Literary Love-Letters and Other Stories

eyes. The message had come, indeed, and the way had been cleared. Ele

or him? So carelessly flung

*

k with his smoking lamp up the broad staircase that clung to one side of

rank tufts. The gloomy wall of the palace cast a shadow that reached to the well.

afraid of ghosts," she added, as the young man stood silent by her side. "An old doge killed

y one g

athing self threw a spirit of life into

little peremptorily. "To do it I h

fused, and now you look for

the other engagem

e began to walk over the moonlit grass. "I was waiting for that-sacrifi

now

dead are under me, and the living ar

long hours of moonligh

ng man

ight disturb us. Let us

mine, not Severance's?"

pped an

you want to know if I am preoccupied. You would l

ng a black prow into the rio from the Misericordia canal. It came up

Miss Barto

ing clothes, a Roman cloak hanging from his shoulders. He looked, sta

ught you were on

ee were silent, wondering who wo

ad a headache," Miss Ba

ptically at the young

americano? Well, Giovanni i

as if to enter the last gondola wh

hand and motione

Bart

smiled,

iss the mid

ent, and Miss Barton's arm

s," he

you," Severance turned to th

night train," Severance added to

ured. She gathered up her dress and stepped firmly into the boat. Severance, left alone on the fondamenta, watc

rton said. "To the Canale G

n raised t

*

ey were well out in the sea of moonlight. Ahead of them lay the stucco walls of the Cimeterio, glowing softly in

sion," Lawrence nodded

nd them lies a sp

dec

ed. It wa

em, lying black behind. A light wind came d

ccomplishment. You are thinking that now you have your fata morgana-n

-you are mine; I have come all these ocean miles to find you. I have come

o. I am built on the sea-weed. But from me you sh

e itself on the whitish walls of the Cimeterio-a question of sex.

u," she went on coaxingly. "But this," her eyes were near him, "thi

d all around toward Mestre and Treviso and Torcello; to San Pietro di Castell

, Janua

ICE OF

Benton, of St. Louis, "niece of Oliphant, that queer old fellow who made his money in the Tobacco Trust," and hence with no end of prospects. Edwards had been a pleasant enough fellow, and Oliphant had not objected to his loafing away a vacation about the old house at Quogue. Marriage with his niece, the one remaining member of his family

ference when she announced her engagement to the

ment. She guessed the unexpressed complement to that tho

led down like a fog over the pleasant house. Edwards would run down frequently, but Oliphant managed to keep out of his way. It was none of his affair, and he let them see plainly this aspect of i

due to a tiresome Sunday visitor. "Oh, you're off, are you?" his indifferent tones had said. "Well, good-by; I hope you will have a good time." And

Success would be ample justification. Their friends watched to see ho

was simply charming, especially in correct summer costume, luxuriating in indolent conversation. He had the well-bred, fine-featured air of so many of the graduates from our Eastern colleges. The suspicion of effeminacy which he s

missed his particular round in the ladder. He should have studied music, or tried for the newspapers as a musical critic. Sunday afternoons he would loll over the piano, picturing the other life-that life which is always so alluring! His wife followed him heroically into all his moods with that pitiful ab

nd she knew it, and struggled against it. If she could only do something to keep the pot boiling while he worked at his music for fame and success! But she could red

bled face; he in a ready-made black serge suit, yet very much the gentleman-pale and listless. Their eyes would seek out any steamer in the river below, or anything else that reminded them of other conditions. He would hum a bit from an opera. They needed no words; their faces were evident, though mute, indications

im a start in another direction. She admired his pride in never referring to old Oliphant. Her uncle was often in her mind, b

irst child. That worried her daily; she saw how hopeless another complication would make their fate. She cried over it at

, the efficient wife of a successful minister in Brooklyn. This Mrs. Leicester invited her to lunch at the cafe at the top of the building, and she had yielded, after a little urging, with real relief. They sat down at

mplications that inwardly bored her. It was a part of her professional duties. She had taken in this situation at once-she had seen that

s replied, consciously. "T

the table. "You haven't been to Quogue much of l

w that Uncle Jame

e, and they say he's growing queer. He never goes away now, and sees no

ter him, to see him die decently, for he can't live beyond the autumn, and the only person who can get in is that fat, greasy Dr

Mrs. Leicester at last. With a sigh the young wife rose, looked regretfully down at the remains of their liberal luncheon, and then walked silently to the elevator. They didn't mention Oliphant again, but there was somethin

unawares, but her insti

fully kind, and I should be delight

peased, "come if you can; come alone." The cab dr

*

had opened possibilities for the imagination. So little of Uncle James's money, she mused, would make them ideally happy-would put her husband on the road to fame. She had almost made up her mind on a course of action, and she debated the propriety of undertaking the affair without her husband's knowledge. She knew that his pride would revolt from her plan. She could pocket her own pride, but she was tender of his conscience, of his comfort, o

led as she described the luncheon, the talk, the news of her uncle, and at last

lieved, and his nervous movements of assumed

f her, wasn't

d, impressively. "Of

e same." Edwards frowned, but he kept an exp

de her flush. Edwards rose abruptly from the table and wandered about th

le lives-unless he should send for us." Thus he had put himself plainly on

y talked that evening a good deal, planning what they would do if they could get over to Europe for a year, calculating how cheaply they could go. It was an old subject. Sometimes it kept off the blues; sometimes it indicated how blue they were. Mrs. Edwar

sk us, do you suppose?" So

eplied, vaguely. Soon

hypocrite. She did not generalize when she felt deeply. But she knew that her husband didn't want the responsibility of making a

ing? How could she accomplish it without making it unpleasant for him? Before dayl

*

quiet! the thin, drooping elms, with their pendent vines, like the waterfalls of a maiden lady; the dusty snarls of blackberry bushes; the midsummer contented repose of the air, and that distantly murmuring s

ay as long as she would. The Sundays were especially lonely, for Mr. Leicester did not think she should bear the heat of the city so soon, and

at Moriches, and her husband had fallen in with the idea. New York was like a finely divided furnace, radiating heat from every tube-like street. So she was to go for a week or ten days. P

et a glimpse of the green marshes, with the sea beyond. After chatting awhile, her hostess went out, protesting that her guest must be too t

han two years ago; the lower rooms were shut up tight in massive green blinds that reached to the warped boards of the veranda. It lo

d had refused to see a doctor, or, in fact, anyone but the Rev. Dr. Shapless and a country lawyer whom he used when absolutely necessary. He hadn't left his room for a month; Dinah had carrie

tious library, and Mrs. Edwards could see the disorder into which the old

utting the room to rights, in order to quiet her nerves. The air was heavily languorous, and soon in the quiet country afternoon her self-consciousness fell asleep, and she went dreaming over the irresponsi

ession of her old room. In that way she could be more completely mistress of the situation and of him. She had had no very definite ideas of action before that afternoon; her one desire had been to be on the field of battle, to see what could be done,

e she was helping him into his dressing-gown, he vou

e dea

flushed with in

e, pe

his old, bristly face assumed a sardonic peace whenever his eyes fell upon her. She speculated about tha

ce to rights, to regard herself in the kind r?le of ministering angel. That illusion was hard to attain in the presence

tactfully, for Mrs. Edwards soon received a hurried note. He felt that she was performing her most obvious duty; he could not but be pleased that the breach caused by him had been thus tardily healed. As long as her

nd him shakily puttering over the papers in his huge davenport. He asked her to make a fire in the grate, and then, gathering up an armful of papers, he knelt down on the brick hearth, but suddenly drew back. His deep eyes gleamed hatefully at her. Holding out several stiff papers, he motioned to her to burn them. Usually she wo

do something for them, or would it be safer to bide their time? Indeed, for a few moments she resolved to decide all by

er the circumstances she dared to admit so little. One Saturday afternoon

e veranda some distance from Oliphant's room, yet their conversa

e, he doesn't believe in either, and such things should be l

Mrs. Edwards con

asked

ems to find it

est not to medd

nting up the gentle hill to the gate. He had a puggy nose and a heavy,

Shapless," she s

t?" Edward

he's too sick-to come another day." Edwards went down the path to meet him. Through the window she could hear a low conversation,

was trying to say something, but the hot August day had been too much for him-it all ended in a mumb

had begun-

*

as dead set on seeing your uncle; said he had an engagement with him,

about some contributions." Edwards asked no more questions, and, in fact, got back to town on a pretext of business that afternoon. He was clearly of no use

remarks. He would come again. Mrs. Edwards did not need to

oss him in the hall. She knew the man well of old. He was surprised and pleased to see her, and it was not difficult to get him

whispered loudly in the hall. "Perhaps we can do a litt

ould get the whole, she thought. If there was a will already in the house, in that old davenport, what then? Would Shapless get the money? She grew keen in spec

man upstairs. It occurred to her to poke about in the papers in the adjo

and would have spoken. She noted the effort and failure, elated. He could not betray her now, unless he ra

rs. Her mind was full of wild schemes. If she only knew a little more about affairs! She had heard of wills, and read many novels

ng in all their legal dress, and her head was filled with fears lest her husband should walk in. She could make out, however, that Oliphant was much richer than she had ever vaguely supposed, and that since her departure he had relented toward his son. For by the first will in date she was the p

mon wrapper, when she felt the door open behind her. All she could see in the terror of the moment was the gaunt white arm of her

nd as they were lifting the bony frame from the floor Edward

ensified malignity and despair creeping in. She was afraid and guilty and unstrung. Perhaps, with some sudden revival of his forces,

was soiled with seething thoughts, and, in contrast, his seemed so fresh and pure! If she could keep him un

there unopened where they had fallen earlier in the evening. She struck a match, caught up the fresher document, and hu

ays died away over the sea, one by one, and the grass beyond th

*

ringly permitted him to see the dying man-he had been lying in a stupor-for she was afraid that the reverend doctor's loud tones in the hall might exasperate Oliphant to some wild

ed that she did not want his money. She remained with him all nigh

te of intelligence. It was pathetic, a suggestion of past tenderness defeated, and of defeat in hat

ge that followed him to the graveyard across the village. They met a hay-cart or two on their way, but no

aid a few equivocal words, while Mrs. Edwards gazed helplessly into the grave. The others fell back behi

*

to take the necessary steps toward settling the old man's affairs. The next day they returned to the little flat in Harlem. The Leicesters found their presence aw

en up, given up for his sake in order that he might have complete perfection. His delicate sensitiveness kept him from referring to that painful month,

gerness for the mail every morning, his early re

r-sheets for the country lawyer to tell his news, but in the end it came. He had found the will and was happy to say that Mrs. Edwards was a large, a very large, beneficiary. E

much, so very much,

nothing. Already he was planning their future movements. Under the circumstances neit

nxious for him to begin his real work at once, to prove himself; and it might be easier to forget her one vicious month

to bid them God-speed and to c

med Mrs. Leicester, content with romance for onc

added. "We'll see you soon in Paris. We're thi

y smile. She was glad when Sandy Hook sank int

ded into the complacent commonplace of possession. She was outwardly content to enjoy wi

erhaps happy. As to the child, the idea grew strange to her. Why should she have a third in the problem? For she saw that the child must take its part in her act, must grow up and share their life and inherit th

himself to his new freedom, to have his vacation first. She held herself in, tensely, refraining from criticism lest

afternoon. But she had grown to demand so much more from him; she had grown so grave! His bright, boyish face, the gentle curls, had been dear enough, and now

l sparrows, twittering about. Mrs. Edwards shuddered to see t

ake all? It was so little, so very little, I wanted, and I had to take all. Oh, Will, Will, you should have done for yourself! Why did you need this? W

, with others. She lay nerveless for a long time, without thought; Edwards and the doctor feared melancholia. So she was taken to Italy for the cold months. Edward

ack into the old activities, in order to leave no excuse for furt

loafing about galleries or making little excursions, generally in company with some forlorn artist he had picked up. He had nothing, after all, so very definite that demanded

nd unhappiness until she could bea

one morning as they idled over a late breakfast. "

cue, idly welco

t's too near the summer n

ife replied, hastily. "We ha

me," Edwards put

ary to avoid taking offence. "Do you mean that that would be a life, loafing around a

t the taste of Harlem out of my mouth." He was a bit sullen. A year ago her strict inqui

ht to be driven. It's cowardly to take advantage of having money to do n

, are you sorry you happen to have given me the chance?" He looke

"if it means throwing

e lit a cigarette, and sauntered down the hotel garden. But the look he had give

uring the sordid drama over the dying man? What kept him from alluding to the matter in any way? Yes, he must have encouraged her to go on. She had been his tool, and he the passive spectator. Th

d she stubbornly refu

*

as working fitfully with several teachers, goaded on, as he must confess to himself, by a pitiless wif

f course that incense had been foolish, but it was sweet. Instead, he felt these suspicious, intolerant eyes following his soul in and out on its feeble errand

n tired. One wet April night, when he returned late, he found her up, sitting by the window that overlooked the steami

ly tired of it all. Let's get out of it; to St. Pete

, for hitherto she had never actually known. In

winter anyway, and I t

nd for th

d day? There's plenty of opportunity over there for an educated

to-to go

nt to be

had? Haven't you any sense of justice to

your idea of making myself famous. But what's the use of being wretched?" The topic seemed fruitless. Mrs. Edwards looked over to the slight, careless figure. He w

of his coat. "I guess it's mostly my fault, Will. I have wanted so much that you should do so

ed, curiously. "Why can't you be happy, even as happ

I believe. Tell me, did you look over those papers

ed him. A calm lie would have set matter

re willing

" he muttered, weakly

came intolerable. When he turned up one afternoon in their a

ing away?

to New

. "We might as well face the matter ope

, and besides I sha

ow. Talk sensibly about

ically. "I cabled Slocum yeste

It makes no difference now, you know, and

, Augus

ECTED

ed in horrified tones,

ng to Rome-t

handed me the telegram

; have Watkins at

e despatch

e!" my wif

in the neck," I

-men in an American city, and the same old story is the result; they find, in some mysterious fashion, a wonderful Titian, a forgotten Giorgione, cheap at cinque mille lire. The

had bought his knowledge in th

Mr. Watkins?" my wife put

e bought in the Piazza di Spagna-'reminiscential' of half a dozen worthless th

it's the best medicine." I was Uncle Ezra's

rhaps he has found something valuable; at le

ed at my wif

on to Venice, he would like to have me see them; such treasures as I should find the

bought one, with the advice of Uncle Ezra and Professor Augu

gone mad," Wa

udie get the

ing it away"-my wife had never sympathized with my cousin, Maud Vantweekle. "She had better save it f

s rose

aid. "Just listen to th

e Ez

lazzo Palladio, complementing our needs and completing our circle. He has an excellent influence for seriousness upon Maud; his fine, manly qualities have come

ty," my wife

under my advice. Then Augustus secured the third one, a Bissola, and it has had the greatest influence upon him already; it has given him his education in art. He sits with it by the hour while he is at work, and its charm has gradually produced a revolution in his character. We had always found him too Germanic, and he had immured himself in that barbarous country for so long over his Semitic books

ving all this spiritual love-feast, what in the world do they want any expert criticism of their text for? Now for such people to buy pictures, when they haven't a mint of money! W

Watkins

e. It will give the critics something to do. And I suppose that in coming on here he has in mind to get an indorsement for his picture that will give it a com

ed again the

cle Ezra?" my wif

ayed-I suppose by the importance of

you exp

ut n

it, to meet that poor old man with his pictures. You ought to have b

hung h

"Just think of his arriving there, all excite

ins; stay to breakfast. He will be in shortly. When he finds you are

d relieved at

ll along," my wife continued, seve

ns su

a cab stopping in the street. At last one did pull up. My wif

g, black bundle. John, run

each other

thr

le grayer and dustier than usual, and his hands all a-tremble with nervous impatience and excitement. He had never been as tremulous before

ring to the pictures. There was consternation at the table. My wife endeavored soothingly to bring Un

for me, I know. That's right. I want to know the worst, the hardest things you can say. You can't destroy

blue were beaming out insipidly at us. Uncle Ezra affected indifference. Watkins continued with the omelet

, when we entered, the operation had been performed-we could see at a glance-and in a bloody fashion. The pictures were lying about the

job and is now cooling off. "Mr. Watkins thinks Painter's picture and Maud's are copies, Painter's done a few years ago

ke to the bird, "Much repainted, hardly anything left of the original. There may be a Savo

es' swear at one another. Ruskin says every man is a fool who can't appreciate his particular love, and Burckhardt calls it a daub, and Eastlake insipid. Now, there are a set of young fellows

ved and expostulatory ma

know, I am sure, and I anticipated all that he would say; indeed, I have c

kins muttered. My wife

d his most

mind before I came here that my picture was worth a great deal to me, much more than I paid for it." There

an. "Twenty-five hundred l

ess cad), "but you paid a great deal too much

civil to him, "it doesn't matter m

oubled as to what this may mean to Maud and Profess

pies," the unquencha

n in art, an education in life. He said to me the night before I came away, 'Mr. Williams, I

kins would ha

will find Maud a much more serious person, Jane. No, if I were Painter I certainly should not care a fig wheth

o Watkins that his presence in such a family scene was awkward. He took

n his own sweet way, "to do such an unpleasant job. It

s; and if you want to buy somethin

s we could still hear his voice. "Or a Whistler etching fo

kins," Uncle Ezra said,

just now for su

at shall we do?" Uncle Ezra came back into the room, his face a trifle grayer

nce. He's the coming young critic in art, has made a wonderful reputation the last three years, is on the Beaux Arts

pert advice-for specialists. But it wouldn't do any harm to hear what he has t

empted to console him with the ugliness of genuine antiquity, while I waited for Flügel.

t's a copy, an old copy, of Titian's picture, No. 3,405, in the National Gallery at London. There is a replica in the Villa Ludovisi here at Rome. It's a stupid copy, some alte

of contempt, "this is Domenico Tintoretto fast enough, at least what hasn't been stippled over and painted out. St. Agnes's leg here is entire, and that tree in the

s for a few days; we would all go on later to Venice. But Uncle Ezra seemed moved by some hidden cause. Back he would trot at once. "Painter will want his picture," he said, "he has been waiting on in Venice just for this, and I must not keep him." Watkins turned up as we were getting into the cab to see Uncle Ezra off, and insist

ive lire, M

t was a terrible moral fall, to see him tremblingly offer the piece of scrip. The man refused, "posit

nt, "I'll send these on, Mr. Williams; run for your train." Uncle Ezra gave one und

hem safe enough,"

them is to chop 'em up." He was swinging them back and forth under his arm. My wife t

sent ahead by express. "The storm must have burst, tears shed, tempers cooled, mortification set in," I remarked, as we were being shoved up the Grand Canal toward the Palazzo Palladio

oldo, or what not; St. Agnes's leg and all, beaming at us from the wall. The other two were not there. My wife looked at me. Maudie was making herself very grac

must take me over ther

oyment to have someone

." This shot at poor P

u will like to

gubriously, a cigar on the balcony. He

tkins a fair reputation for intelligence. "I mean anything about art? Of course it doesn't matter what he says about my picture, whether it is a copy or not, but Miss Vantwe

dred," I

azio, or a Titian,

ap," I m

like fine art-You see Mr. Williams found my picture one day when he was nosing about at an antichita's, and thought it very fine. I admire Mr. Williams tremendously, and I valued his opinion about

" I as

for art, and she used to be impatient with me because I couldn't appreciate. I was dumb when she walked me up to some old Ma

hung over that thing Mr. Williams bought, that Savoldo or Domenico Tintoretto, and prowled about the churches and the galleries finding traces of it here in the style of this

at the other end of the hall. We spent hours over that picture, studying out every line, placing every color. We made up our minds soon enough that it wasn't a Bonifazio, but we began to think-now don't laugh, or I'll pitch you over the balcony-it was an early work by Titian. There was an attempt in it for great things, as Mr. Williams said: no small man could have planned it. One night

wai

en he r

n hell ev

to see the comic side

She was on my wif

," she moaned, "and all the dresses I was planning to get in

have received from that picture. How can you call all that color, those

ing like that again, I will never speak to you

ained. "Professor Painter and Uncle Ezra took it over

lace on the Grand Canal where it had hung for four hundred years. Of course, all the old masters used the same models, and grouped

thingly, "that ought to

ew Titian, and sell i

pal among the Italian nobility, and works off copies through him all the time. I won't say anything about U

ssed h

zzo Palladio for the next

piece of Venice to carry away. We missed it so much, those days you had it in Rome. It is so precious that I canno

unsympathetic. Painter wandered about like a sick ghost. He would sit glowering at Maud and Watkins while they held whispe

en learned people, who don't know about such things, had better not advise. I have had the photographs of a

in the copy, the light was changed, bu

o do about it?" I said to M

Mr. Hare, who will give expert judgment on it. Then the American vice-consul is a personal friend of Mr. Watki

was tipped up on its side, ready to be walk

how can you part with a work of fin

iggins, with his authentic Rembrandt and all his other

brightly as ever; the intrinsic value remains forever fixed in Maud's soul; it is desecration to reject such a precious message. Why, it's

ance at me; however, I ha

ud to carry home a doubtful picture into the atmosphere she has to live in-why, it would be intolerable-with her uncle a connoisseur, all her friends owners of masterpieces." Uncle Ezra had a fl

on his share of the responsibility. I'd buy the picture if I

off the next day. They all left in a gondola at an early hour. Painter and I watched them from the balcony. After they were seated, Watkins tossed in carelessly the suspected picture. What went on at the ant

she beamed at him. "You have saved me from such mo

enial, and beamed upon Maud and Watkins perpetually. Wa

ded. "Oh, we bought an old ring to make him feel pleased, five pounds, and Mr. Hare's services

exchange. You had the picture just three weeks, a hundred lire a week for the use of

" my wife asked, viciously. There

ud?" Watki

Maud replied, with her e

erself," Uncle Ez

oom. Pretty soon he came out bearing a tray with a doz

e pronounced, solemnly, "as an engagement token.

i Spumant

tian-" I suggested

, May,

NT IN

if bolted to the ground, in the approved fashion insisted upon by the mistress of the house. Old Stuart eyed them impatiently fro

on for two years, but a great deal of money besides,"

d fellow protested, drawing on his driving

velope, beside her untouched plate. It bore the flou

t surer that Lord Raincroft is interested in Helen. It is e

roke in. "Haven't the

ns to take the position which I expect for my family in such a crisis. They must have a large house, must entertain lavishly," she swept an impassive hand towar

testily. "I guess my family would have thought five thousand a year enough to ma

is perverse lack of intelligence. "Out c

without a palace. Why didn't you encourage her marrying Blake, a

ster to marry your junior partner, who, f

t on if I back him. If Blake weren't likely enough, there's plenty mor

, Hodgson, and Blake. There are other

ng to fight here all d

slapped his breeches

give them two hundred thousand dollars in addition to their present income for the two years." She

thousand these times, so's

" interposed Mrs

e thousand a year (worthless scamps!) and put 'em in business. You've had all of 'em at Newport and Paris, let alone their living here

ding." Mrs. Stuart be

you've been a good wife to me. I settled a nice little fort

benefit by that," Mr

do with it?" He seem

rstanding when I a

e'n I promised

ircumstances. Our understanding was that I should be a good wife, and you w

is businesslike presentati

y you I promised. And I built this great house and

had forty-seven pretty wicked years. There wasn't any nonsense between us. I was a stunning girl, the most talked

served. But won't you take less, say fifty thousand?"

ever and stately in her w

se twenty-one years?" Contempt crept in. "Not one dolla

shrivel

ked, lightly, for he stood

nd that!" an

e old man. The groom moved aside quickly, and in a moment the two horses shot nervously through the ponderous iron gateway. The delicate wheels just grazed the stanchions, lifting the light buggy in the air to a t

se the ornate iron gates, and the

up wit

natural decay of her powers, of her person, and had put her always at this impassive best. Something had stopped her heart to render her passionless, and

large, almost animal eyes, and her roughly moulded hands spoke of

d breakfast exhausted at the sam

your father that we are going to Winetka for a few weeks? Or telephone him, if you find it more convenie

e! I thought we were to be here all wint

tter for my daughter, who is about to come out. You can amuse yourself with golf and tennis a

daughter, "I thought he co

iled again pro

till low and sweet. "I want so much to go on with my lessons with t

a. And Stuyvesant Wheelright

house. I had rather go away. I'll go to Vassar wit

does your painting amount to? You will paint sufficiently well, I dare say, to sell a few daubs, and so take th

ve it, and papa has money enough to let me paint 'daubs'

*

even the richest citizens dreamed of going East for the summer. Of late it had been used only rarely, in the autumn or late spring, or as a retreat in which to rustica

at house. The next day his heart sank still lower, for he saw in the Sunday papers a little paragraph to the effect that Mrs. Stuart had invited a brilliant house-party to her autumn home in Winetka, and that it was rumored she and her lovely young daughter would spend the winter in London with their relatives. It made the old man angry, for he could see with what deliberation she had planned

had been predicted often enough, or had Mrs. Stuart ever given in her younger days a handle for any gossip. But her conduct had been s

de-camp, the blithe young secretary. Now and then the sons would turn up at the offices down-town, amiably expectant of large checks. Stuart grimly referred them to their

he liked the poor girls and the Western bohemianism and the queer dresses, and above all she liked to linger over her own little easel, undisturbed by the creative flurry around, dreaming of woods and soft English gardens and happy hours along a river where the water went gently, tenderly, on to the sea. And her sweet eyes, large and black like her mother's

ertain face that meant another life. She would blush to herself,

the English butler and footman. Stuart never had much to say to her; she wasn't his "smart," queenly wife who brought all people to her feet. When he came to his cigar and his whiskey, she would take young Spencer to the gallery, where they

d never been so nice and comfortable before. As she bade the two men good-night, her father would come to the door, rubbing his eyes and forlorn o

rest, she was blissfully conscious of independence, so far from Stuyvesant Wheelright and his mother-quite an ugly old dame w

once for the town-house. Old Stuart had purposely stayed at home on the chances that his wife would relent. When she came in, she found him lying in the same morning-room, where hostilities had begun three months befor

u now," Mrs. Stuart said, w

t pay rents, and I don't dare to throw 'em out. Stores and houses would lie empty these days. Then there's the North Shore Electric-I was a fool to go in

this sly speech; she knew also

here!" The old man raised himself and c

y and, with Spencer's help, conducted business for long hours. She had had experience in managing large charities; she knew people, and when a tenant could pay, w

And Spencer, watching the stately, authoritative woman day after day as she worked quickly,

marve

tuart had determined upon him as, on the whole, the most likely arrangement that she could make. He was American, but of the best, and Mrs. Stuart was wise enough to prefer the domesti

p. The usual lists of distinguished strangers, wandering English story-tellers in search of material for a new "shilling shocker,

e he usually remained until the guests departed. In this way he got a few words wit

le pale, but otherwise unworn by her laborious mo

ow. You can see to your busi

l you!" he quavered, beseechingly. "I need

quite well again," she

pleaded. "Times are bad and rea

she replied, sitting down,

ty?" The old shop-keepe

ful wife, don't you? You know," a note of passion crept into her colorless voice, "You know that there hasn't been a suggestion of scandal with our home. I married you, young, beautiful, admired; I am handsome now." She drew herself

rt n

o repent our arrangement? Have I not helped you in business, in social matters

arce," Stuart p

have given? Think of that. I don't complain, but you know we women estimate things differ

old man's somewhat l

on of price, when is it

year you'll want half

is no

give in completely, and it made him sore to think that their marriage had remained a business matter for over twenty years. And

nd his daughter waitin

from Winetka, and t

's up

py, every day, and I can't stand it. Mamma wants me to m

ed, sharply. His daugh

Oh, papa, I can't be a grande dame, like mamma, can I? Won't you tell her so, papa? Make up

will be," Stuart said, almost slightingly. "I don't

ry happy," the girl brid

haps not. But who do yo

arry someone, Ed

ia, perhaps, with the Stearns girls. I want to paint, just daubs, you know-I can't do a

he glanced back to see if the footmen were as rigid as my lady demanded. For Mrs. Stuart loved good form, and he felt nervously apprehensive, as if he were again suing for her maiden favors. He was conscious, too, that he had little

groups; everyone anticipated immediate dissolution. They speculated on the terms, and the opinion prevailed that Stuart's expedition from town indicated complete surrender.

at's the whole of it." She smiled. "I ain't much longer to live, and then you're to have it all

st sort of wife, as you said, and-I guess I owe you more'n I've pa

sensation of pity for

n I oughter rule in my own house, manage the boys, and that." Mrs. Stua

rt took t

id I was to pay your family what you want

d-humoredly. "We'll all go up to

rybody over; you couldn't brush me up much;

looked up

about your family, and I

hy

d if you think it over you'll see that she c

tched at the ch

wants her; in fact, he

tinent

hink I should like to see another woman of mine live the sort o

e up her mind to take the shop-keeper's millions to this moment of concession. It was a grim panorama, and she realized now that it had not meant complete satisfa

"I think this is the last payment,-in f

, March

OTHA

st fall. The bridesmaids have withdrawn themselves, each with some endurable usher, to an appropriate retreat upon

-colored book Maud was

ou remember we read them in

e tolerate nowadays! I suppose i

cur to me that it

I said-the ton

hat world of ours-eve

carried so much pain with it that I thought every expression of life was pain, and now, now, if it were no

w terror, a strange, inhuman terror that I n

ity as so real, so sure! Relief from that terror

s content to believe it quite different from this, for I knew this so well, enjoyed it so

after. Now, what I am, what I have, is so precious that I cannot believe in any change which should let me know of thi

the state of being of a spirit. That would seem to deg

what seems to you wholly blasphemous against that noble faith and prayer of a Christian; and I find an invigorating pleasure in your blasphemy.

d without interpretation, would not mean that empty life which we modern

the bliss, whatever one of all the many shap

peacefully of death, after knowing all the fulness of this life. Think of the wretches who pray for it. That vision of the life of spirits which i

for sick people, physicians say that in a long illness they never have to warn a patient of the coming end. He knows it, subtly, from some dim, underground intimation

it is going. You see it on their faces. They become dull. That leprosy of death attacks their life, joint by joint. They lay aside one pleasur

ISODE

bilities. The second summer-I was with them, and Jack has told me much besides-Mary began talking, almost in joke, of these matters, of what one must prepare for; of second marriages, and all that. We chatted in as idle fashion as do most people over the utterly useless topics of life. One exquisite September day, all steeped in the essence of sunshine-misty everyw

slowly, like those autumn sea-mists; appearing once

u or I, and in October we were all back in town. Now, Mary is dying; the doctor sees it now. I do not mean that he should have known it before. She knew it, an

h tremulous, depart. And do you suppose it is any comfort for those two honest souls to believe that their spirits will recognize each other in some curious state that has d

hen perhaps their longings would be quite different; so that

have loved and suffered in the body, will have ended their page? Some strange transfo

to accept these few years

hich makes one accept the ghostly

IN LIFE FEEL

ontent. I have had it in times of intoxication from music-not the personal, passionate music of to-day, but some one or two notes that sink the mazy present into darkness. I knew that my senses were gone for the time, and

e had lit for fires and the little patch of rock where we lay, made an island in that white sea. Between us and the black spaces among the stars there was nothing. How eternally quiet it was! I can feel that isolation now coming over my soul like the stealthy fog, until I lay there, unconscious of my body, in a wonder

Dear heart, perhaps if our spirits were purified and experienced we should welcome that perpetual contemplation. W

EN REMEMBER THE L

ld change this shameful world? Any heaven, I mean, o

of the Pagans, the heaven

be to walk in fields of asphodel, when all the colors of all the empyrean were equally dazzl

en of the Chr

e heaven where we remember our former life. Let us pass the first, for the second is the

formation from body into spirit. Should you like it? Would it fill your heart with content-if you remembered the past? I think not. Suppose we should walk out some fresh morning, as we love to do now, and look at that earth we had been compelled to abandon. Where would be that f

ister dying in agony at sea, you would smile tranquilly at her temporary and childish sorrow. All the affairs of this life would not strike you, pierce your heart, or move your pulse. They would repeat themselves in

minds-how much of our joy comes from these!-would be laid aside. We should have shaken the world as much as we could: now, peace…. Again, I say, peace

st not change the personal sense; in heaven, however you plan it, no mortal must lose that "I" so painfully built from the human ages. If you destroy

d upon the cruellest conditi

of our common life on earth would make you single me out. Let us think so. We should walk on to some secluded spot, apart from the other spirits, and with our eyes cast down so that we might not see

life. My hand could not even touch you! Would our eyes look love? Could we have any individual longing for one-another, any aff

or a single passion. Their world blesses them, worships them, makes saints of them, but no man has ever touched the bottom of their hearts. I suppose their husbands are happy in the general happiness, yet they

kind such spirits as you and I should

to-night; I should hear again your voice in those words you were singing when I passed your way that first time; and your eyes would burn with the fire of our relinquished love.

s sure force and power, we are bound-more than the man is bound to the loveliness of the woman he adores. We-I, it is safer so, perhaps-understand what I see, what I feel, what I touch,

silently, in a growing horror of the eternity ahead. At last one of us, moved by some acute remembrance of our deadened selves, would go to the Master of the Spirits and, standing before him in rebellion, wo

RE OF JOY

ears. I think from this night I shall have my shadow of death. I shall always be doing things for the last time; a sad life that! And perhaps we chang

g. The world has been too hard, we cry-there is so much heartbreaking, so much misery, so few arri

s if it were a way station where we must spend the night and make the best of sorry accommodations. Our benevolence, our warmheartedness, goes overmuch to making the beds a bit better, especially for the feeble and the sick and old, and those who come badly fitted out. We help the unfortunate to slide through: I think it would be more sensible

be hard-it would be full of a s

s body and mind in full health and could show what a tremendous reality it is to live-would be the merciful man. Th

who have their minds on the struggle; the artists who in paint or words explore new possibilities-all these are

netrating smile taught us about life. And the greater Titian, the man with a glove, that looks at you like a live soul, one whom a man created to live for the joy of other men. In another form, I feel the same gift of life in a

bathed in the afternoon sun. The fishermen were lazily winging in, knowing, like birds, the storm that would soon be on them. We drank the sun in all our pores. It rained down on you, and glorified your face and the flesh of your arms

d to feel your body battling even feebly with the wind and rain. I loved to see your

rves ever alive and strung healthily all along the gamut of sensation! Days with terrific gloom, like the German forests of the Middle Ages; days with small night

streets, the breakfasts in sordid rooms, the ignoble faces, the houses with failure written across the door-posts; strange to the lif

dren,-brilliant children, but with the unpleasant mark of the child. Not sorrow accepted, my love, and bemoaned; but sorrow fought and dislodged. He is great who feels

? It must be like ours, too, in its action; it must call upon the same activities, the same range of desires and loves and hates. Grander, perhaps, more adorned, with greater freedom, with more swin

o slink away to death wit

scat in

Decembe