"On the contrary, very slight."

"Nice people are very much the same everywhere," she observed haughtily.

"To tell the truth," said Mr. Spence, "I have been rather disappointed

at finding the people, as well as the manners and customs, of this

country so similar to those across the water. I had been led to expect

originality and independence. That was what I was taught to believe as a

child. But after an absence from my country of six years I came back to

find nearly the same manners and customs, and the same virtues and

vices, as I left behind me in Europe."

"Vices?" echoed Aunt Helen. "I should say there was much less vice in

this country than in Europe."

"Not if we judge by the newspapers."

"Ah, but one can't believe all one reads in the newspapers," she said

with an air of triumph.

Mr. Spence had, unluckily for the impression he was likely to create,

the courage of his convictions as I well knew, and as he began to reply

I felt less secure that he would not trench upon dangerous ground.

"There is a general tendency to ape foreign ideas, which is fast

destroying our originality as a nation," he continued.

"Foreign ideas are often the best," said my aunt.

"We are beginning to talk and dress, and dine and give in marriage, just

like all the rest of the world," he explained, without regarding her

comment.

Aunt Helen looked a little blank. Then with her most stately air she

said:--

"Surely you wouldn't have marriages performed before a Justice of the

Peace? It destroys all their sentiment. I know a great many persons who

wouldn't consider themselves married so. As to living differently, I

don't know what you mean. There are people here who advocate cremation,

co-operation, and that sort of thing, but one doesn't meet them in

society."

"I am no judge," said Mr. Spence coolly, "for I never go into society."

"Indeed!" Aunt Helen surveyed him through her eye-glass as if he were a

curious animal, and her haughtiness perceptibly increased. "Are

you--eh--in business in Boston?"

"No, madam. I am a Bohemian," replied Mr. Spence, in whose eye I

perceived a twinkle.

"A what? Ah, yes, of course. I understood you to say you were born in

this country. And the other gentleman--eh--is he a foreigner too?"

For an instant Mr. Spence looked bewildered; and as for me I was

inwardly convulsed, so much so that I betrayed my feelings in a smile at

the moment when Paul Barr was reciting a bloodcurdling piece of poetry

of his own composing,--an indiscretion which offended the artist-poet to

such an extent that in my efforts to mollify him I failed to catch Mr.

Spence's reply. He rose to take his leave at this point; but it chanced

that just then my father entered the room, and I was obliged to repeat

the introductions. While I was saying a few last words to Mr. Spence in

regard to the sort of instruction I was to receive from Mr. Fleisch,

Paul Barr conversed with my father, laying down the law in his most

superb fashion regarding the immense fortune in store for any one who

would start what he called a fig farm in this country. Although I had

never heard him broach a business matter before, he seemed entirely

familiar with his subject, and fairly bristled with statistics and

calculations to prove the soundness of his theory, gardeners to the

contrary notwithstanding. My father listened to him patiently, and

seemed to be amused. Aunt Helen sat apart with a reserved, patrician

air.

My two callers took their leave together; and when the front door

closed, my father said jocosely,--

"Who are your friends, Virginia? I hope they have not been persuading

you to invest in a fig farm."

I blushed, remembering my former design of speculating with Mr.

Dale,--of which, however, my father had no knowledge.

"Both are literary men of high reputation," I answered quietly, though I

had an instinctive feeling that my father would make sport of this

assertion. But experience had taught me that with him it was best to

call a spade a spade.

"That accounts for it. I thought the gentleman in velveteen had a screw

loose somewhere," he said as he passed out of the room.

"Well, Virginia," exclaimed Aunt Helen when we were alone, "whom _have_

you picked up now?"

"I don't understand you," said I.

"Who are those young men who were here just now? They are foreigners, on

their own admission,--Bohemians. My own belief is that they have gypsy

blood in their veins, for what can one know of the antecedents of

persons who come from a small German principality? They don't even claim

to be counts, and any one with the smallest pretext to respectability in

that part of the world is a count, at least. They look to me as if they

had been on the stage, especially the one to whom you were talking. I

will do him the justice to say he is a handsome wretch, but like all

those foreign adventurers he has a dissipated air. As for the other, he

is simply commonplace and vulgar, with little upstart radical notions."

I waited for her to finish before replying. "I have already said that

Mr. Spence and Mr. Barr are both literary men of high standing. They are

neither of them foreigners, but were born in this State. By 'Bohemian'

Mr. Spence meant the literary and artistic fraternity in general, Aunt

Helen. He is a philosopher as well as a poet; and Mr. Barr paints

pictures in addition to his other work."

"But who are they? Where do they come from? It is all very well to say

they were born in this country. But who and what are their parents?

Spence--Spence--I never heard the name in my life. There were some Barrs

who used to live in the next street to us when your mother and I were

young; but they were all girls, and, as I remember them, ordinary."

"When men have acquired fame, it is hardly necessary to inquire if they

belong to the best families," I rejoined, borrowing a leaf from Aunt

Agnes's book.

"It is one thing to admire the works of genius, and another to have it

trampoosing over your house. Your acquaintances are, I dare say, well

enough as poets and philosophers, but I don't see what that has to do

with you. You are neither a poet nor a philosopher, and you will flatter

them much more by buying their books than by asking them to five o'clock

tea. I must say that, philosopher or no philosopher, the young man who

was talking with me has very strange ideas. Just think of his advocating

co-operative house-keeping, and marriages before a Justice of the Peace.

I fancy too that he is lax in his religious opinions. If he is your idea

of a desirable acquaintance to invite to your house, I am sorry for it.

You never got any such notions from my side of the family."

"It is useless to talk with you if you go off at a tangent, Aunt Helen,"

said I. "I am proud to call both those young men my friends, and they

are vastly superior in every way to nine tenths of those one meets in

society. Mr. Spence, whose ideas you think so peculiar, is one of the

ablest scientists in the country, and I am going to take lessons in his

philosophy from one of his assistants. As I told you the other day, I am

tired of frittering away my time in nonsense."

"And as I told _you_ the other day, Virginia, go on as you have begun,

and we shall hear of you presently on the stage. That Mr. Barr might

pass in a drawing-room on account of his picturesqueness, if he were to

brush his hair; but the other one is simply a gawk, to be plain. Science

indeed! Don't come in a few weeks to ask me to believe that we are all

descended from monkeys, or any other stuff, for I sha'n't do it. That's

what I call nonsense; and you will discover some day that most people

who have any self-respect are of my way of thinking."

I had never known Aunt Helen to be so excited, but there was nothing to

be done. Society and etiquette were her household gods; and by ceasing

to worship the same divinities I had drawn upon myself the full energy

of her displeasure. Nothing could have offended her so much. To be odd

or different from other people was in her estimation a cardinal sin;

whereas I parted from her with a still firmer conviction that I had

chosen wisely. The calm unselfish wisdom and steadfastness of Mr. Spence

seemed more indisputable to me than ever; and in the way of

companionship, Paul Barr's gallantries and sallies were vastly

preferable to any drawing-room flirtation.

It was only when I thought of my father that I felt any concern or

doubt. I knew that he had set his heart upon my devoting myself to the

study of practical matters. He wished me to become cultivated, but

scarcely in the direction I had chosen. What would he say if he knew of

my determination; and was it filial and just to let him remain in

ignorance of it? Yet I reasoned that after all I had made no final

decision. I was attracted, it is true, by what might be called a

visionary theory; but when I had given the principles of moderation

further thought, I might conclude not to devote myself to them. It would

be time enough later to speak of the subject. At present I was only too

poorly prepared to present the ideas of Mr. Spence in an intelligent

manner, and should probably prejudice my father against the whole

system.

However, I could not refrain from a few reflections on the apparent

hostility of practical men to pure theory, which must after all be the

basis of all intelligent action. How much nobler to help to establish

principles serviceable to humanity than to make later unconscious use of

those same principles to advance one's own selfish interests! Why must

there needs be mutual disdain and coolness between those who thought and

those who acted? It had been easy for me to perceive at a glance that

there was likely to be but little mutual sympathy between my father and

Mr. Spence, and the consciousness grieved me.

But I did not falter in my purpose. Mr. Fleisch called to see me the

following day and laid out an elaborate course of study. He was to come

twice a week to examine me and give me suggestions, but he said that my

progress was mainly dependent on my own exertions. I bought a number of

books of his selection, and tried to devote five hours each day to

systematic work. My tasks were largely of a philosophical character,

but poetry and music of a restrained sort were also included in Mr.

Fleisch's instruction; and he said that after the foundations were laid,

I should be taught the dangers of extremes by studying examples of the

overmuch and the undermuch.

At last I was successful one day in finding Aunt Agnes at home, and

alone. It was about a week after my visit from Mr. Spence. I was

disturbed at seeing her brow contract at sight of me, but my worst fears

were realized when she said:--

"I do not wonder that you have preferred to keep away from me."

"On the contrary, Aunt Agnes, I have called twice before, this week."

"When you knew I was out, I dare say."

There was no answering such logic as this.

"I seem never to be able to satisfy you," I said bravely. "I had come to

tell you that I am studying hard under the direction of Mr. Fleisch, a

favorite pupil of Mr. Spence, and am doing all I can to improve myself."

"Fiddlesticks! Tell _me_!"

"But, Aunt Agnes, it is so."

"I have heard all about you. You can't tell me anything about the

matter I don't know already. We shall hear next of your carrying your

habit of flirting into the sanctuary itself. You might almost as well

coquet with a minister of the holy Gospel as with him you have selected

to try your fascinations on. I might have guessed what would be the

result of introducing you to sober-minded people. It was none of my

work, thank Heaven! Lucretia Kingsley has herself to blame, for I heard

her give you the invitation from her own lips. But I blush for you as my

niece. No amount of proficiency or cleverness can be a palliation of

your behavior."

"I have been maligned, Aunt Agnes," I cried with flashing eyes. "Some

one has told you a pack of falsehoods. It is not true that I have been

flirting with anybody. I have given up everything of the kind, as I said

I should. Who has been accusing me? I insist on knowing who told you."

"No matter who told me. My authority is of the best."

"I suppose it was your friend Miss Kingsley. I half suspected that she

would misrepresent me in private."

"You admit, then, that you are guilty?"

"I admit nothing. If, as your words seem to imply, Miss Kingsley says I

acted unbecomingly at her house, she does not speak the truth. She is

jealous. The long and short of it is, Mr. Spence was polite to me, and

that made her angry. I believe she wishes to marry him herself," I said

in the fulness of my anger.

"Virginia! I am astonished at you. It will not mend matters to insult

your benefactors. What motive had Miss Kingsley, pray, in asking you to

her house but kindness?"

"Pshaw!" I cried, now thoroughly roused. "She asked me because she

thought I was fashionable, and because it would read well in the

newspaper that I had been at one of her tea-parties. She imagined I was

so silly and brainless that her friends would take no notice of me; and

when it turned out that they did she lost her temper."

"You have lost yours, Virginia. I presume you will tell me presently

that Mr. Spence flirted with you. I never heard such nonsense in my

life, and wicked nonsense too; for you are doing your best to injure the

character of a young woman who is in every way your superior, and has

had none of your advantages. As I just said, I presume you will claim

that Mr. Spence flirted with you, and that he wrote to you first."

"Wrote to me? He has never written to me; nor I to him, except to ask

his advice about a teacher."

"You admit so much?"

"Why shouldn't I? I was interested in his theories, and I applied to him

as the most natural person to consult."

"It is very easy to explain it away in that manner, but unfortunately

for you my informant adopted--"

"Why don't you say Miss Kingsley, and have done with it, Aunt Agnes?"

"Very well then, if you prefer, Miss Kingsley adopted a very different

style in speaking of you than you employ in speaking of her. She tried

to spare you as much as possible, and said what she did only with great

reluctance. I could see that she was holding back, and was resolved not

to tell the whole. 'Of course,' she said, 'I know Miss Virginia did not

mean to offend, and very likely in general society her little

indiscretions would have been quite proper; but at a purely intellectual

gathering like ours, from which as you know all vanities are rigorously

excluded, it did seem to me unsympathetic of a new-comer to introduce

an element of coquetry. When I say that since then she has written notes

to Mr. Spence, whose time is precious as gold, asking him to call upon

her in a social way, you will I am sure, my dear Miss Harlan, excuse my

speaking. It is for her own good that I have ventured to do so, as a

word from you would convince her of her thoughtlessness.'"

"The hypocrite!" I murmured, too indignant to restrain myself.

"There you go again, vilifying her with abusive epithets when she has

simply done her duty as a friend. Contrast for instance your various

expressions with hers. 'Jealous;' 'invited you to her house because you

were fashionable' (a most unwarranted assumption); 'a hypocrite;' and,

worst of all, you accuse her of trying to win the affections of a man

whom she venerates as a master, and who though he has never taken the

vow of celibacy is too much absorbed in the life-work he is pursuing to

give a thought to marriage. And what does she say of you? She merely

calls it 'unsympathetic' of a new-comer to disturb the harmony of

sober-minded people by the introduction of coquetry. 'Unsympathetic'! If

I were to stigmatize such behavior, I should call it disgraceful. I was

mortified, Virginia, thoroughly mortified; and especially as Mr. Spence

had been here the day before, and spoken of you in terms that made me

feel really proud. As Miss Kingsley said, however, he is the last man in

the world to notice such a thing as coquetry."

I made a mental interrogation point, but I did not dare to give

utterance to the heresy lest I should seem to be carrying out Aunt

Agnes's insinuation that I would next accuse Mr. Spence of flirting with

me. I replied with as much quietness as I could at the moment command,--

"I can only repeat what I have already said. Miss Kingsley has slandered

me, whether intentionally or not I do not know. But her charge of

coquetry is utterly without foundation."

"Did you not make eyes at Mr. Barr, and give him a rose?" she

interrupted. "You see I know all."

"No, I did not," I answered, flushing. "On the contrary, Mr. Barr made

me feel excessively uncomfortable during most of the evening by the

absurd compliments he paid me, and by the way in which he stared at me.

As for the rose, I dropped it accidentally as I was getting into my

carriage, and I believe he picked it up."

"Accidentally!" said Aunt Agnes with a sniff. "As my informant said,

'when a young woman flings herself at the head of a hot-souled poet,

what is she to expect?' Human nature is human nature, and there are not

many men with the self-control of Mr. Spence."

"Miss Kingsley seems to have given you a great deal of information, Aunt

Agnes."

"You are mistaken again, as usual. The person who told me this is a

sober-minded woman of middle age, who could not have been influenced by

jealousy."

"Mrs. Marsh, I suppose. I might have known it, from her choice

vocabulary. Talk of gossips, Aunt Agnes, I never heard a worse one in

any drawing-room in the city. Who _is_ Mrs. Marsh?"

I was glowing with indignation again, and justly so as it seemed to me.

I had been cruelly misconstrued, and my self-control on the occasion of

Miss Kingsley's tea had been wholly unappreciated.

"Who is Mrs. Marsh? You may well ask who is Mrs. Marsh, after what you

have said about her. Gossip or no gossip, vocabulary or no vocabulary,

Mrs. Marsh is a very deserving woman, who by her own unaided efforts has

risen to the position she now occupies. How often shall I be obliged to

impress upon you that it is the spirit, not the letter, that is of

importance? As secretary of the Society for the Practice of Moderation,

Mrs. Marsh can afford to disregard the ill-natured sneers of those who

may have enjoyed greater advantages in early life than she. It is not by

wholesale abuse of others, Virginia, that you will persuade me of your

innocence. On your own showing, you have written to Mr. Spence, and

misconstrued Mr. Barr's poetic impetuosity as an attempt to flirt with

you. I do not desire to discuss the matter further. We shall soon know

whether you are sincere or not in your professions of study. As I have

told you before, your future is in your own hands; but first and

foremost you must rid yourself of this propensity to behave in a trivial

manner."

I felt that silence would be the best palliative for my wounds; and so

discouraged was I of being able to change Aunt Agnes's opinion, I

thought it a waste of breath at the moment even to mention Mrs. Marsh as

my authority for the statement that Miss Kingsley had a tender feeling

for Mr. Spence.

V.

A year passed without special incident, and yet certain things require

to be told so that the sequel may seem consistent. Contrary to Aunt

Agnes's insinuation, I proved sincere in my devotion to study. Mr.

Fleisch came regularly twice a week, and during the summer months

when I was away from home his instruction was continued by means of

correspondence. I found him, as Mr. Spence had predicted, an admirable

teacher. His work was everything to him, and he imbued me with his

ability to look at our relations as strictly impersonal. He might have

been a machine, so little was he susceptible to any mood of mine,--a

characteristic which I deemed more and more indispensable each day to a

proper understanding between pupil and master.

As a result of his teaching and my own industry, I acquired before many

months an intimate knowledge of the views shared by those who called

themselves Moderationists, and moreover without the slightest diminution

of my enthusiasm. I was able to converse intelligently with the most

proficient of the school, and there was little of the system that failed

to commend itself to me as entitled to faith and support. I attended

meetings and lectures in advocacy of its theories, and occasionally took

part in debates on questions relating to the management of the Society

for the Practice of Moderation, of which I was elected treasurer. Thus

it happened that my name appeared in the newspapers as one of the

leading spirits of the movement, and among my former acquaintances there

was a general impression that I had become very peculiar. My old

ball-room rivals, who were for the most part waltzing as hard as ever,

would stop me in the street and say, "Virginia dear, is it true you are

going into a convent?" or, "What is this that I hear, Virginia, about

you being in favor of female suffrage? Do you really think women ought

to vote?" Once in a while some friend, who was either more accurate by

nature or who really felt an interest in me, would hit closer to the

mark, and perhaps with a sigh express regret at not having the courage

to become literary too. "But it does separate one so from other

people,--that is, people one knows; don't you think so dear?"

It certainly did. I was completely estranged from my old associations,

and spent my time, when not employed in study, largely at the rooms of

our Society, where Mrs. Marsh presided as secretary. There were

countless circulars and pamphlets to be mailed, setting forth our

purposes and needs. Mrs. Marsh, despite an inaccurate acquaintance with

and an overweening curiosity regarding the doings of fashionable people,

was a model of executive ability. With some one at hand to correct her

grammar and spelling, she could transact a greater amount of business

than half-a-dozen ordinary women. In my zeal to see things properly

done, I constituted myself her assistant; and we managed together the

whole work of the Bureau, as Miss Kingsley liked to call our humble

quarters.

My relations with Miss Kingsley were outwardly very friendly. I had

thought it best upon reflection not to appear offended when we met

again, and she on her part greeted me with effusive warmth and a little

deprecatory look, as if to say, "You will excuse me, I am sure, for what

I said to your aunt. It was for your good, or I should never have

spoken." Subsequently, in our relations at the Bureau, she liked to

patronize me slightly. She would come whisking into the rooms where

Mrs. Marsh and I were hard at work, and putter about for a few moments,

asking questions and giving us advice, and then whisk out again with an

encouraging nod. She was apt to time her visits so as to meet Mr.

Spence, who came regularly sometime during every forenoon, to

superintend our labors. He stayed usually about half an hour; and from

the first day I became connected with the Bureau I made a point to avoid

him as much as possible,--a course which seemed acceptable to him, for

he always addressed his business suggestions to Mrs. Marsh, and did not

encourage me to converse with him. Once in a while, however, he would

approach me in a constrained fashion, and express satisfaction with the

reports Mr. Fleisch made of my progress. It was through his silent

agency also, I had no question, that I was appointed treasurer, and was

regarded as a prominent worker in the cause. With Miss Kingsley, on the

other hand, he was easy and familiar. It was evident that he liked her,

and he listened to her opinions; but I could never detect what seemed to

me any signs of sentiment on his part in her regard. Miss Kingsley must

have thought differently, for on one or two occasions she was unable to

resist the temptation, as they went out of the door together, of

looking back at me with an air of triumph. The more Mr. Spence seemed to

avoid me, the kinder and more patronizing was her manner; and she so far

evinced her friendship presently as to show me the manuscript of a novel

which she had written, entitled "Moderation," and which was dedicated

"To him to whom I owe all that in me is of worth,--Charles Liversage

Spence." It was an attempt, as she explained to me, to return to the

rational style and improving tone of Jane Austen, whose novels were

sound educators as well as sources of amusement. From Miss Kingsley's

natural fluency and sprightliness I expected something "racy," to quote

Paul Barr, and I was disappointed to find "Moderation" dull and

didactic. It was however heralded and published with a great flourish of

trumpets; and Mr. Spence wrote a review of it in one of the leading

newspapers under the symbol XXX (a signature of his known only to the

initiated), in which he called attention to its exquisite moral tone,

which had no counterpart in fiction since the writings of Miss Edgeworth

were on every parlor table. In conclusion he said: "Whatever the too

captious critic may say of the dramatic interest of the story, it is

indeed a triumph for a young writer, and that writer a woman, to embody

in her first novel opinions that will make the book of value to the

student of psychology long after the craving of human nature for

fictitious narrative has ceased to exist."

My own opinion of the novel was reinforced by that of Paul Barr, which

prevented me from thinking, as I might otherwise have done, that I was

actuated by ill-nature in judging Miss Kingsley's book. After the first

phase of curiosity its popularity waned, and the author adopted the

fashion of calling it an artistic success. But the complimentary

criticism of Mr. Spence gave me food for thought, and for the first time

suggested the idea of a possible feeling on his part for Miss Kingsley

stronger than friendship. It interested me, and at the same time annoyed

me a little. Why the latter I hardly knew, unless it were a conviction

that she was not good enough for him. But when I thought over their

daily relations as constantly exhibited in my presence, my former

opinion that he had merely a brotherly affection for her returned. If he

had been misled to praise her book unduly, it was by his excessive

enthusiasm for his own doctrines presented therein, and not by the blind

force of love,--which conclusion was directly at variance with the

theory of Mrs. Marsh on the subject, who was perpetually referring to

the match between them as a foregone conclusion.

Discreet as was my conduct in general during these twelve months, and

earnestly as I sought to avoid in its mildest form what Aunt Agnes

called coquetry, I was not able to escape the importunities of Mr. Barr.

Absorbed as I was in my work, and determined to consider all attentions

from my literary friends as mere meaningless gallantries, it was very

difficult to disregard the artist-poet's protestations of devotion: they

had become little short of that. He was a constant visitor at the rooms

of our Society, although his own principles were hostile to those we

professed; and he would spend as much time as I would permit, lolling

about my desk and whispering all sorts of nonsense. He brought me

flowers and fruit, and now and then some new publication,--not in

sufficient quantity to permit me to refuse them, but a single rose or a

peach, or a tiny volume of verses. He sent me sonnets and madrigals

through the post without signature, though in his own handwriting, and

denied with asseverations their authorship when questioned. Besides

his black and his brown, he had a green velveteen coat, and a

different-colored flowing tie for every day in the week. His habits were

in complete conformity with his philosophy of extremes. He was apt to

tell me when he had been sitting up all night, whether in study or what

he called wassail; but I could always guess the fact from his

appearance. His method of work was equally irregular, and he lived from

hand to mouth. He would be idle as a forced peach on a hot-house wall

(to use a simile of his own) for weeks at a time; and yet when he was

seized with a desire to work, it was no uncommon thing for him to paint

or compose twenty-four hours at a sitting, and come to the Bureau or my

house, almost before I was out of bed, with dishevelled raiment and

bloodshot eyes, to exhibit or read to me the result of his industry.

I had by this time ceased to regard him with any seriousness as a

philosopher. Indeed, it was difficult not to consider his vagaries

self-indulgence; and from the veneration I conceived for him at the

start, I came to be his mentor in the end. I dared to remonstrate with

him on the irresponsible life he was leading, and sought to inculcate in

him the doctrine of moderation. I felt that I had an influence over him;

and it was the consciousness of this that prompted me not to be too

severe in the matter of his attentions and little gifts. When I talked

to him, as I often did, on the error of his ways and the waste of his

talents, he would listen to me with tears in his eyes, and promise

better things for the future. He would become systematic and serious in

his habits and work. Without becoming a convert to moderation, he would

develop his own scheme of philosophy in an artistic spirit. There was a

limit even to extremes, he said; and that limit scientifically

determined would induce a perfect happiness. When he talked thus, I felt

I could afford to be indifferent to the insinuations and playful sallies

of Miss Kingsley and Mrs. Marsh. They might think what they chose of our

relations. If by the exercise of sympathy and counsel I could regenerate

a man of strong individuality and striking natural gifts from the thrall

of self-indulgence, a fig for the idle voice of gossip!

Meanwhile, I grieve to say that my intimacy with Aunt Helen was

strained. Many were the tears she shed over my degeneracy, and no words

of mine could make her see other than a foolish waste of golden

opportunities in the course I was pursuing. This disturbed me greatly,

for my attachment to her was very strong, and I knew she would have cut

off her right hand to serve me. Our interviews were largely lachrymose

on her part and morose on mine, after argument proved futile. She had

none of Aunt Agnes's downrightness, but a no less degree of persistence.

After many efforts, I succeeded in convincing her that my friends had no

connection with the stage, and I persuaded her to accompany me to one of

Mr. Spence's lectures. It was the one on Overeating and Undereating, and

the most likely to be fully intelligible, I thought. But I caught her

napping before the end; and as an all-embracing condemnatory criticism,

she cautioned me to beware of homeopathy!

With Aunt Agnes, on the other hand, my relations were more friendly than

they had ever been before. Experience had taught me that long

conversations with her were not advisable, but I was able to test the

thermometer of her feelings toward me in other ways. She had begun to

send me books and pamphlets, relating to various abstract theories in

which she was interested; and once or twice she read to me articles in

manuscript of her own composition, and asked my opinion of their merit.

Occasionally, too, she paid a visit to the rooms of the Society; and I

shall never forget the expression of satisfaction that flickered over

her severe face at seeing me, for the first time, at my desk. From that

day, a general softening of her attitude toward me began.

But happy and absorbed as I was in this great interest, I was never

quite without a feeling that my father might not be pleased, did he know

of my fast-growing intention to devote the energies of my life to it. He

was more busy than ever down town, and for weeks at a time would seem

scarcely aware of my existence. His questions at dinner regarding my

doings were rarely more definite than to ask how I had spent the day, to

which any reply seemed to be satisfactory. I usually said that I had

been studying; and had it not been for his quiet habit of observation,

with which I was now acquainted, I should have imagined that it went in

at one ear and out at the other. I never volunteered to tell him the

character of my studies; but though he never made inquiries, I had a

secret impression that he knew far more than was apparent of the use I

made of my time. Nevertheless, the year passed without his showing any

signs of disapproval. I was so bold even as to invite Paul Barr once or

twice to dinner, when I felt that he needed the moral tonic of a

glimpse of home life to fortify his good resolutions. So, too, I did not

hesitate to practise in my daily mode of living some of the doctrines to

which I held most firmly,--such as early hours of rising and going to

bed, temperate diet and simplicity of raiment; but as it was just as

incumbent upon me to avoid the other extreme, the changes were not

sufficiently marked to excite attention.

The traveller who looks back at night upon a highway sees a long trail

of shadow, broken at recurring intervals by the blaze of lamps. Such is

the effect of life in retrospect. Much of that which we remember

concerning the past is vague and dim, yet here and there along the road

some incident stands out which explains and illumines what follows and

precedes.

It is difficult for me to analyze more closely than I have done my

feelings and thoughts during the period in which I studied the

principles of moderation. But the events of three days at its close are

indelibly impressed upon my memory. For several weeks during the autumn,

Paul Barr had been hard at work upon a picture in regard to which he had

seen fit to be mysterious, although he became enthusiastic as to its

merits before it was nearly finished. No piece of painting that he had

ever attempted was so satisfactory to him, he said, both in the way of

conception and performance. So confident was he of its excellence, that

I began at last to share his excitement, and expressed a wish to see the

masterpiece. But he was resolute in his determination that no one should

see it until its completion, and least of all I.

Curious as I felt concerning it,--for one could never be sure that Paul

Barr was not a genius,--I was in no haste to have the picture finished,

for the artist's own sake. So deep and breathless was his interest, that

he had become regular in his hours and habits. He seemed to realize that

the best work required a steady hand and an unwearied eye. If I took

some slight credit to myself for this change in his methods, it was not

unnatural; and yet I was not so far elated as to feel wholly confident

it would last. When he had put the finishing touch to his wonderful

creation, would he abstain from the dissipation and self-indulgent

idleness that was apt to follow any concentration on his part? I liked

to believe that this would be the case; and as I cherished the idea, it

grew almost into absolute faith.

I have said that Aunt Agnes and I were on pleasant terms; but there was

one speck on the mirror of her serenity which threatened at times to

mar the whole. It was my intimacy with Mr. Barr. Some one had informed

her,--I have no doubt it was Miss Kingsley,--that he was much in my

society, and that we behaved like lovers. I had learned by this time not

to allow my awe for Aunt Agnes to prevent me from defending myself; but

I found exculpation a difficult matter in this instance, on account

of the character of the other offender. She styled my attitude

hypocritical, because I parleyed with the enemy. Even assuming that

there was no flirtation between us,--of which she was by no means

convinced,--what right, she asked, had I, as a neophyte of recent

standing, to be on terms of intimacy with the arch advocate of the

school of thought most opposed to that which I professed?

I mention this in order to explain why I had of late been more chary of

my sympathy in my interviews with the artist, and had given him strict

orders that he was not to send me any more fruit and flowers. However

much I might desire his welfare, self-respect required that I should not

let our friendship become so conspicuous as to attract general

attention. It was shortly after I issued this mandate that he began the

picture to which I have referred; but the immediate result of my words

was a fit of angry despondency.

Two days before Christmas he came to me and said the picture would be

finished and ready for exhibition on Christmas Eve, and that he wished

me to see it first of all. Would I come to his rooms on that afternoon?

As he saw me hesitate, he clasped his hands with so piteous an

expression that I chose not to say no. Why not, after all, thought I. It

was unconventional to be sure. But matrons were out of date and

superfluous in the artistic world. Did not Miss Kingsley go about freely

to studios and wherever the needs of her profession called her? If she

were safe from familiarity, why should not I be? I had a strong belief

in the magic circle of respect which surrounds a thoroughly refined

woman. If I refused the artist's request, I was certain to disappoint

him sorely. It was a small enough favor, I argued, to grant to one who

had been striving bravely to overcome his evil nature at my instigation.

Mr. Barr's studio was up seven flights of stairs in the French roof of a

building which had no elevator, and had doubtless been chosen by him on

account of cheapness and light. Breathless, I paused on the last

landing on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, and in response to

my knock was greeted by the black beard and large eyes of the artist

appearing round the edge of the door. As he threw it wide open he gave a

cry of pleasure, singing the while at the top of his lungs the air he

played that evening at Miss Kingsley's when he flung himself down before

the piano after tea.

"At last, at last, my goddess! I have prayed for this hour," he said,

bowing low.

I stopped short in the middle of the room. "If you do not wish me to

leave you instantly, you must cease all such language and unseemly

conduct. I have come to see your picture, Mr. Barr."

"I will. Believe me, I will. I will be quiet as a lamb, though I am so

happy I could dance a minuet with Satan and not tire. But I will obey

you. Do not be uneasy. Sit here. No, here. The light is better. There it

is. Look, finished! My masterpiece, my ideal! It is only to lift that

curtain, and I shall be famous."

Despite his words he was jumping about with nervous, excited gestures. I

sat in the armchair he had indicated, and looked from him to the picture

on the easel over which a drapery was flung, and back again to him. For

an indefinable feeling of dread was coming over me, as I noted the

disordered dress and the bloodshot eyes of my strange host. He had

failed, then, to keep his pledges; had yielded to temptation. My

hoped-for regeneration was a failure, and all was as it used to be with

him. But yet it might be overwork and the strain of a night without

sleep that gave him such a dissipated aspect. I tried to think it was

so. Meanwhile he had seated himself at an old worn-out piano, and

looking across to me was pounding out bar after bar of passionate music.

"Really, this is too much! I cannot stay and endure this absurdity," I

cried, and I walked to the door.

But he darted at me and seized my hand with fierceness and the grip of a

vice, so that I shook with fear.

"You shall not go, not until you have seen her,--her I adore. Sit

there!" he thundered; and then, with an apparent sense of his own

harshness, he fell on his knees before me and kissed my fingers with

feverish frenzy. "My queen! my own!" he cried.

I was so frightened I could not speak. What was I to do? To scream would

not have availed me in that attic,--and yet I wonder now I did not try

to scream. I tore my hands away from him and sprang from my seat, he not

seeking to restrain me, but still kneeling and gazing up at me with wild

but penitent eyes.

"Open the door, sir, and let me go! That is the least return you can

make for your rudeness," I said.

"No, no, no!" he cried with a wail of grief. "I have insulted my

goddess. I have broken her heart. She will not speak to me. But look,

look!" he said, darting again toward the canvas and throwing aside the

drapery. "She is here! I have her here forever. No one can rob me of her

now."

Fancy my emotions. It was a portrait of myself!

I shall never forget the tipsy cunning of Paul Barr's expression, as he

watched the effect of his legerdemain. The portrait was excellent; it

was, indeed, a masterpiece. I was sufficiently in my senses to

appreciate that, though my absorbing thought was how to get out of the

room. For some moments we each kept our pose,--I standing surveying the

picture, and he with his eyes bent upon me, leaning against the easel

which was in the pathway to the door.

Suddenly, and to my intense surprise, he pronounced my name,--

"Virginia!"

It was a whisper almost, and spoken as one might breathe the name of a

saint.

"Virginia!"

Then with a low cry he stepped forward a pace or two and dropped on his

knees again.

"I love you, I adore you. I have broken your heart, my angel, but it was

love that forced me to it. Forgive me, and tell me if you can that there

is hope,--a shadow is enough. Hope that I may some day press you to this

bosom and call you mine,--mine for eternity! Virginia, hear me!--do not

look so cold and cruel; you are a stone, while I am burning! I have

loved you since the first moment I saw you. I wish my heart were dust

for you to trample on, if it may not beat forever close to yours. With

you as my bride I could conquer worlds. I could become an Angelo, a

Rubens. Without you I shall die!"

He seized my hands again and covered them with kisses.

"Mr. Barr, Mr. Barr! I cannot listen to you further. Let me go,--you are

mad."

"Yes, I am mad,--mad with love for you, sweet Virginia."

I tried to speak calmly, yet decisively, though from fear and pity I was

trembling like a leaf. I told him that I could not grant what he asked.

I loved him as a friend, as a brother almost, and would do anything to

serve him but consent to become his wife. His studio was no place for

such a conversation, I said. Let him come to my house, after he had

thought it over. He would agree then that he had been carried away by

the impulse of the moment, by the tension of his overstrained nerves,

and that a marriage between us would be an absurdity. Were not our

tastes and habits totally unlike?

Perhaps these were no words to address to an overwrought soul, mastered

by passion. But, as I have said, I was terrified and bewildered. The

strong desire I felt to treat him with all the gentleness and tender

consideration I could muster, must have been to some extent neutralized

by my anxiety to put an end to the interview. As I spoke, his eyes

seemed to grow darker and to glow with fire, and the cunning, satyr-like

expression I had noticed before to intensify.

"Pardon me," I said, "for the pain I cause you. My presence can only

increase your suffering. I will leave you, and if you wish, we will

talk of this to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he answered; "there may be no to-morrow. It is still

to-day! still to-day!" he repeated with a sort of chuckle. "I will live

to-day, though I may die to-morrow. My goddess, my queen is here, and

love--love--love!" With a bound he folded me in his huge arms and

pressed my face against his lips three times in a mad embrace.

"Coward! wretch!" I screamed; but I was powerless as a babe.

He let me go.

"I will not hurt you, my own true love. A kiss can do no harm. Once

more!" and he threw his arms wide open for a fresh embrace.

But another voice interrupted his purpose. "Coward! you shall not touch

a hair of her head."

It was Mr. Spence who spoke; we had not noticed the door open. He strode

forward and placed himself between me and the artist. On the threshold

stood Miss Kingsley, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as our eyes

met. I would gladly have given half my fortune to blot out the past few

minutes.

"Is this the courtesy of Bohemia?" asked Mr. Spence, breaking the

silence that followed. He was pale, and his lips were set, and there had

never seemed to me so little difference in stature between him and Mr.

Barr.

"It is love," was the answer. "The rapture of those kisses will be on my

lips to my dying day." The artist began to troll the words of a mad song

of his own composition I had heard before.

"Paul Barr, though we have long differed on many subjects, we have been

friends. But after what I have heard and seen to-day, we must meet

henceforth as strangers," said Mr. Spence, with a fire I had never known

him display before.

"I adore her, and I am human. See there!" he pointed to the portrait,

which hitherto had escaped their attention. "I would give even that for

another kiss."

At the sight of the picture Mr. Spence gave a start, for the likeness

was marvellous. As for Miss Kingsley, she whispered in my ear,--

"Did you sit for it, dear?"

"No, I did not," I answered.

"Detestable philosophy!" continued Mr. Spence, looking from the canvas

to the artist. "There was the making of a man in you,--this portrait

shows it. But it is too late. The brute is rampant, and genius is no

more."

"She could have moulded me in her hands like clay," said Paul Barr. I

could not help feeling touched by the despair in his voice.

"How distinctly piteous!" murmured Miss Kingsley.

"I have no more to say. You have heard my decision, Paul Barr."

Mr. Spence seemed greatly moved and excited. I could see him tremble. It

was very bitter to me to feel that on my account friends of a lifetime

were to be separated. The big artist pulled at his beard, and with

another of his faun-like looks, exclaimed,--

"I understand. You want her for yourself. But you cannot rob me of those

kisses, ha! ha! They shall lie in the grave with me, and I shall still

smile."

Mr. Spence grew paler yet. He seemed about to speak, but controlling

himself by an effort turned to leave the room, motioning us to precede

him.

"How distinctly piteous!" repeated Miss Kingsley, as we went downstairs.

"He acted shamefully, of course, and there is no excuse for his conduct.

But though it is impossible to justify him, I can pity him, can't you?

His nature is so impressionable; and when he is interested in anything

there is no half way with him: he wants the whole or nothing. If you

will excuse my saying so, several of us have been afraid of something of

this sort. I wanted to warn you; but I said to myself, 'It may be

Virginia really likes him,' so I decided not to speak. If I had done so,

all this might have been prevented, for it was very evident to the rest

of us that he was desperately in love with you. And by such a man, of

course the very smallest marks of favor are construed as more

significant than open encouragement would be by a less poetic

temperament. I have no doubt the poor fellow wears over his heart every

rose-bud you ever gave him, and knows by rote every word of sympathy you

ever said to him. And then that portrait,--what volumes it tells of

itself! Fancy that ardent soul toiling over the canvas to reproduce from

memory your image (you tell me you did not sit to him), and when the

masterpiece of his life was finished, inviting you to his studio (as I

suppose he did), and then in a moment of deep and passionate love

casting himself at your feet--and--and forgetting himself! Oh, Virginia,

there is something exquisitely pathetic in the thought! But how

fortunate too for you that we arrived when we did! In his sober senses

Paul Barr would rather die than injure a hair of your head; but none of

us, however self-reliant, is free from dread in the presence of a man

who has been over-indulging in stimulants, even though sure of his

affection. My poor dear, how you must have suffered! What will your Aunt

Agnes say? It was only two days ago she said to me she hoped the affair

was at an end. I told her then that one can never be sure of a

thoroughly Bohemian nature; it is liable to burst into flame at the

moment one least expects it. The result shows the correctness of my

prediction. Poor Mr. Barr! what will become of him I wonder? I only hope

he will not attempt his own life,--that would be worse than anything."

Neither Mr. Spence nor I had spoken as she rattled on in this manner,

going down the long flights of stairs to the street. There was just

enough of truth in her remarks to make my frame of mind still more

wretched, and I could barely refrain from requesting her to keep still.

Mr. Spence was evidently much disturbed by what had occurred. The

expression of his face showed that he was under the influence of

violent emotions. Once or twice, too, I saw him glance almost

impatiently at Miss Kingsley, as if her prattle annoyed him. But she was

so brimming over with volubility as to be blind to everything but the

fancies she saw fit to evoke in regard to the scene she had just

witnessed.

When, however, we reached a crossing of streets where her way separated

from mine, Mr. Spence said, in a tone that for him was abrupt, "I shall

see Miss Harlan home."

Miss Kingsley held my hand for a parting shot. "You must not think me

unsympathetic, dear, because I feel sorry for poor Paul Barr. I knew him

before you did, you know; and at one time we were quite as intimate,

though in a different way. If you feel faint, as I should think you must

after such a dreadful experience, why don't you stop at an apothecary's

and get some salts? I always intend to carry salts with me; they are so

convenient on an occasion of this sort. I do hope you will feel better

to-morrow, dear. I shall call the first thing in the morning to inquire

about you. Good-night."

For some minutes Mr. Spence and I remained silent. But now that Miss

Kingsley was gone I felt an impulse to thank him, and to explain, so

far as was possible, my presence at the studio.

"Believe me, Mr. Spence, I am very grateful to you for your aid," I

began. "It was very inconsiderate and imprudent of me to go there alone;

but he was so anxious for me to see the picture before any one else,

that I was foolish enough to consider it allowable. I had no idea that

it was a portrait of me, and none that he cared for me in the way it

seems he does. I have tried to be kind to him, for I felt he was lonely,

and might be saved from excesses by a sympathetic influence. But I see

my mistake now. I ought to have known."

An indefinable wish that Mr. Spence should know the exact truth loosened

my tongue.

"I understand--I understand perfectly," he said in an emotional tone.

"It is I that am to blame. I might have prevented it," he added, as

though speaking to himself.

Surprise prevented me from saying more, for I could not see how Mr.

Spence was in any way responsible. Nor did he, on his part, continue the

conversation. In five minutes we were at my door.

"Will you not come in, Mr. Spence?"

"No, not to-night." He paused an instant. "At what hour are you likely

to be at home and disengaged to-morrow?" he asked with suddenness.

"To-morrow? At almost any time. Shall we say four?"

Mr. Spence bowed by way of acquiescence. He seemed so stiff that I

feared he was offended with me. But if so, why did he wish to come

to-morrow?

"Before you go, you must let me thank you once more for having saved me

from a very awkward predicament," I said, holding out my hand. "What

should I have done if you had not arrived?" I shuddered involuntarily.

"Poor girl, how you must have suffered!" he exclaimed in a voice full of

feeling. Then he turned abruptly and left me.

VI.

As soon as I was safe at home, a terrible reaction followed. I went to

bed prostrated physically, and sick at heart. True as it doubtless was

that Paul Barr would never voluntarily have insulted me, I had

deliberately exposed myself to the tipsy eccentricities of a man whose

habits were not unknown. Might I not also have discovered, if I had been

wholly candid with myself, that there was genuine feeling in the words

of devotion he had so frequently whispered to me, and that under the

extravagance of his behavior there lurked a vein of real sentiment? So

much is apparent and stands out in another light when one looks

back instead of forward! But this much was true at least,--I was

disillusioned forever of the hope of successfully proselytizing Bohemia

under the guise of sympathy. Mingled with the bitter tears of regret for

the suffering of which I had been the cause were resolves that

henceforth I would not sneer at conventionality and custom. However

much I might be devoted to thought and study, I would practise the

ordinary precautions of my sex, and recognize the uses of matrons.

The next day was Christmas, and before I returned from church Miss

Kingsley had called. There was a letter from Paul Barr awaiting me,--and

such a letter! In it humiliation, despair, poetry, and passion were

intermingled. Tears had blurred the pages, and I wept in turn as I read

the pitiful sentences. He could not hope for pardon, he said, but he

should never cease to love. He wished to die. What would be fame unless

shared with the idol of his soul? Existence was for him henceforth a

dreary waste; and yet his only fault had been that in the ecstasy of

heaven-sent passion he had over-leaped the bounds imposed by human

pettiness.

As I read on, his burning words seemed almost intended as a defence. He

had outraged my feelings, and for that he was to-day suffering exquisite

torture, he said; but in the next paragraph he railed against the social

prejudices of the age and the luke-warm character of contemporary love.

In another century, he prophesied, the artificial barriers imposed by a

narrow and fast-rotting civilization would be swept away by the mighty

wave of passion which, pent up in the bosoms of strong men through a

score of generations, was about to inundate the world. Under the impulse

of this idea, the closing portions of his twelve-paged letter became a

fierce tirade against the existing state of society; but the last

sentence was so astonishing to me individually, that I blushed with the

acuteness of my feelings. "Believing as I do," he wrote, "in the

expansion and overflow of the human soul, I would fain have saved you

from the cramped and bloodless nature to which you are about to ally

yourself in preference to mine. He has robbed me of you, and thereby

broken the last tie which held together our conflicting dispositions.

With him you can never be supremely happy or supremely miserable,--which

seems to me a lot so wretched that my heart, though heavy with the

anguish of its own sorrow, is wrung more with pity than with pain."

His meaning was obvious, and I was still sitting with this strange

epistle in my lap when Mr. Spence arrived. It would be affectation to

say I was greatly surprised, when, after a few moments, he made to me a

confession of his love. From his words of the previous evening, from a

host of little indications which they had recalled to me, and finally

from the jealous suspicions of the unhappy artist, I was not wholly

unprepared for this result. There was nothing in the manner of his

declaration that calls for mention. It was, as he said, a confession

long deferred and struggled against, but he had been mastered at last by

a power stronger than himself. He had come, he said, to make this

acknowledgment of his feelings, no matter what might be the result; for

there was something he must ask me to listen to, which it would be

needful that I should know before he could dare to ask me to become his

wife, or I should be able to answer.

I felt I knew what he was about to say, and was not mistaken. The

question with most young people, he said, was how to find the means upon

which to marry; but in his case those means were already provided, and a

difficulty of a precisely opposite character stood between him and me. I

must have perceived by this time his intense devotion to the system of

philosophy of which he was the chief advocate. He had sacrificed

everything in life to that one end, and he was prepared to do so so long

as he was spared to labor. To practise in every way, so far as was

possible, the principles he professed was the only escape, in his

opinion, from that worst stigma of would-be-reformers,--hypocrisy. Among

the leading obstacles, in his judgment, to a well-ordered life was the

accumulation of property beyond enough to satisfy the common needs and

comforts of life. He had taken the vow of approximate poverty,--not the

extreme obligation of the clerical orders, but a limited, moderate view

in accordance with the views just expressed. In seeking a partner to aid

him with her support and sympathy in the great up-hill struggle to which

he had consecrated his powers, he had wished to make choice of a woman

with but small means, if any; but fate had willed otherwise. Once

already--he said that he desired to conceal nothing--he had offered

himself to a young lady of large property, for whom he felt a deep

attachment. He had asked her, as he was about to ask me, to give herself

to him in return for his love, without her fortune. With that she was

free to do what she wished; it would be easy to dispose of it. After

debate she refused him. This was six years ago; and until he saw me no

thought of love had refreshed his heart. On that night at Miss

Kingsley's, when he saw me for the first time and before he knew of my

father's wealth, he loved me, he said, almost without knowing it; but

from the moment of hearing the words that warned him of the barrier

between us, he had striven to drive my image from his thoughts. Ever

since, with all the might and resolution of which he was capable, he had

struggled against his love, but in vain. He had tried to avoid my

presence; he had resisted the temptation to become my teacher at the

time I consulted him on the subject; and subsequently, when we were

brought into constant contact at the rooms of the society, he had

offended his own sense of politeness by the reserve of his behavior

toward me. But, despite all this, he had felt the ground gradually

slipping from beneath his feet. A chance look or smile nullified in an

instant the self-denial of weeks. He had been many times already on the

verge of an avowal. He had seen and heard from others of the intimacy

between Mr. Barr and me, and been tortured by the pangs of jealousy. But

the events of yesterday had made it impossible for him to remain silent

any longer. He loved me with all the fervor of his heart, and it was

vain for him to deny it.

He paused, but I remained silent. Spoken in his soft melodious voice his

words seemed to soothe me, by way of contrast to the storm of passion I

had listened to so recently. I did not try to think. I felt that he had

not finished, and I wished to hear him to the end. Perhaps I was

conscious, too, that it would be impossible for me to come to a decision

on the spot.

One circumstance, he continued, had given him hope that I might feel

ready to make the sacrifice he asked, provided that I returned his

love,--and that was the earnest spirit of interest I had shown in the

work he had undertaken. There was no one among his followers who seemed

so completely zealous, and who had so unreservedly labored for the cause

of Moderation, as I. If, then, my heart by chance were interested in the

founder as well as in the system, it might seem no very serious matter

to disclaim the wealth I should inherit from my father. It appeared to

him that a nature like mine might find a higher and more entire

happiness in the pursuit of ideal truth than in the enjoyment of an

excess of money contrary to the whispers of a sensitive conscience. And

if at the same time this renunciation of that which less enlightened

souls esteemed as a chief good should be abetted by the sympathy of a

companion soul, what bliss might not be in store for two lives so wedded

to progress and to love!

Such was the substance of Mr. Spence's communication; and when he

ceased, my feelings were still so doubtful that I sat looking into space

as though to find counsel elsewhere than from my own heart. He had

spoken,--deemed it only right to speak, he said,--before closing, of the

criticism to which so unusual an act would expose me. I should be called

eccentric, and doubtless by many crazy; and the terms of contempt and

ridicule already cast at him would be visited, in equal degree, upon his

wife. It was this idea of martyrdom, joined to the deep interest I had

in the doctrines of Moderation, that now took possession of my fancy and

made me incline to accede to his request. Not that I sought ostracism

and abuse,--far from it; the very mention of these things oppressed me

with dread. But there was to me an inspiring sense of nobility in the

thought of a man giving up his life to the prosecution of a great truth

indifferent to scoffs and sneers, that made the blood course more

swiftly through my veins. If such a one could be made happier, and his

power of usefulness increased by any act of mine, no sacrifice seemed

too large. For what was I, or what was the value of anything I might do,

compared with the progress of humanity as a whole? I could not give him

love, perhaps, and the freshness of a young heart; but sympathy and

encouragement and the co-operation of a mind deeply interested in the

cause with which he was identified, might do much to make the struggle

more easy and success speedier. Was I likely ever to meet with any one

more congenial? What better use could I make of my life?

These thoughts came to me not only then, but afterwards when Mr. Spence

had gone and I was left alone to make up my mind. I had told him that he

must give me time; it was impossible for me to decide at the moment.

What he had said was so bewildering, and the condition of any possible

marriage between us of so serious a character, that I was at a loss for

an answer. But I warned him not to feel too much encouragement because I

did not give him an immediate reply; the chances were more than likely

that upon reflection I should feel what he asked to be impossible. "I

respect you thoroughly, Mr. Spence, and I am much interested in your

work; but I do not think I should ever love you as you would wish. I

feel quite sure of it; but if you are disposed to let me think it over

instead of giving you at once an unfavorable reply, I am willing to do

so."

Both my aunts dined with us, it being Christmas day, and directly upon

her arrival Aunt Helen remarked upon my paleness. It was an unusually

silent meal for a Christmas gathering. My father, as I remembered later,

seemed absorbed and dull. Aunt Agnes had shown me by a glance that the

events of the previous day were not unknown to her. She sat glum and

statuesque; but I did not attempt either to brave or to mollify her

displeasure, for I knew that compared with the secret in my possession,

the wretched affair with Paul Barr would seem to her a mere trifle. I

wondered, however, what she would think of such a match. How surprised

she would be, and how disappointed probably in Mr. Spence!--for I had

little question that she regarded him as too much engrossed in his work

ever to think of marriage. Indeed, she had said as much to me when I

spoke of Miss Kingsley in that connection. Poor Miss Kingsley! it would

be a cruel, bitter blow to her. I believed her to be in love with Mr.

Spence, so far as it was possible for any woman to be interested in a

man who had not made her an offer; and with the pardonable sense of

triumph I experienced was mingled some pity. She was the first to detect

the infatuation I had awakened in him, but his subsequent reserve had

almost lulled her jealousy to sleep. I knew in advance what Aunt Helen

would think. She would regard my conduct as little short of madness, and

all sympathy between us would be at an end forever.

But it was my father's opinion on the subject that I most feared to

face. I could not doubt what his verdict would be. It was the ambition

of his later life to see me use well the fortune he had accumulated. By

the marriage I was contemplating I should disappoint these expectations,

for I could not suppose he would regard as a good use of the money a

disclaimer of the fortune he wished to leave me. It was really between

him and Mr. Spence that I must decide.

This was what presented itself to me clearly, as my father and I sat

together in the library after my aunts had gone. It was past midnight,

and yet neither of us had thought apparently of going to bed. He was

smoking, and like myself busy with his own reflections. It seemed to me

that he looked tired and worn. I had observed it several times of late.

Was I certain that I was right in the choice I was tempted to make? But

if I did not marry Mr. Spence, what was the prospect before me? What did

my father wish me to do with his money?

As though he understood my silent question, he turned to me suddenly and

said,--

"As you may remember, Virginia, I told you--it must be more than two

years ago, now--that I was a very rich man. The same is true to-day,

though, owing to the severe depression from which all classes of

property have suffered during that period, I am no longer as wealthy as

I was. Indeed, it has been only by unflagging attention and care that I

have been able to avoid very serious losses. But let that pass.

Confidence is restored, and the worst is over. My affairs are in a shape

now where further depreciation is well-nigh impossible, and you will

have all the money that you can possibly need when I am gone."

He paused a moment, and I hastened to express my concern that he had

been worried.

"That is all done with now, I hope. I only mentioned it in order that

you should know what you have to expect,--and because I have been

making up my accounts for the first of the year. No one can tell what

another year may bring forth. I am not so strong as I was, I think."

He spoke without emotion; but there was something in his tone that

prompted me to go to him, and kneeling by his side to take his hand in

mine.

"Are you not well, father?"

"Oh, yes. But when a man has worked hard all his days and gets to be

sixty-five years old, the machine does not run so smoothly as it used.

That is all. Some day it will stop all of a sudden, just as it did in my

father's case. He was worn out when he died; and that is what I shall

be. In this country, we most of us have only time to get together our

millions and die." He spoke with a smile, and gently stroked my hair.

"But we expect our children to make a good use of the leisure we have

won for them. You begin where I leave off, Virginia. I had hoped to be

able to see a great deal of you during the last few years, but just at

the moment when I was about to lay aside the harness came the period of

depression. It is very difficult, in this country, for parents to know

their children intimately. Neither party has time for the operation.

You have your interests, as well as I; and what is more, I scarcely know

what they are. I am not complaining; I am merely stating facts. If my

life is spared a few years longer, we will try to change all that.

Before I die I should like to see you happily married to some one who is

worthy of you. Nothing ever gave me so much pain as to see you suffer at

the time that fellow deceived you,--nothing at least except the thought

of your becoming his wife. But that is past, thank Heaven! and I think I

am right in saying that you have forgotten him long since."

He talked in a half soliloquizing fashion, in short, deliberate

sentences, and looked up to me as he finished, for a confirmation of his

opinion.

"A woman never forgets, father. But I am very glad you saved me from

marrying him."

"Yes, yes, it would have been madness," he replied eagerly. "I could not

have endured the thought of that good-for-nothing squandering my

property. I should never have relented, and I should have been in my

grave before this. But let by-gones be by-gones. To-day you are older

and wiser, and I have confidence that you will keep the credit of our

name untarnished. It has taken three generations of honest men to

accumulate the fortune you will inherit," he added proudly.

"But what do you wish me to do with it, father?"

"That is for you to decide when I am gone. I could tell you how to make

money, and how to keep it, perhaps; but how to spend it wisely requires

a different sort of talent than I possess. I have told you, from the

first, that it was to be your life-work. Busy as I have been, I have

tried to place the means of understanding the commercial value of money

in your way, so that you might not be wholly ignorant when the time came

to act."

"And it would be a bitter disappointment to you, then, if I were to give

it all up?"

"Give it up?" he glanced at me with a comical expression, as though I

had said something preposterous. "You couldn't give it up if you wanted

to. It will come to you by my will. I shall leave it all in your hands."

For a few moments I did not reply. Then I turned to him and said:--

"You were speaking just now of wishing to see me happily married, and

you referred to Mr. Dale."

"Well?"

"Don't be concerned, father. It is not of him I wish to speak, except to

say that though I have been very grateful he is not my husband, I do not

believe I shall ever care for anybody else in the same way. But I have

had, this very day, an offer of marriage from a man who is in every

sense worthy of me. Indeed, I am not worthy of him."

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of Mr. Spence, father."

"Spence? I do not recall the name."

"You have met him only once, I think. He came to the house one

afternoon, about a year ago, with that Mr. Barr who dines here

sometimes."

"Oh!"

I cannot give a precise idea of that ejaculation. It was a strange

mixture of pleasantry and consternation.

"He is by profession a poet,--and a philosopher. His writings are highly

thought of among literary people, and he is an intimate friend of Aunt

Agnes," I said quietly.

"What answer did you give him?" asked my father presently, with a weary

air. He leaned his head on his hand, and listened intently and

anxiously.

"I told him I would think the matter over," I replied.

"He is not the husband I would have chosen for you, Virginia," he said,

after a silence. "But you must suit yourself. Now that you recall him to

me, I know who this Mr. Spence is. I have seen his name in the

newspapers, and a few weeks ago I remember he delivered a lecture before

the Thursday Evening Club. It was a visionary, unpractical address, I

thought. Several members spoke to me of it as such. But there were one

or two enthusiasts--as there are everywhere--who extolled it as a marvel

of originality and cleverness. Are you sure of his habits?"

"His habits ought to be good, for he is the advocate of the theory of

Moderation. It is to that he devotes the greater part of his time. Yes,

father, I am sure of them."

"I remember now,--Moderation. That was what he talked about. He is one

of your so-called reformers. He gets hold of an idea and tries to fit

the world to it. And you say you wish to marry him, Virginia?"

"I have not said so. I don't know."

"If you take my advice, you will not. I know nothing further of him than

you have told me. The better philosopher a man is, the worse husband he

is likely to make. Has he anything to live upon?"

"Yes; enough to support us comfortably, I believe. In fact, he does not

wish me to take any money from you."

"That shows him a more independent minded fellow than I supposed. Humph!

One literary woman in the family ought to be enough. Still, the great

thing is that you should be suited. We are not all cut after the same

pattern, and if you have a fancy for a husband of that type, I shall not

stand in the way. I interfered once, but that was a very different

matter. Satisfy me that there is nothing objectionable against this Mr.

Spence, and if you wish to marry him I shall not offer serious

opposition. It is all nonsense about your not being able to care for

anybody. If you like a man well enough to become his wife, the rest will

follow. I should be glad to see you married."

"I like Mr. Spence very much; but it is his theory of Moderation that

interests me even more than himself," I answered, uncertain how to lead

up to the condition of our marriage, which I knew now would irritate my

father greatly. He had received the news of Mr. Spence's offer much

more favorably than I expected. It was evident he wished me to marry

some one.

"As you have said, father, I have interests of my own of which you do

not know. I have given five hours almost every day during the past year

to the study of the principles of this philosophy. I have found my field

of usefulness there, it seems to me. By continuing this work and

becoming the wife of Mr. Spence, I feel that I shall be doing more good

in the world than I could in any other way. If you ask me if I love Mr.

Spence, candor compels me to say that I do not. If you ask if I am

particularly happy at the prospect of marrying him, I must say that I am

not. But it seems to me the best chance that is likely to offer. I

respect him thoroughly, and, as you say, the rest may follow. A life

devoted to a noble theory is better suited to my tastes and capacities

than the control of a large fortune."

"You are a little morbid, Virginia," he interrupted. "My original

impression is confirmed. This is no match for you. I warn you against

the danger of becoming addicted to _fads_ and _isms_. Your Aunt Agnes

has made herself ridiculous and alienated all her friends by just such a

course. I have not a word to say against a thorough education, as you

must well know; but when a woman begins to talk about devoting her life

to the principles of philosophy, 'Look out!' say I. It is not natural.

She needs a new bonnet, and a few balls and parties. But even supposing

you marry this Socrates and become as learned as he, how is that

inconsistent with taking care of your fortune?"

"I thought I told you, father," I said.

"Told me what?"

"That Mr. Spence objected to my fortune."

"Objected, did he? How is he to help himself? Besides, the money is mine

until I am dead. If he is so infernally proud, he needn't touch any of

it until then. I fancy he might get tired of waiting."

"You don't understand, father. Mr. Spence wants me to agree never to

touch any of it. He doesn't think it right for people to keep more than

a certain amount, just enough to provide for their actual needs. It is

one of the principles he believes in. It is a part of his system."

"Principles! System! Is the girl crazy?"

"It is opposed to all your ideas, I know," I exclaimed earnestly,

determined now that I had entered on the matter to dispute it with

vigor. "But are you sure that you are in the right? What is the use of

so much money to a woman? You want me to make the most of the fortune it

has taken you all your life to get together. Is it not possible that in

renouncing it I should be doing that? New ideas have to encounter

opposition, but they are not all to be presumed unsound on that account.

There may be more sense in those of Mr. Spence than you suppose. By

setting this example of moderation, I may be able to give an impetus to

truth that will be of real service to mankind. Besides, women are

different from men, father. They find more comfort and happiness in

devotion to something like this than in the practical details of life. I

have had some experience. I have seen society, and know the weariness of

a merely social existence. As I have already told you, I believe I

should be more content with Mr. Spence than with any one else. I need

sympathy and an interest. I _am_ morbid, perhaps; but there is every

chance of my becoming more so unless you let me have my way in this

matter. Leave your money to some deserving charity or college, father,

and let me marry Mr. Spence."

"Deserving charity or college! That from the lips of my own daughter! I

have wanted to interrupt you a dozen times to tell you how foolish and

senseless is the rubbish you were talking. And now that I have heard you

to the end, I am speechless. You are crazy! I repeat it, crazy! You are

fit only for a convent or a lunatic asylum. I had better find another

heir."

He covered his face with his hands, and I could see his whole form

tremble.

"Father," I cried, "if I were only sure that you are not mistaken!"

We sat without another word being spoken for many minutes. At last he

lay back in his chair with the weary air intensified which I had noticed

when I told him of Mr. Spence's offer, and said in a tone in harmony

with that,--

"You have been brought up, Virginia, like all American girls, to have

your own way. I have given you every indulgence and liberty. Your

smallest wish has been regarded. If I could wipe out the past and begin

anew, I feel that I should act very differently. I should wield a rod of

iron, and teach my own flesh and blood to obey by saying, 'Do this!' and

'You shall not do that!' The result could be no worse than it has been

under the other system. Is the judgment of the new generation so

infallible," he continued, "that it can afford to dispense with

obedience and filial respect altogether? You have had one lesson

already, Virginia, but you have failed to profit by it. When that

fortune-hunting, idle dandy was whispering his pretty speeches in your

ear, was it your own good sense that saved you from a miserable

alliance? No; if I had not for once in my life stepped in and said, 'You

do this thing at your own peril,' and proved to you the paltry soul of

the fellow, what would you be to-day? Broken-hearted and old before your

time. But that was when you were almost a child, and without experience.

I was made very unhappy, but I said to myself, 'She will grow wiser as

she grows older.' And I thought you had. In the multitude of my business

cares I have merely had time to observe you in a general way. But I

supposed the serious and absorbed air which your face has worn came from

the interest of your studies, and that those studies were fitting you

for the work I had planned for you. I wish now that you had never

touched a book in your life. Better in my opinion to be the careless

butterfly of society than the fanatic. I never expected to live to see

my only child so blind to common-sense as to wish to follow such a

monstrous theory as you have described. Money! Why, it is the power and

possibility of the world. But what good are words? If you cannot see the

folly and unsoundness of it at a glance, it is useless for me to talk.

Go your own ways. Marry whom you like. Not a dollar of my money--"

He stopped as he realized the futility of his threat, and covered his

face again with his hands.

Looking back over many years, it seems to me at times incredible that I

should have held out so long against such entreaty and distress; but it

is to be said on the other hand that my whole future happiness was

involved in the decision of the question. My natural obstinacy had

deepened as I listened to his words, and had tended to counteract the

affection and pity I felt for him.

"If I were only sure that you are right!" I repeated. "What you say

about my education is perfectly true. I _have_ been brought up to have

my own way, but also, father, to have no counsel but my own. If so much

freedom has been given me, was it not with the idea of teaching me to

make up my own mind about things? And if I have made up my mind, and I

feel my conscience urge me to take a step which involves my happiness

for the rest of my life, why is it unfilial of me to follow my own

judgment? I have been alone, and thrown upon my own responsibility, ever

since I was a child. I am not complaining. I have had no mother; you

have been busy down-town, and my aunts never agree in their advice. I

have tried to think for myself. I have chosen an interest in life to

which I am ready to devote my best energies, and in order to do so more

completely should, if you did not forbid, marry a man who is in every

way my superior, and whom I thoroughly respect. I am willing to give

this all up to please you. But I do not mean, father, that I think you

are in the right. I am no longer the child I was when I wished to

disobey you before. Then I refused to yield, until you convinced me that

I was wrong. To-day I am prepared to sacrifice my own wishes for your

sake, but I remain unconvinced. I will write to Mr. Spence to-night, and

tell him that I cannot be his wife. I will resign my position as

secretary of his Society, and give up what you call _fads_ and _isms_.

Only I shall expect for the future, father, that you will tell me

precisely what you wish me to do, and let me do it. You must not deprive

me of my liberty of choice, and then treat me just as if I were free.

Do with me what you will. Marry me to whom you please. I will

obey,--implicitly, unhesitatingly. Only take away from me the

responsibility once and for all. I am weary of it."

I had spoken with anger and excitement. My nerves were all unstrung by

the events of the past two days; and as I finished, my tears burst

forth. I wept with passionate sobs. My father made no effort to comfort

me. He sat with his chin resting on his breast, weary and sad.

"I did not mean to be disrespectful," I murmured at last. "I am willing

to do all that you desire."

"You have said that you do not love this man, Virginia."

"I love him as much as I shall ever love any one else," I answered.

"I accept your sacrifice, my child. Some day you will thank me. But

write to-night. I shall sleep better if I feel that it is done. Promise

me," he added, looking at me with a strange eagerness that was

pathetic, and made the tears return to my eyes, but this time out of

tenderness,--"promise me that whatever happens, you will accept the

trust I am going to leave you."

I ran to his side, and kneeling, raised my eyes to his,--"Forgive me,

father! I promise faithfully."

Only a few words more need to be said concerning this phase of my life.

That night I wrote to Mr. Spence. Gratitude and friendship will not make

up for the absence of love, but whatever there can be of consolation in

these substitutes I sent to him. Why was it that as I penned the lines

which were to disappoint his hopes, I was vaguely conscious that my

interest in his theories was already less? So difficult is it in life to

determine precisely how far our beliefs are decided by our associations!

But it is not to be supposed that because I admit this after the lapse

of years, the consciousness of which I speak was at that time more than

a secret one, which I shrank from confessing even to myself. Genuine

were the tears I shed in private for many days. My life seemed to me a

blank, and I had lost the motive of action. For allowing my father to be

right, and the principles advocated by Mr. Spence to be monstrous and

absurd, I had been too intimately connected with the system not to feel

a great void in my existence at severing my relations with it. What was

to take its place?

I had to undergo, moreover, one or two disagreeable interviews with my

Aunt Agnes before the matter was finally settled. In the intensity of

his disappointment, Mr. Spence applied to her and asked her to endeavor

to alter my resolution. She sent for me, and though she did not disguise

her surprise that her favorite should wish to marry at all, she was

unequivocal in the expression of her opinion that I should never get

such another chance. As I remained obdurate, she accused me of a

deliberate attempt to trifle with his affections. I had already ruined

the life of one man of genius, she said, who though a wanderer from the

right path might reasonably have become a noble worker but for my

influence; and now I was about to blight the happiness of one whose

equal was to be found only a few times in a century. She even went to my

father, and represented to him the folly I would commit in refusing such

an offer. I was not present at the interview; but Aunt Agnes, as she

came out of the library into the room where I was sitting, looked angry

and severe.

"Money, money, money! That is all your father thinks of from morning

until night. It is wearing on him too. It is killing him by inches."

"You are right, Aunt Agnes; he needs rest; he looks tired out," I said,

ignoring the first part of her speech.

"It is his own fault. And now he wants to educate you in the same

school. Lucretia Kingsley is correct,--oil and water are more fit to be

mated than you and Mr. Spence. You have broken her heart, too, by your

wanton conduct, Virginia. Her sympathy for Mr. Spence is very

affecting."

"Pooh!" I answered, angered by her indifference regarding my father;

"she is crazy to marry him herself. That is all the matter with her."

This was the last effort Aunt Agnes made to alter my resolution, but she

saw fit to tell Aunt Helen of my escapade at Mr. Barr's studio, who came

to me in horror. Her predictions were about to be realized, she said.

Notwithstanding all her warnings, my name was associated with a vulgar

adventurer. "A handsome wretch as I remember him," she added, "but--even

on your aunt's admission, who is none too nice in her estimate of

people--unprincipled, and with low agrarian tastes."

A fortnight after my dismissal of Mr. Spence, a misfortune befell me

that banished all thoughts save those of grief. My father was seized

with a sudden illness, and died within a few hours. The doctors said the

cause of his death was disease of the heart, and that he had been aware

of the existence of the disorder for some time. It was many days before

I thought again of what I was told after the funeral,--that I was left

by my father's will sole heiress to four million dollars.