -guilty. And yet!---- - -Mechanically, her eyes wandered about the room, the incongruous -setting for this strange scene--bright, calm and peaceful; filled with -the pictures of martyred saints. Her gaze lingered fascinated on the -face of Christ in the engraving. It might have been the effect of the -light, or the over-wrought state of her nerves which made it appear so -real, instinct with mysterious life and power. Almost it seemed as if -the lips moved, the sorrowful eyes rested, with a look of infinite -pity, on Amanda ... ... "You won't betray me?" the feeble voice -pleaded. "I trusted you--you promised? You won't break your word?" - -"No"--Elizabeth spoke slowly and thoughtfully--"I won't break my word. -I did break a promise I made you once, and repented it, ever since; -but this time I shall keep it. If you confess, it must be for your own -sake, not for mine. No one I care about believes me guilty. Let it -go." - -Amanda drew a sigh of relief. Her head fell back, her attitude of -tension relaxed insensibly. - -"You are very generous," she said, faintly. "I--I won't be -ungrateful." And then a silence fell upon them. Amanda's eyes closed, -she seemed exhausted. Elizabeth, seeing this, got up. - -"I had better go. You're very tired." No answer came. But as she -reached the door Amanda's eyes unclosed, she turned her face towards -her. - -"Good-bye," she said. "I'm sorry you've--lost your looks. Perhaps -you'll--get them back." The words came out with a great effort. And -then she turned her face away and said no more. - -The Sister was waiting outside in the corridor. She accompanied -Elizabeth to the door of the hospital. - -As they parted she laid her hand for an instant on the girl's arm, her -grave, clear eyes scanned the white, exhausted face. - -"My dear," she said, "did your cousin tell you--what she sent for you -to say?" - -Elizabeth met her gaze firmly, with eyes as clear as her own. "It is a -secret," she said, quietly. "I promised--not to repeat it." - -A cloud passed over the Sister's face; her hand rested for a moment -tenderly on Elizabeth's arm. "Poor child!" was all she said. It would -have been hard to tell to whom she referred--Elizabeth or Amanda. - -An instant later the great hospital door swung to, and Elizabeth found -herself again in the outside world. - -Amanda lay absolutely still. She was conscious, for the moment, of -nothing but the utter vacuity of exhaustion. It was only little by -little that her strength revived, her brain began to work, those -thoughts weighed upon her again, which were killing her inch by inch. - -It is hard to understand the processes of a mind like Amanda's, -diseased perhaps from the first, made more so, as life went on, by -illness and adverse circumstances. As to how far she was accountable, -who can decide?... - -One thing is certain, that some sort of moral struggle now took place -within her. Her brow was contracted, her lips moved, now and then she -stirred uneasily. Her piteous gaze fastened half unconsciously, as -Elizabeth's had done, on the face of the Christ in the engraving. For -her as for Elizabeth, the pictured eyes held a curious fascination. -But we read into inanimate objects, above all the symbols of our -faith, our own thoughts and convictions. It was not pity which Amanda -saw in the sorrowful eyes which to her, too, seemed alive with a -singular power. - -When the Sister came in, a little later, she asked her a question. - -"Isn't it enough if we confess our sins?" she asked, feebly. "You -said that would be enough to have them forgiven." - -The Sister looked down at her gravely. "Repentance is not enough," she -said, "unless we do what we can to make amends." - -Amanda turned away with a feeble moan. - -It was late in the afternoon when she nerved herself, as for a great -effort. She called the Sister to her and whispered. What she said did -not seem to cause surprise. The Sister's face brightened, she left the -room quickly. It was evident that she was prepared for an emergency -like this. An hour later the small room was filled--there was a -lawyer, witnesses.... Amanda's weak voice spoke steadily, without a -pause.... - -When it was over, she sank back exhausted, and her eyes again sought -the face in the engraving. She found there what she expected. With a -long sigh of relief she turned her face to the wall and slept. The -Sister quietly pulled down the blind. - -"She will rest now," she said softly, and it was true. Amanda never -awoke. - - - - -_Chapter XL_ - - -"Don't you think," said Gerard, "that I have waited long enough?" - -It was five months later. The mellow afternoon sunlight pierced the -foliage, which, interlacing, formed an arch overhead. Wild roses grew -in profusion along the roadside. Beyond, the fields were thickly -strewn with buttercups and daisies. The air was fragrant with the -scent of honeysuckle. - -Elizabeth wore a white gown; the hands carelessly clasped before her -were filled with June roses. So far, she matched the day and the -season. But her head drooped languidly, like a wilting flower, the -country air had brought no color to her cheeks. Lines of suffering -still lingered about her mouth. The eyes which were cast down, almost -hidden by their long lashes, held a latent shadow in their depths. - -The man by her side, who had just come up from town, noted all this -with a keen anxiety. - -"Don't you think," he repeated, with an impatience the greater for -what her looks conveyed, "don't you think that I have waited long -enough?" - -A quiver crossed her face, but she did not look up. "It's not my fault -that you have--waited," she murmured. - -The man made a rueful gesture. "Oh, you need not tell me that," he -said. "If you had had your way, you would have sent me--back to South -Africa, I believe." He broke off with a bitter laugh. As if in spite -of herself, a smile flickered beneath her drooping lids. - -"Not quite so far, perhaps." The words sounded with a demure accent. -But in an instant the smile vanished, her lip quivered, she looked up -at him with a tremulous earnestness. "Ah, can't you understand," she -cried, "why I want you to go? Haven't I brought you trouble enough? Do -you think that now"--she paused and caught her breath--"now that all -this disgrace has come upon me," she went on with an effort, "do you -think I would burden you with it?" - -"Disgrace!"--He flushed hotly.--"I don't know why there should be -disgrace," he said, "when every one knows now--even those idiots who -doubted you--how baseless the whole miserable accusation was." - -"People don't reason." She sighed wearily. "There will always be a -cloud over me--I feel it even here. People at The Mills stare at me, -the Neighborhood"--she smiled painfully--"the Neighborhood feels that -I have brought upon it eternal discredit. Ah, you can't blame -them"--as Gerard muttered under his breath an ejaculation. "It will be -the same in town--everywhere. People will always remember that I was -horribly talked about, that I have been in prison. For myself"--her -lip trembled--"I'm hardened, but for you"-- - -"For me"--he put out his hand and took hers determinedly into his -strong grasp--"for me it is inevitable that, whatever troubles you -have, I must share them." - -There was silence for a moment. They stood facing each other, the only -actors in the peaceful country scene; the man strong, determined, his -eyes aglow with the fire of mastery; the woman pale, drooping, -exhausted, yet still with some power in her weakness, that opposed -itself to his strength. She put out her hand at last in a gesture of -entreaty. "Ah, don't let us go all over this again," she pleaded. -"Don't make it so hard for me. It's hard enough"--The words seemed to -escape her unawares. - -"Ah!" A gleam of triumph crossed his face. "It is hard, then?" - -"Most things are hard."--She spoke with recovered firmness.--"Life is -hard, but one must--bear it. At least I'll try to bear it--alone. The -only amends I can make to you"--she clasped her hands suddenly in a -passionate gesture of renunciation--"the only atonement is to efface -myself, to sink out of your life as if I had never--been in it." She -paused, her breath came in convulsive gasps, but still she faced him -resolute, the look in her eyes with which some penitent of the early -church might have welcomed lifelong immolation. "To efface myself," -she repeated, dwelling upon the words as if they held some painful -satisfaction, "to sink out of your life--it is the only atonement I -can make." - -"You can't make it." Gerard's words rang out clearly. He took her -hands again resolutely in his. "You can't efface yourself," he said. -"It's beyond your power." A smile flickered across his face, his eyes -looked into hers with an imperious tenderness, before which they fell -abashed. "Do you know," he said, "why I went off in that idiotic -fashion into the wilds, tried to cut myself off from the world? I was -bitter, angry--I wanted to forget you; I thought, if there were -nothing to remind me of you, I might. And then day and night I thought -of you, day and night your face haunted me.... Ah, Elizabeth"--his -voice broke--"ask me to do anything except--forget you." - -There was again silence. Elizabeth's lips parted, her breath -fluttered, a warm, lovely color flooded her face. He thought she had -yielded. But almost instantly the color faded, she drew her hands from -his grasp and shrank away, as if under the weight of some painful -memory. "And,--and that deception," she gasped out. "What has happened -to change that? You said--don't you remember?--that you could -never"--her voice quivered--"never trust me again." She lifted her -head suddenly, she looked him firmly, steadily, in the face, with eyes -that seemed the index to her soul. "I did deceive you," she said. -"Nothing can change that fact. Why should you trust me now?" - -"Ah, it would be hard on most of us"--the words sprung impetuously to -his lips--"if there were no forgiveness, if strict justice were always -meted out." He put out his hand in a passionate gesture, a rush of -feeling thrilled his voice. "Elizabeth," he cried, "don't bring up -words which I said that night in anger, which I have repented--God -knows!--ever since. You had done an heroic thing in telling me the -truth at last, just when it was hardest--I--brute that I was--could -only think of my own misery. But let the past go--it shall not ruin -our lives any longer." He put his arm around her and drew her towards -him. He felt her heart beat, her pulses throb; his voice took on a -deeper note of tenderness. "The future is ours, and love is ours--my -darling, does anything else matter?" - -The argument may not have been a wise one, but it has gained more -victories than all the logic in the world. Elizabeth, weary of -struggling, resigned herself to her defeat.... - -Later she looked up, gave a little, fluttering sigh, and her eyes -sought his with a wistful sweetness. "Dear, I'm not worth it," she -murmured, "but I will try--oh, I will try so hard." ... Gerard, -smiling, cut the sentence short. - -They walked on homeward through the fragrant lanes, in which they two -seemed the only wanderers. The Misses Van Vorst, sitting by the -drawing-room windows, saw them come with a little thrill of anxiety. -Miss Joanna dropped a stitch in her knitting, and Miss Cornelia's -thin, silvery curls fluttered, as if stirred by some intangible wave -of sympathy. - -Elizabeth crossed the flower-studded lawn and came towards them, her -white skirts swaying about her in the gentle summer wind. She held her -head erect, her color was brilliant, her eyes lustrous. The setting -sun shone on her hair and lit it up into a vivid glory. Elizabeth's -aunts stole a glance at her, at the look on Gerard's face. Then their -eyes met and they smiled softly at each other through a mist of tears. - - - - - THE GROSSET & DUNLAP - ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS - OF FAMOUS BOOKS - - -The following books are large 12mo volumes 5¾×8¼ inches in size, are -printed on laid paper of the highest grade, and bound in cloth, with -elaborate decorative covers. They are in every respect beautiful -books. - -UNCLE TOM'S CABIN--By Harriet Beecher Stowe. - -A new edition, printed from entirely new plates, on fine laid paper of -extra quality, with half-tone illustrations by Louis Betts. - -PILGRIM'S PROGRESS--By John Bunyan. - -A new edition of Bunyan's immortal allegory, printed from new plates -on fine laid paper, with illustrations by H. M. 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