"And yet," said Mrs. Bobby, who had taken the seat opposite her and

was watching her thoughtfully, "you didn't seem to care enough about

it to come in to listen to your friend this afternoon."

Elizabeth blushed. "I could hear him in the other room," she said.

"Where, besides, you seemed to be very well entertained," said Mrs.

Bobby, serenely. "Still, I don't think it was nice of you. It is hard

on the poor man, after flirting with him in the country, to treat him

so indifferently in town."

"I didn't flirt with him," said Elizabeth, but her protest was faint,

and seemed purely perfunctory. In fact, she was not sorry that Mrs.

Bobby had adopted this theory, realizing that a half-truth may

sometimes be the most effective barrier to a knowledge of the whole.

"Don't tell me anything so wildly improbable, my dear," said Mrs.

Bobby. "My knowledge of human nature will not allow me to believe that

a pretty girl and a handsome young singer, thrown together for weeks

in the country, as I believe you were, did _not_ indulge in a

tremendous flirtation. But seriously, Elizabeth, I am glad that it

went no further, and that you have recovered so easily. For I can

imagine that you lost your heart to him a little. Confess, Elizabeth,

didn't you?"

"Perhaps I did," said Elizabeth, staring immovably into the fire "but

one gets over such things, you know."

"Indeed one does," said Mrs. Bobby. "I was desperately in love at

seventeen, and cried my eyes out when they made me give the man up;

and yet had I married him, I should have been the most wretched being

in the world, instead of a much happier woman than I deserve to be,

thanks to a husband far too good for me. (But that, dear, is between

ourselves. I always try to make Bobby think it's the other way.) But

imagine how dreadful it would have been, if I had had my own foolish

way at seventeen. And so I am glad, Elizabeth, that you have got over

your penchant for this young artist, who is good-looking, and sings

well, and all that; but who is--even if I knew anything about him,

which I don't--quite the last man I should like you to marry."

Elizabeth's face was turned away. "I don't know," she said in a low

voice, "why you think of that."

"Oh, I was only speculating on what might have been," said Mrs. Bobby,

lightly. "I know," she went on after a moment, stealing a furtive

glance at the girl's averted face, "I know the sort of man I should

like you to marry, Elizabeth. He must be older than you, considerably

older; of a serious disposition, with a strong will, stronger than

yours, for you might be perhaps a little hard to manage; fond of music

and fond of books; rich, and with a good position of course; and--and

I should like him to be every bit as nice as Bobby, if such a thing is

possible."

Elizabeth turned her white face towards her friend. "And you think,"

she said, in a low, stifled voice, "that I should come up to the

standard of a paragon like that?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Bobby, wisely, "paragons don't marry _other_

paragons, or the world would be somewhat more dull than it is at

present. A man who is very serious should marry a woman who is a

trifle frivolous, and in that way they strike the happy medium."

"I don't know," said Elizabeth. "They would be more likely, I should

think, to strike a--a discordancy. It would be fatiguing to try to

please a man like that. One could never, do what one would, come up to

his standard."

"You wouldn't have to," said Mrs. Bobby, softly, "he would think you

perfect, if--he loved you."

"Do you think so?" said Elizabeth, with rather a dreary smile. "I

think, for my part, that he would be harder to satisfy, he would exact

all the more, because--he loved you." She sat pondering the idea for a

moment, then with a careless little gesture, she seemed to dismiss the

subject as a thing of small consequence. "It's much better not to try

to satisfy people like that," she declared. "What a lot of time we are

wasting! It must be time to dress." She got up and moved towards the

door.

Mrs. Bobby followed her with her eyes. "I'll send Celeste to you," she

said. "Wear your most becoming gown. Look your best, and do your hair

the way I like it. I assure you, such trifles have their effect--even

upon a paragon."

_Chapter XXI_

"Look my best!" Elizabeth repeated, standing before her muslin-skirted

dressing-table, and staring at the haggard apparition that met her

eyes. "Wear my most becoming gown, do my hair the most becoming way!

It all sounds so easy. But what can bring back my color, what can take

away these terrible dark rings, this horrible strained, anxious look?

Any one can see, to look at me, that I've something on my mind....

"... I shall never tell him the truth--never, never. I may beat about

the bush, but I shall always leave myself a loop-hole to crawl out of.

And yet if I could only consult him--consult _some one_--find out what

I really ought to do. But no, no, I don't dare risk it; it would be

terrible to be advised--just the way I don't want. I must decide on

some plan myself. But--Heaven knows what!" She stood for a while

motionless, gazing helplessly into a mist of perplexities.

The little Sèvres clock on her mantel-piece roused her as it struck

the hour, and she began hastily to dress. She drew the rippling waves

of her hair into the fashion that Mrs. Bobby liked, she put on her

favorite gown, a charming creation of white lace and chiffon,

relieved by touches of pale green; she tried conscientiously to look

her best, but still her cheeks were pale, there was the strained look

in her eyes.

She was about ready when Mrs. Bobby's maid came to help her, bringing

a box of flowers that had just that moment arrived. Celeste, a thrifty

person, regarded them with some disgust. She could tell them, these

gentlemen, that it was of little use to waste their money on

Mademoiselle, who did not care about, sometimes hardly glanced at, the

flowers which some other young lady would give her eyes to receive.

Ah, well, that was the unequal way in which things in this world were

arranged. Celeste disposed of the matter thus, with a philosophic

French shrug of the shoulders.

But there was no counting on such a capricious person as Mademoiselle.

To-night, as she glanced at the card in the box, she blushed

beautifully, took out the flowers with care, and read with eager eyes

the few lines that the giver had scrawled, apparently in great haste

and in pencil:

"This afternoon I was unspeakably rude--even brutal. Forgive me--what

right had I to take you to task for your actions? My only excuse is

that I care--I can't help caring--so desperately. I send you white

roses--they suit you best. You wore one that I gave you--do you

remember?--but probably you don't--the first night I saw you. If you

are very merciful, if you accept my repentance, wear one to-night--in

token of forgiveness."

"In token of forgiveness?" Elizabeth pressed one of the exquisite,

creamy-white roses against her glowing cheeks. "You wore one the first

night I saw you--probably you don't remember?" Ah, yes, she

remembered--but that was different. She could not wear one now. "Yet

only in token of forgiveness?" With a quick, passionate gesture, she

raised it to her lips, then fastened it carefully amidst the lace of

her gown.

Celeste, whose presence she had forgotten, bent down discreetly, with

a suppressed smile, to arrange the folds of her train. Ah, clearly,

after all, there was one gentleman who did not waste his money on

Mademoiselle.

"Madame wished Mademoiselle to look well to-night," she observed,

after a moment. "I think Madame will be satisfied."

Mademoiselle glanced at herself again, and started as she looked.

Could this brilliant young beauty, her small head proudly erect, her

eyes brilliant, her cheeks aflame, be the same woman whose haggard

reflection had stared back at her from the same mirror only

half-an-hour before?

She did not feel like the same woman. The doubts, the fears, which had

beset her then seemed mere chimeras, the fancies of a morbid brain.

She felt gay, confident, strong enough to conquer even fate. Celeste

was right--she looked her best. Mrs. Bobby's words rang in her ears.

"Such trifles have their effect--even on a paragon." And then

again--"He would think you perfect as you were if--he loved you." "No,

he need not think me perfect," she murmured to her mirror, "but he

must--he shall think me beautiful. And that is more to the point,"

she concluded, as she gathered up fan and gloves and left the room.

The opera that night was Carmen, which peculiarly suited her phase of

mind. There is no other which so thoroughly embodies the spirit of

recklessness, the triumph of the senses, the frank, impulsive,

untrammeled enjoyment of life and of living. To be sure, there is the

tragic ending--but before that, three acts of brilliant melody,

glowing with color, with warm, sensuous pleasure.

Gerard was waiting in the box when they arrived. On the stage

Carmen--that ideal Carmen of whom Mérimée dreamed and Bizet set to

music--had just appeared upon the scene of Don Jose's misfortune, and

was warbling, with bewitching abandon, the notes of the Habanera.

Gerard's face, which had an anxious look, brightened wonderfully,

radiantly, as the two women entered the box. He murmured eagerly a few

grateful words in Elizabeth's ear, and took the seat directly behind

her, which he did not abandon, even though his predictions were

justified, and Mrs. Van Antwerp's box was filled, after the first act,

with men who looked anything but pleased at finding that particular

place monopolized. Mrs. Bobby, however, seemed delighted to entertain

them, was gracious, charming and piquante, and elicited from a stern

dowager in the next box severe criticisms on the wiles of young

married women, and their reprehensible manner of diverting to

themselves the attention due to the young girls under their charge.

Elizabeth hardly noticed the men who entered the box. She sat with

eyes fixed upon the stage, upon that intensely real music drama which

she had seen many times already, but which never lost its fascination;

yet acutely conscious all the while through every fibre of her being

of Gerard's presence, of his watching her, of his bending over her,

now and again, to murmur a word in her ear. And as for him, she had

appealed to him most, perhaps, at least to a certain side of his

nature, that afternoon in her pale languor; and yet he could not but

feel his senses thrilled, his pulses throb, when she was so warmly,

vividly, humanly beautiful as she was to-night. For the moment he was

carried beyond himself, his doubts dispelled, or at least forgotten.

And yet, as the evening wore on, some subtle influence in the music or

the play seemed to recall them. At the end of the second act she

turned to him, the strains of the Toreador song still ringing in her

ear, and felt, insensibly a sudden lack of sympathy, a cloud that

seemed to have drifted between them. His brows were knit, his face

moody.

"You don't like it!" she said, staring up at him with wondering,

disappointed eyes.

"What, the opera?" He started as if his thoughts had been elsewhere.

"No, I don't like it," he said, frankly. "It jars upon me somehow,

brings up memories"--he paused. "Oh, it's some drop of Puritan blood,

I suppose," he went on, impatiently, "that asserts itself in me. I

can't view the thing from an artistic standpoint. I can't forget for

a moment what a heartless creature the woman is. When I see her

ruining men's lives, luring them on, turning from one to another--it's

too realistic--there are too many women like that"--He was speaking

low and bitterly, with a strange vehemence, but suddenly he broke off,

with a short laugh. "Oh, it's absurd," he said, "to take a thing like

that seriously."

Elizabeth did not smile. She leaned back in her chair as if she were

suddenly weary. "Poor Carmen!" she said, in a low voice. "You're very

hard on her." She held up her fan before her eyes, as if the light

hurt them. A shadow seemed to fall upon her beauty, effacing its color

and brilliance, bringing out again into strong relief the dark rings

under the eyes, the lines about the mouth. She sat in silence for

awhile, but suddenly she turned to him.

"I'm going to shock you, I'm afraid," she said, "but--do you

know--somehow I can't help seeing the other side. What is a woman to

do, if she changes against her will? Is she to abide always,

inexorably, by the results of a mistake?" A note of passionate feeling

thrilled her voice, she fixed her eyes anxiously, intently, upon

Gerard. "There are so many questions that might arise," she went on,

eagerly, as he did not answer at once. "One might, for instance, make

a promise--a very solemn promise, and find out afterwards that it

was--a mistake, that it would ruin one's whole life to keep it;

and--and one might break it, and the other person might think himself

very much injured; and yet--would you think the woman in that case so

very much to blame?"

Gerard thought he understood. With the conviction came a sense of

passionate relief, which yet he hesitated, with the fastidious

scruples of a proud and honorable man, to grasp in its entirety.

"I--I don't think I'm competent to express an opinion," he said, in a

low voice. "You should ask--some one else."

"There's no one else whom I can ask," she said quickly, and with her

eyes always fixed imploringly upon him. "Tell me--what you think. What

should a woman do in a case like that?"

"I--it's a difficult situation," he said, still holding under control

his eager desire to advise her in the only way in which it seemed to

him possible to advise her. But how could he trust his own judgment?

"I"--he hesitated--"Personally," he said, "I can't imagine holding a

woman to a promise that she has--repented of; but other men

might--probably would feel differently."

"Yes," she said, sadly, "he--this man does."

"And you--the woman is quite sure she has made a mistake," he asked,

eagerly.

"Yes, yes, quite sure," she said, quickly, "a terrible mistake."

"Then," said Gerard, and he drew a long sigh as of intense relief, "I

don't think there could be two opinions on the subject. No one could

advise you--this woman to ruin her life for a mistake, especially if

the--the man were unworthy?" He looked at her questioningly.

"He seemed to her unworthy," she said, in a low voice.

"Then, for Heaven's sake," he asked, almost fiercely, "how can you

hesitate?"

She did not speak, but turned her eyes towards the stage and again

placed her fan so that it shielded them. All over the house there was

the subdued rustle of people returning to their seats. The orchestra

sounded the first notes of the third act, the curtain rose upon the

gypsy camp. During Michaela's solo and the scene between the two men,

Elizabeth still sat silent, her fan before her face. The act was well

advanced before she turned to Gerard.

"Then," she said, "you would advise me to--to break my word?"

"Under the circumstances--yes," he said, steadily. "But don't," he

went on quickly, and passionate vibration thrilled his voice, more

unrepressed than ever before, "don't be guided by my opinion. In this

particular case it is--impossible for me to judge impartially."

"Is it," she asked softly, and then added quickly, as if to avert an

answer, "still, I'm glad to know your opinion. I feel sure you

wouldn't say what you don't think. Thank you--thank you very much."

Her tone was low and subdued, like that of a grateful child. She

leaned back in her chair with a look of relief, that seemed both

physical and mental. She did not speak again till near the end of the

act, when Carmen reads her fortune in the cards. "I wonder," Elizabeth

said then, softly, "what she sees in them."

"I had my fortune told once," she observed, turning to Gerard, as the

curtain fell. "It was when I was at school, and I went with one of the

girls to a famous palmist. He told me all sorts of strange, true

things about the past, and about the future."--She paused.

"Well, about the future?" he asked, smiling. "One doesn't care about

the past. But he predicted, no doubt, all sorts of delightful things

about the future?"

"No." She stared thoughtfully before her with knit brows. "He

said"--she spoke low and hesitatingly--"he said there was luck in my

hand--plenty of it; I should have splendid opportunities. But--he said

there was a line of misfortune, which crossed the other line and might

make it utterly useless; that there was danger of some kind--he

couldn't tell what, threatening me about my twenty-first year, and

that, you know, is very near; he said there were strange

lines--tragic, unusual,"--She stopped. "It sounds very ridiculous,"

but though she tried to smile, her voice trembled, "and yet--I

remember it frightened me at the time, and does still--a little--when

I think of it."

"But you don't surely," cried Gerard, "my dear child, you don't

suppose he knew a thing about it?"

"I don't know. I believe I'm superstitious--are not you?"

"I'm afraid I am," he said, "but not about things like that. I've seen

too many predictions of the kind prove false, to give them a thought."

"It _is_ foolish to worry about them," she admitted, but still she sat

apparently deep in thought and played absently with her fan. At last

she looked up with her most brilliant smile. "I don't know why it is,"

she said, "but we seem to be fated on unpleasant subjects. And yet the

opera is so gay. Do let us try, for the rest of the evening, to think

of pleasant things." She turned and held out her hand, smiling, to a

man who entered the box. For the rest of the opera she was brilliant,

animated, beautiful, as she had been at first.

"And now you are satisfied," she said, looking at Gerard with laughing

eyes, as the curtain fell for the last time. "Carmen comes to a bad

end. According to your principles! she deserved it."

"Ah, my principles!" he said, smiling. "I'm afraid I don't live up to

them very much."

"Don't you?" She gave him a quick, searching glance, as he stood with

her cloak in his hand. "I wish I could believe that," she murmured. "I

should be a little less--afraid of you."

He placed the cloak about her shoulders. "It is I who am afraid of

you," he whispered, bending over her, "and have been ever since I knew

you."

Her eyes fell, and she fumbled nervously with the fastening of the

cloak. "Ah, you were afraid of me?" she said, under her breath. "And

now"--

"Oh, I've grown very brave," he murmured, as he followed her out of

the box, "you can't frighten me away any longer." The jesting words

lingered in her ear as they left the Opera House.

"Ah, if he knew!" she said to herself, as she sank into her corner of

the carriage. "He doesn't know. And yet I told him the exact truth.

It's not my fault, if he--misunderstood."

And Gerard meanwhile was telling himself that he understood it all.

"Poor child!" he murmured to himself, as he lit a cigar and sauntered

slowly home. "So that was it. Of course, she thought she loved

him--the first man she met, and when he turned up felt herself

bound--I see it all! And she has suffered--had terrible pangs of

conscience over this thing. And I who misjudged her all this

time--imagined I don't know what--could I have advised her

differently? Surely not. The fellow's not worthy of her. Neither am I.

She won't look at me, probably. And yet--one can but try"--

_Chapter XXII_

It was mentioned generally, at various sewing-classes and other mild

functions during Lent, that Julian Gerard was very attentive, all of a

sudden, to Elizabeth Van Vorst. Some people, less accurate or more

imaginative than the rest, went so far as to announce the engagement

as an actual fact.

"And, if so, it's all Eleanor Van Antwerp's doing," Mrs. Hartington

observed in private to her intimate friends. "She was determined to

make the match from the beginning. I saw the way she threw the girl at

his head at a dinner in the country, but I never for a moment thought

she would succeed--with Julian Gerard of all men, who is so

desperately afraid of being taken in."

Julian Gerard, by that time, had well-nigh forgotten that such a fear

had ever disturbed him, or if he did remember it, it was to regard it,

so far as Elizabeth was concerned, as profanation. Since that evening

at the opera, his remorseful fancy had placed her on a pinnacle, which

she found at times, it must be confessed, a little difficult to

maintain. It was his misfortune and hers, that he could never view her

in the right perspective, never realize that she was neither a saint

nor the reverse, but merely a woman, and painfully human at that.

But since he chose to consider her a saint, she did her best to live

up to the character. She kept Lent strictly that year as she had never

done before, went to church morning and evening, denied herself

bonbons and other luxuries, and worked with unskilled fingers but

great diligence at certain oddly-constructed garments which were doled

out to her and other young women every week as a Lenten penance, and

incidentally for the good of the poor. If in most cases the actual

penance fell to the lot of their maids, why, the poor were none the

wiser, and certainly much the better clothed. But Elizabeth insisted

on putting in all the painful stitches in the hard, coarse stuff

herself, and looked very pretty bending over it, as Mr. Gerard thought

when he came in one day and found her thus employed.

It pleased him, of course. He did not attach much importance, himself,

to these things--this constant church-going, these small penances;

yet, manlike, it seemed to him right and fitting that she should

regard them differently. And then it was pleasant, after service, to

meet her in the vestibule. How many incipient love affairs have been

helped along, brought to a climax perhaps, by the convenient afternoon

service, and the sauntering walks home in the lingering twilight!

To Elizabeth there was an indefinable charm in those ever-lengthening

Lenten days, rung in and out to the music of church bells, and marked,

as the season advanced and Easter approached, by the growing green of

the grass, and the budding shoots of the trees, and the intangible

feeling of spring in the air. That sense of dread, of impending

misfortune, which had been for a short time almost unbearable, was

lulled to sleep as by an opiate. She did not think of the past or the

future, she simply drifted from day to day, and each of these was

pleasanter than the last.

For one thing, she had grown hardened, indifferent almost to the

constant meeting with Paul Halleck. She had kept her word and obtained

for him all the invitations in her power, until he no longer needed

her help. He was a great success. Mrs. Van Antwerp's informal little

musicale had been only the first of a series of more elaborate ones,

at which Halleck was often the chief attraction. Young girls admired

him extremely. Elizabeth could hear him talking to them, just as he

had once talked to her, about Swinburne and Rossetti and the last word

in Art, and she saw that, like herself, they thought him very

brilliant. It was an admiration which had tangible results, since it

led to an interest in music, and a desire to take singing-lessons from

the talented young barytone. Before long, he took a studio in

Carnegie, near D'Hauteville's, and furnished it luxuriously, on the

strength of his new prosperity. He was very much the fashion and

absorbed in his success, and seldom had the time, or perhaps the

inclination, to encounter Elizabeth's unflattering indifference. So

for the most part he left her alone, to her intense relief.

One incident, a chance word, in a retrospect of that time, afterwards

stood out in Elizabeth's mind, though at the moment it seemed to make

but a slight impression.

It was one Sunday afternoon when a number of people, Paul Halleck

among them, had dropped in to afternoon tea, and the conversation

happened to turn upon palmistry. Elizabeth did not proffer her own

experience. She listened silently to what the others said on the

subject.

"I can't say I have implicit faith in it," observed Mrs. Bobby. "I was

told by a fortune-teller that I should marry a dark man, who would

beat me and treat me horribly; and as you see, I've married a fair

man--who treats me pretty well on the whole."

Bobby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece his tea-cup in his

hand, smiled serenely.

"Don't boast too soon, Eleanor," he said, lazily, "there's no knowing

what brutal tendencies I may develop yet."

Mrs. Hartington, who was seated near him on a low chair, looked up

into his face with a sympathetic smile. "Are you one of those

long-suffering husbands who turn at last, Mr. Van Antwerp?" she asked,

sweetly. "It would be good discipline, I think, for Eleanor not to

have her own way _always_."

Bobby looked down at her coolly for a moment with his calm blue eyes.

"No doubt, it would be good discipline for all of us, Mrs.

Hartington," he said, in his pleasant, clear-cut tones, "but as my

wife's way and mine are generally the same, I'm afraid I'm not likely

to inflict it."

Mrs. Hartington looked down with an injured air, adding another to her

list of grievances against her dear friend and neighbor, Eleanor Van

Antwerp.

"I should never go to a common fortune-teller, my dear," she observed

in a louder tone, for the benefit of the assembled company. "Yours was

probably just an ignorant person. But I did go to ----, who, you know,

charges a small fortune, and he told me the most extraordinary things.

I have perfect confidence in him; every one I know thinks him quite

infallible."

"Do they?" said Paul Halleck, suddenly turning from the piano. He

shrugged his shoulders. "I devoutly hope you are mistaken," he said.

"---- read my hand in Paris, and told me some very unpleasant things;

among others that I was probably destined to a violent death. This

year of my life, by the way--the twenty-seventh--was to be my fatal

year."

He spoke half laughingly, but the words produced an effect. There was

a general exclamation of horror, and Elizabeth, who was pouring tea,

dropped the cup that she held in her hand. Julian Gerard, who was

standing behind her, bent down to recover the fragments.

"It's odd," he said, as he placed them absently on the table, "his

year of danger and yours seem to correspond." The words rose

involuntarily to his lips, and an instant later he wished them

unspoken.

She flushed a little, then grew pale. "Oh, I'm sorry you remembered

that nonsense," she said. "I don't really believe in these things."

But her hand trembled as she poured out the tea, glancing furtively at

Halleck as she did so.

He was enjoying the sensation that his announcement had created.

"Yes," he was saying, "if I live to be a year older, I am safe; but

till then--Heaven knows what danger threatens me!" He shrugged his

shoulders with a light laugh. The prediction did not seem to trouble

him greatly. Elizabeth wondered if he had not invented it, for the

sake of the effect. And then, involuntarily, the thought crossed her

mind--what if it were really true, and the prediction were fulfilled?

Such things had been known to happen--there might be something in

it.... Quick as lightning the thought flashed through her mind of all

that his death might mean to her--the merciful release, the solution

of all difficulties.... Just for a moment the idea lingered, while the

others talked, and she shuddered.

"You are quite pale," said Gerard, fixing his eyes upon her. He was

still sensitive to any sign of feeling which Halleck seemed to arouse

in her. "I believe you are really superstitious. These things seem to

frighten you."

"Am I superstitious?" She looked up at him dreamily. "Perhaps I am. It

would be nice, I think, if there were something in it, if one could

tell what is going to happen. One could act accordingly. I should

like, for instance"--her voice sank--"I should like to look into the

future one year, and see what fate has in store for me."

"If I had any control over fate"--Gerard crushed back the impetuous

words that followed. Not yet--the moment was not propitious. Besides,

he was not sure of her. There was still at times something in her

manner that was baffling, uncertain.--And just then Paul Halleck

sauntered up and bent over her in that intimate manner which still

annoyed Gerard's fastidious taste, even though he had long since

convinced himself that he had no cause to fear him as a rival.

"Did you hear ----'s terrible prediction, Miss Van Vorst?" Paul asked,

smiling, "and aren't you sorry for my untimely fate?"

_Chapter XXIII_

"Why will you never play for me?"

Gerard stood leaning on the piano, his eyes half smiling, yet with a

look of mastery, fixed upon Elizabeth. She was sitting in a low chair

by the fire, the book on her lap which she had been reading when he

came in. It was a stormy March afternoon, and the dusk was closing in

prematurely. The room was already in shadow, except where the

firelight formed a little circle of radiance, illumining Elizabeth's

face and hair. Seated thus in the full glow of light, with the shadows

in the foreground, all the little details of her appearance--the broad

sweep of rippling hair on her forehead, the soft laces at her throat,

the pale, dull green of her gown, even to the buckle on her slipper,

and the one white rose in her belt--each trifling part of the

harmonious whole, impressed itself on his memory, haunting him

afterwards with a keen sense of pain.

She looked up at him now from under her long lashes, with the old

light in her eyes, half defiant, half tantalizing--that spirit of

revolt which still glanced forth at times to baffle and disturb him.

"I don't want to play this afternoon. I don't--feel in the mood."

"You are never in the mood when I ask you." Silence. "Confess at

once," said Gerard, with some heat--"for it would really be quite as

civil--that you don't wish to play for me."

Another swift upward glance. "Perhaps I don't"--demurely.--"You're too

severe a critic."

"You know," said Gerard, "that that is not the reason."

Silence again. "Will you tell me the reason?" he asked.

She answered him this time with a flash of defiance. "I don't know,"

she said, "what right you have to demand it. But if you insist upon

it, I'll tell you. You--you don't like my playing, and--it's very

absurd, of course, but I never can play for people who don't."

"I--don't like your playing?" He shielded his eyes for a moment, as if

from the glare of the fire. When he spoke again his tone was

peremptory. "You foolish child," he said, "come and play for me, and

I'll tell you, afterwards, what I think of it."

She looked up at him--startled, rebellious, met his eyes for a moment,

then rose, pouting, like the child that he called her, constrained

against her will, put down her book, and moved slowly toward the

piano. "You are so terribly determined," she complained.

"And you are so terribly perverse! But when I want a thing very much,

I can be determined, as you say. Play me the Fire-music," he went on,

"and--and 'Tristan and Isolde,' as you did--do you remember?--the

first night I met you."

She paused, with her hands on the keys. "I--I thought,"--she began,

and then broke off suddenly, and began to play as he bade her--at

first faltering, uncertainly, with a strange hesitation; then more

firmly, as the keys responded with the old readiness to her touch, and

she lost herself in the music. Outside the storm increased, the rain

beat against the windows, the room grew dark, and once Elizabeth

paused--she could hardly see the keys. But Gerard murmured, "Ah, the

love-music!" and she played on. All the terrible distress, the

maddening perplexity, of the last few months seemed to express

themselves, in spite of herself, in those surging, strenuous chords;

all the hope, too, and the wild unreasoning happiness. She was

startled, almost as if she were telling the whole story in language so

eloquent that he must surely understand it without further words. But

Gerard, as was natural, read into it only his own feelings. He stood

leaning on the piano, his hand shielding his eyes, which were fixed

intently upon her.--It was so dark now that he could hardly see her

face, only the shimmer of her hair standing out against the dusk, the

movement of her white hands on the keys.

She faltered at last, struck a false chord, and broke off in the very

midst of the love-music. "I--I can't see," she murmured, and let her

hands fall in her lap.

"Do you remember," Gerard said, "that first night you played? I had

talked to you at dinner, you know, you--you repelled me a little. I

thought--I am telling you the bare truth, you see--you were a little

cynical, a little hard--it seemed a pity when you were so"--he paused

for a moment and his voice softened as he lingered over the word--"so

beautiful. I couldn't understand you. I thought--I wouldn't try. It

wasn't worth while--most things were not. And then--you played"--He

paused again for a moment. "You know what most girls' playing is like.

Yours has a soul, a fire--I don't know where you get it. It moved me,

set me thinking, as no other woman's playing has done for years."

He paused again. Elizabeth looked up quickly. "I thought," she

murmured, "that you didn't like my playing, that you were bored"--

"Ah, you thought," he said, "that when a man feels very much, he can

make pretty speeches? I can't, at least. Oh, I've no doubt"--he made a

resigned gesture--"I've no doubt that I behaved like a brute. Women

have told me that I generally do. I said to myself--that girl is

dangerous, she could make a man fall in love with her--even against

his will. I was in love once--but that's another story. I never wanted

to repeat the experiment. And so, as you know, I avoided you; like a

fool, I used to go and look at your picture, and then--keep away from

you, evening after evening. I struggled--with all the strength I

have--I struggled not to love you. And then, as you know"--he looked

her straight in the eyes--"as you have known well these last few

weeks,--I failed."

There was silence for a moment. She was very white, her hands were

tightly clasped in her lap. "I"--she gave a little shuddering

sigh--"it would have been better if you hadn't."

"Elizabeth!" She felt rather than saw how his face changed.

"Elizabeth," he said, hoarsely, "do you mean that? Then"--as she sat

silent--"you don't love me?"

Oh, for the strength to answer "No," and end this scene--this useless,

perplexing scene, which she should have been prepared for, which yet

seemed to have come upon her unawares! One firm, courageous "No," and

a man like Gerard would not ask her twice. Instead, a compromise,

useless, feeble, hovered on her lips. "I--shouldn't make you happy,"

she faltered out, despising her own weakness.

"Is that all?" He laughed out loud in sheer relief. "My darling,"--the

triumphant tenderness in his voice was hard to bear--"don't you think

that I can judge of that?"

She was silent, and he drew nearer to her and took her hands in his.

"You needn't be afraid," he said. "I shall worship the ground you

tread upon, if--if you will only consent. You will, Elizabeth, won't

you?" She had not known before that his voice held tones so

caressingly gentle.

For a moment she sat motionless, passive beneath his touch, and then

suddenly: "I can't," she broke out, hoarsely, drew her hands away from

him, and going over to the mantel-piece, she leaned her arms upon it

and hid her face.

When he spoke again, after a long silence, his voice was entirely

changed. "There is something here I don't understand," he said,

coldly. "One moment you seemed to yield, and the next"----He made a

step towards her. "Tell me the truth," he entreated, "don't spare my

feelings. It's a false kindness. You love someone else--is that

it?--then tell me so, and I won't reproach you--or--trouble you

again."

She turned her face towards him. It was white, quivering with emotion;

but she answered firmly: "No, you are entirely wrong. There is--no one

else."

"Not Halleck?" he asked, watching her intently, his face dark with the

old distrust.

She made a quick, involuntary gesture of repulsion. "Not he--not he,

of all people," she said, bitterly.

He still eyed her doubtfully, unsatisfied. "You are sure?" he

insisted. "You are telling me the whole truth? Don't deceive me--now,

Elizabeth; I could forgive anything but that."

How many chances were given to Elizabeth, only to be thrown away! She

answered him steadily; "I'm not deceiving you. I tell you frankly that

when I first met Paul Halleck I thought I cared for him--he was the

first man I had ever known; but now he is nothing to me, and I have

told him so--I think I almost dislike him." There was no mistaking the

accent of sincerity in her voice. It was fortunate for Elizabeth,

since she was no adept in lying, that the truth and the falsehood were

in this case so nearly identical.

Gerard was satisfied.

"Then what," he urged, eagerly--"if there is no one else--what stands

between us?"

She hesitated. There were voices in the hall, some visitors requesting

admission, the butler parleying a little--the discreet, intelligent

butler, who had so considerately refrained, for the last quarter of an

hour, from coming in to light the gas.

Gerard was too absorbed to notice anything outside of the cause he was

pleading. "Tell me," he repeated, his eyes fixed intently upon her

face, "what stands between us?"

She put out her hand with a deprecating gesture. That threatening

interruption seemed to give her courage. She was quite herself again.

"Can't a woman hesitate for no definite reason?" she asked. "You,

yourself--didn't you hesitate--for reasons that I must confess seem to

me rather vague and--not very complimentary."

The argument struck home. He changed color. "Don't cast that up

against me, Elizabeth," he pleaded. "It's not worthy of you. I told

you the plain truth, badly as it sounds, because it seemed due to

you--I wanted you to know the worst. And you must remember that I had

no reason to suppose that you cared, or would ever care, anything

about me. It was only I who suffered when I kept away from you. But

you--now that you know how--how madly I love you--don't trifle with

me--be generous--give me a definite answer?"

"But I--I can't," she returned, in her old wilful way, "just on the

spur of the moment, like this. I don't want to marry any one--not just

now, at least. I--I like my freedom"----

The words died away on her lips. She broke off suddenly, turning very

pale, as the importunate visitor, whom the butler had vainly

endeavored to show into another room, drew aside the portière and

entered brusquely. It was Paul Halleck. He had a strangely excited

look, which increased as he surveyed the two people on the hearth-rug,

whom he had evidently interrupted at a critical moment.

To one of them, at least, his entrance was most unwelcome. Not all of

Gerard's carefully cultivated self-control could avail to hide his

annoyance; he uttered under his breath an angry exclamation, and going

over to the piano, stood moodily turning over sheets of music.

Elizabeth, to whom Paul's appearance was for some reasons still more

disconcerting, showed greater self-possession. She held out her hand

coldly, but composedly, with a few mechanical words, to which he

barely responded. There was an embarrassing pause, broken by the

butler, who made his belated, majestic entry, lighted the chandeliers

and drew the curtains. The effect of the illumination was startling,

as it threw into strong relief the look of agitation on each of their

faces.

"It--it's storming still, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, and then

remembered that she had asked the same question already. Gerard

started up and reflecting gloomily that it was of no use to try to

"stay that fellow out," he took his leave. Paul and Elizabeth were

left alone.

His presence seemed a matter of absolute indifference to Elizabeth,

who sank again into the low chair by the fire, and picking up the book

she had laid down, turned over its pages with an air of icy unconcern.

He came and stood beside her, leaning against the mantel-piece, a look

of brutality on his handsome face.

"So," he said. "I've driven Gerard away. A case of 'two is company,'

evidently."

Her expression did not change. "Oh, he had been here some time," she

said, coldly. "No doubt he meant to leave in any case."

"Oh, no doubt." He sneered angrily. "Do you know what I heard to-day?"

he went on. "I heard that you were engaged to him."

She flushed a little. "Did you?" she said, and then, quietly: "But

that means nothing, you know."

"But you are together all the time. I can't come to the house without

meeting him. You encourage him, accept his flowers, lead him

on.--Pray, how long is this sort of thing going to last?"

They eyed each other for a moment, he flushed with anger, she cold and

hard. "You have no right," she said, icily, "to ask an account of my

actions."

"No right!" he repeated, as if thunder-struck. "I should like to know

who has a better."

"No right that I acknowledge, at least," she amended her first

sentence.

He paced up and down the room, struggling for self-control. "Whether

you acknowledge it or not, is immaterial," he said, stopping suddenly

in front of her. "I claim it, and that is enough. You must give up

this infernal flirtation with Gerard, or"----

"Or what?" she insisted haughtily, as he paused.

"I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him the truth," he concluded,

defiantly.

Dead silence. The book she held fell from Elizabeth's nerveless hand.

The steady ticking of the clock in the stillness seemed to beat an

accompaniment to these words: "Don't deceive me--now, Elizabeth; I

could forgive anything but that."

"Paul?" Her voice was no longer icy, but soft, with caressing tones.

"Paul, you wouldn't be so unkind?"

"What difference does it make to you?" he said, eyeing her keenly,

"whether I tell Gerard or not? You can't marry him, you know--it's

impossible."

"I don't want to marry him," she said, gathering all her powers of

resistance, "but--he's a friend of mine. I don't want him to be told

things about me by--an outsider."

"Ah, you call me that!" he said, his anger roused again. "Well,

outsider or not, I hold the cards. I shall go to Gerard at once and

tell him that we were married--at Cranston, last July. If he doubts

my assertion, the record is there, and it won't be very hard for him

to verify it."

Silence again. Elizabeth sat musing, her brows knit, her under lip

slightly thrust out, in a fashion that seemed to express all the

obstinate resolve of her nature. "I will do as you wish, if you will

keep silent."

"Will you write a note to Gerard," Paul demanded, "sending him away?"

"No," she said, sullenly. "I won't do that."

"Then there is nothing else you can do," he declared.

Elizabeth mused again. "I would give--money," she said. The last word

was spoken very low.

He started and flushed. "Do you want to bribe me?" he asked, angrily.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I am quite aware that you will not do

anything for nothing," she said.

Paul fell again to pacing up and down the room. His face showed traces

of a mental struggle. Elizabeth watched him from the corners of her

eyes; she saw that her offer tempted him more than she had dared to

hope.

He stopped at last in front of her. "How much can you spare?" he

asked, in a voice in which a certain bravado strove to gain the

mastery over inward uneasiness and shame. "The truth is, I am most

confoundedly hard up just now, what with furnishing the studio and

everything, and if you could help me a little, it would be very

convenient. I can pay you back later with interest a hundred times."

"I have told you," she said, coldly, "what payment I want."

He shrugged his shoulders, with an attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, as to

that, I never really intended to tell Gerard." Elizabeth's lip curled.

"How much money do you want?" she asked, curtly. "A hundred? Two

hundred?" Her ideas on such matters were vague. Paul's face fell.

"I should need five hundred at least, if--if it is to be of any use,"

he said, gloomily.

It was more than she expected, but she showed no signs of flinching.

"Five hundred, then," she said, rising as if to conclude the

interview. "Will it do, if I let you have it to-morrow?"

"Perfectly. Elizabeth, you are an angel. I can't thank you enough." He

advanced towards her with outstretched arms, but with a gesture of

repulsion she waved him aside.

"Don't thank me," she said, coldly. "This is a bargain for our mutual

advantage. I will fulfil my share of it if you remember yours. And

now, as we have nothing more to discuss, I think I will ask you to

excuse me." She made him a stately inclination, picked up her book and

sailed from the room in undiminished dignity and apparent unconcern.

But when she was alone and had locked herself into her room to think

over her misery, then, indeed, the situation stared her in the face in

its true colors. Her own words, "I like my freedom," rang mockingly

in her ears. She was not free, but a slave; slave of a man who had her

in his power, and would use it, as time went on, more and more

unscrupulously. This time it was five hundred that he demanded; next

time it would be a thousand. What could she do? Somehow or another, he

must be satisfied. Anything was better, any sacrifice, any

humiliation, than to allow him to go to Gerard with that bare

statement of facts, "We were married at Cranston, last July!" The

truth, devoid of any of the softening evasions by which she cloaked it

to her own mind; the redeeming circumstances which excused, if they

did not justify, her silence.

Her bitterest enemy must admit that the position was a hard one. A

contract entered into hastily by a thoughtless girl, on the impulse of

the moment; a quarter of an hour in an empty church one summer day; a

few words spoken before a sleepy old clergyman and indifferent

witnesses--could such things as these have power to ruin one's whole

life? No, no--her heart cried out wildly to the contrary. The whole

episode seemed, in the retrospect, so dream-like. It was easy to

imagine that it had never happened. And yet, had she the courage to

ignore it?... And, even if she had, there was always Paul to remind

her of it, who would not give her up without a terrible struggle, that

must, without fail, come to Gerard's ears.

There was only one hope that she could see, and that was wild and

irrational; the hope Paul had himself suggested. If that prediction

could be fulfilled! Elizabeth shuddered. It was terrible to think of

such a thing; terrible to obtain one's own happiness at the cost of

another person's life. She did not really wish Paul dead--that would

be wicked. And yet--and yet--the thought pressed irresistibly upon

her--if it had to be!--if it had to be! What a blessed relief--what an

end to all this misery! "Oh, I do wish it, I do wish it!" she broke

out, speaking aloud, unconsciously. "I would give anything in this

world to hear of his death."

She stopped, startled at the sound of her own voice. The wish shocked

her, even in the moment of expressing it. Her wishes were so often

fulfilled--she had an almost superstitious faith in their efficacy. If

this one were fulfilled, what then?--For a moment she, thinking it

over, balanced possibilities; and then with a stifled cry, fell on her

knees and hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, I'm growing so wicked," she sobbed out. "It's because I'm so

miserable. Only let me have what I want, and I'll be different; I'll

be the kind of woman that he admires; only--I must find a way, I must

have what I want--_first_."

_Chapter XXIV_

The next day dawned clear and bright; a beautiful morning in early

spring after a night of storm. Upon Elizabeth's spirits as she dressed

the weather produced the illogical effect that it does upon most of

us. Reviewed by daylight, the situation seemed to her many degrees

less desperate. The night before, there had seemed to her only one way

out, and that a tragical one; but now there were--there must be--a

hundred ways, if only she could gain the time to think of them.

The first thing was to obtain the money; but this in itself was no

easy matter. She had promised it to Paul as if it were a mere trifle;

yet, as a matter of fact, she was as badly off herself at the time as

was to be expected of a young woman who had gone out a great deal, and

established and lived up to an expensive reputation for being always

well and appropriately gowned.

She reviewed her resources. Mrs. Bobby would have lent her the money

at once and asked no questions; but from this course Elizabeth's pride

shrank uncontrollably. She preferred to take a sum she had just laid

aside to satisfy to some extent the claims of a long-suffering and

complaisant dressmaker; but even with this sacrifice determined on,

she was still far short of the amount required. She took out, in

desperation, her various jewels and trinkets, and looked them over,

wondering how much they were worth. There were many pretty things her

aunts had given her, none of them probably of any great intrinsic

value, and there were the beautiful gifts that Mrs. Bobby had showered

upon her; and, finally, there was the string of pearls which she

always wore about her neck, one of the few heirlooms which old Madam

Van Vorst had once kept under lock and key, and which her daughters

had of course made over to Elizabeth. The girl stood now hesitating

with the pearls in her hand. She had worn them to every ball that

winter, she was wont to say, with her half-joking, half-real touch of

superstition, that they brought her luck; as if, with their

possession, something of the spirit of that proud beauty of a by-gone

day had entered into her, enabling her to conquer the world in which

the older woman had been naturally at home. Would the power leave her

with the pearls? The fantastic thought lingered for a moment, and then

impatiently she thrust it aside, and put the precious heirloom in with

the rest of her possessions, which she had resolved to sacrifice. It

was not a moment when she could afford to dally with sentiment.

Yet what a strange, disreputable proceeding it seemed! She was haunted

with a vague sense of losing caste, as she took her trinkets to one of

the smaller jewelry-shops, and faltered out her improbable tale of

their being unbecoming and of no use to her. The jeweler, well used to

the straits of fashionable young women, listened without a smile, and

offered her on the whole a fair price, though it was much less than

she expected. There was nothing that she was not obliged to part

with--from the jeweled watch which Mrs. Bobby had given her at

Christmas, to the pearls, which proved to be the most valuable of all.

When she left the shop she had deprived herself of all her ornaments,

but she held the necessary bribe in her hand, and as the simplest way

of conveying it to Halleck, she got on a cable car and went up at once

to his studio at Carnegie. There was nothing startling in the

proceeding, for he had now a number of pupils, who came to him at his

studio; and though the girls whom Elizabeth knew always brought their

maids, or a chaperone of some sort, she was not in the mood to waste

much thought on conventionalities. Her one idea was to fulfil her

share of the bargain before he should, perchance, have repented of

his, and she did not think of the chance of meeting any one. Her own

affairs had reached a crisis which blinded her to the fact that to

other people, the world was progressing peacefully, in the usual order

of events.

This dream-like state of indifference to all but the one anxiety

continued till she reached Carnegie and was borne up in the elevator

to Paul's studio, which was directly opposite to Mr. D'Hauteville's.

And here, for the first time, she paused, seized by a sudden panic.

From behind the closed curtain at the end of the small vestibule,

there came the sound of a woman's voice, strained, nasal, raised high

in what seemed a tirade of denunciation. To Elizabeth's mind, as she

heard it, there arose an involuntary recollection of Bassett Mills,

and of the gaudy little parlor behind her aunt's shop, and some bitter

words directed against herself, in what seemed a past period of her

history. She stood hesitating, terrified; then the curtain was pushed

aside, and a woman came out. It was her cousin Amanda. Her face was

white and set, her eyes blazing. She stared at Elizabeth for a moment

as if dazed, then brushed past her without a word.

Paul stood on the threshold, a picturesque object in his velveteen

coat and turned-down collar, against the artistic background of the

luxuriously-furnished studio. He looked flushed, annoyed; the scene

which had just taken place had evidently been a trying one. But when

he saw Elizabeth standing doubtful in the hall, his face cleared and

he came forward to greet her with effusion.

"Darling, how good of you to come here!" He evidently hailed the visit

as an overture towards reconciliation. She hastened to disabuse him.

"It was the easiest way to bring this," she said, handing him the

package which she had clasped nervously all the way up. "Will you be

kind enough, please, to count it and see if it is all right?" It was

impossible to speak with more icy brevity, or to impart to any

proceeding a more severely business-like air.

He flushed uncomfortably, but did not allow his vexation to interfere

with the evident necessity of counting the money. "It is all right,"

he said, biting his lips, as he put down the last roll of bills. "Do

you wish me to give you a receipt?" he asked, with fine sarcasm.

"No," said Elizabeth, gravely. "I rely on your word."

Paul bowed. "Thank you," he said. "And now--is there anything else I

can do for you?"

"Nothing," said Elizabeth, briefly, "except what you know already. And

now, I must go." She moved towards the door, but he placed himself in

her way.

"Come, come, Elizabeth," he said. "I'm not going to let you go like

that--the first time you make me a visit. Give me a kiss now, just to

show that you don't bear malice."

Elizabeth's only reply was a look of ineffable haughtiness. "Will you

let me pass, please?" she said, in a low tone of concentrated wrath,

and with an uneasy laugh, he obeyed her.

"What a virago you are!" he said, "almost as bad as your cousin

Amanda. It must be the hair," he added, with a sneer, but Elizabeth

did not pause to reply. Anxious only to escape, she closed the studio

door hastily behind her, and a moment later the elevator bore her

swiftly down, and she regained the street, with the feeling of having

staved off misfortune, for the moment at least.

She found, when she got home, a note from Gerard, informing her that

he had been unexpectedly called out of town for a few days on

business, but hoped to see her on his return. There were the flowers,

too, which he sent her daily. He had no intention, evidently, of

taking her answer of the day before as final. She realized this, with

a thrill that held in it more of pleasure than alarm. Still, she was

glad that he was out of town. His absence was a reprieve, giving her

more of the time she wanted, though it is hard to say what she

expected to gain by it. But very little often sufficed to restore

Elizabeth's spirits. She was going out to dinner that evening, and she

dressed for it with a mind that was comparatively at ease.

But poor Elizabeth's moments of tranquillity just then were short. She

was nearly dressed when Celeste entered with the information that a

young person had called to see Mademoiselle, who insisted upon seeing

her at once. "I told her that Mademoiselle is dressing," said the

maid, with expressive gestures; "that she has an engagement, it is

most important, but--but she is a most determined young person, she

insists that I bring up a message at once."

"It is Amanda, of course," thought Elizabeth, with a terrible sinking

of the heart. She had forgotten, until that moment, the meeting in the

studio. She glanced at the clock. "I have fifteen minutes, Celeste,"

she said. "Show her up. She may want to see me about something

important." The maid departed, and Elizabeth bent down nervously to

sort out gloves and handkerchief, wondering as she did now at each

unexpected incident, what danger it might portend.

"I thought," said Amanda, "I might come up--seeing we're first

cousins." She stood in the door-way, her eyes roaming about the room,

taking in every detail--the soft prevailing harmonies of pale blue and

rose, the firelight flickering on the tiled hearth, the shining silver

ornaments on the dressing-table, the profusion of bric-à-brac, of

cotillion favors, the roses in the china bowl, the general air of

luxury--all a fit setting to the proud young beauty, standing before

the mirror in her shimmering white satin and laces.

"My, but you look fine!" said Amanda, under her breath. A slightly

awed expression crossed her face, modifying the assurance of her

entrance. "You're going out?" she asked, looking almost ready to

retreat.

"To dinner--yes; but not just yet. Won't you sit down, Amanda?"

Elizabeth said, trying to speak easily. "I--I'm glad to see you. How

is Aunt Rebecca, and--every one at Bassett Mills?"

Amanda sat down, her eyes still wandering eagerly around the room.

Elizabeth, looking at her, saw the unfavorable change that a few

months had made. True, she was smartly dressed, with the cheap, tawdry

smartness that can be bought ready-made at the shops, and her hat was

tilted carefully at the fashionable angle; her hair, growing low about

her forehead, had still the pretty, natural wave to it, which was a

legacy from the fever, and the general effect at a first glance was

striking. But the face, under the jaunty, be-feathered hat, was white

and haggard, the eyes had a wild restless look, there were hard,

vindictive lines about the mouth. Her hands moved incessantly,

plucking at the fringe on her gown.

"Glad? Well, I guess you're not very glad to see me," she said, with a

strange, mocking smile, ignoring the latter part of Elizabeth's

speech. "There never was much love lost between us, and now--but still

I thought I'd pay you a visit. I'm staying with Uncle Ben's folks, and

they told me I ought to look up my swell cousin--since you were so

sure to want to see me"--she gave a short, jarring laugh. "That

stuck-up maid wouldn't believe me--thought I was crazy, when I said we

were first cousins. I don't see why--I'm sure I don't look so--so

different as all that." Her voice sank into rather a wistful key, and

she stole a glance at the long pier-glass that stood opposite her. "I

got my suit at a bargain sale," she said. "The girls said it was--real

stylish."

"It's very pretty," said Elizabeth, gently. She glanced at Amanda with

a sudden pity that overpowered her first annoyance and alarm at the

inopportune visit. What had brought her to town? Some vague,

irrational hope of winning back Paul's admiration, perhaps, with this

gown that was "real stylish," and the new hat, and the general, tawdry

attempt at smartness. It was that, probably, which had taken her to

the studio, and no doubt Paul had been disgusted with this attempt to

revive an old flirtation, and in his irritation, had convinced her

somewhat rudely of his indifference. Poor Amanda! Really she had not

seemed quite right in the head since the fever.

"Were you surprised to see me this morning?" said Amanda, watching her

and seeming to read her thoughts. "I went to call on another old

friend, and--I wasn't welcome"--she gave another jarring laugh, which

ended this time in a sob. "He--he didn't seem glad to see me,

considering how well he used to know me--once." Her voice broke

piteously, she paused for a moment, and then: "I hate him, I hate

him!" she broke out, fiercely. "I'd give anything in this world if I'd

never known him."

"So would I," said Elizabeth, low and bitterly, and then stopped,

frightened at what she had said. But Amanda showed no surprise.

"Ah, you think that now," she said, slowly, "but you didn't use to.

You've got so many rich beaux now that you don't care about him any

longer. But I wonder what they'd think--these rich beaux of yours--if

they knew how wild you used to be about him, how you went wandering

about the country with him, if they knew"--Amanda leaned forward and

spoke in an impressive whisper--"if they knew that you have to do what

he wants now, that you're afraid of him."

There was a silence. Elizabeth, faint and giddy, sank into the nearest

chair, and put up involuntarily her hand to her heart. So here was

another danger threatening, another person who knew something--everything,

perhaps? Her brain reeled. Amanda leaned back in her chair, watching

her triumphantly, a hard, bright glitter in her eyes.

"Amanda!" Elizabeth's white lips tried in vain to frame a coherent

question. "Amanda,"--she made another attempt--"what do you mean?"

Amanda smiled contemptuously. "Oh, you know well enough what I mean,"

she said. "Why did you go there this morning when you don't care for

him any more, and are sorry you ever knew him, unless you're afraid of

him, and have to do what he wants?"

"Oh, is that all?" Elizabeth drew a long sigh of relief. "I went there

this morning because--because I wanted to meet a friend"--she broke

off in confusion before the look on Amanda's face. Then, with a sudden

reaction of feeling, she raised her head haughtily. "It doesn't

matter," she said, "_what_ I went there for. It's a--a studio; all his

pupils go there. I might have wanted to see him about singing-lessons,

about anything.--If that is all you base your suspicions on,

Amanda"----She stopped.

"Ah, but if it isn't?" said Amanda, in her impressive whisper, which

seemed fraught with a mysterious consciousness of power.

Another silence. The defiant look on Elizabeth's face faded; she

leaned back in her chair and half closed her eyes. Ah, she was weary,

deathly weary, of these constant nervous shocks. How much did Amanda

know--how much? If she could only be sure!

"I think they'd be rather surprised," Amanda went on, in unnaturally

quiet tones, "these swell friends of yours, if they knew all about

you. They think you very sweet, they give you lots of things"--Amanda's

hard, restless eyes roamed again about the room and rested on

Elizabeth's beautiful gown. "It don't seem fair," she broke out,

suddenly, with a fierce little sob; "it don't seem fair, that you

should have so much--and then to be so pretty too, as well as all the

rest!"

She was silent for a moment, struggling with the tears that threatened

to break forth, and Elizabeth began to breathe more freely. All this

bluster, after all, these vague threats, seemed to resolve themselves

into the old, unreasoning, powerless jealousy--nothing more. And with

the relief came again the sense of pity, of a certain justice in

Amanda's point of view.

"It isn't fair," she said, softly. "I don't deserve it, but"----

"Well, fair or not, I guess it don't make much difference," Amanda

interrupted her, drearily, rising to her feet. "You've always had the

best of me, and probably, you always will. But, if ever you

don't"----She broke off suddenly and moved towards the door. "I guess

I'd better be going," she said. "You'll be late for your dinner. Only,

before you go"--she paused with her hand on the knob of the door, that

hard, mocking glitter in her eyes--"before you go, just put on some of

your jewelry, won't you? Seems to me you look sort of bare without

it."

"My--my jewelry?" Elizabeth's heart, which had been beating more

quietly, suddenly stood still. "I--I don't wear jewelry, Amanda," she

said, in a dull, toneless voice.

"What, not your pearls?" Amanda's hard, mocking eyes seemed to read

her through and through. "Your pearls you were so proud of in the

country, that you said you'd always wear. Seems to me you need

them--with that fine dress!"

She stood hovering by the door, a weird figure in the exaggerated

smartness of her attire, with her white face framed in the deep red

hair, and that strange, uncanny smile gleaming across it, lighting it

up into an elf-like suggestion of mysterious power. Elizabeth stared

at her helplessly, fascinated; then, with a great effort, she roused

herself and hurried towards her.

"Amanda!" she cried, desperately. "Amanda, for Heaven's sake, stop

these insinuations! Tell me plainly what you mean?" She gripped her

fiercely by the arm, her face was white and set. For a moment Amanda's

eyes met hers. Then, as if in spite of herself, they fell, she freed

herself sullenly from Elizabeth's grasp.

"Well, I guess I didn't mean much," she said, awkwardly, "or if I did,

it don't matter. I wouldn't tell tales against--my first cousin"--She

turned the knob of the door, but again she paused, that weird smile

still flickering in her eyes. "Good-night," she said, "I hope you'll

enjoy your dinner. Too bad you haven't got your pearls." She gave one

last jarring laugh, opened the door and went out.

Elizabeth, white and trembling, sank into the nearest chair.

"How she frightened me!" she gasped out. "These constant shocks will

kill me. Does she know anything definite? Probably not. But what can I

do, how can I find out?--Ah, Celeste!"--as the maid appeared with an

anxious expression in the door-way. "The carriage is waiting? Very

well." She hurried to the dressing-table, caught up her gloves and

gave one hasty glance at her white face. "How ugly I am growing," she

thought, turning away with a shudder; "quite like Amanda! I see the

resemblance. It is this awful life. I wish--oh, how I wish I were

home!" The thought swept over her, thrilling her with an intense,

passionate longing for her aunts' presence, for the country quiet, for

rest and peace.

"Yes, I will go home," she thought, as Celeste adjusted the cloak

about her shoulders and she hastened down to the carriage. "I will go

home," she repeated to herself at intervals during the evening, while

she talked and laughed with a restless light in her eyes and a

feverish flush on her cheeks. "The country will be so peaceful. I

shall be quite safe there, away from all this agitation, this trying

to keep up appearances. It is the best way out. How fortunate that he

is away! I won't see him again before I go."

It was, she felt, an heroic resolution. Yes, she would go at once. And

she resolutely crushed back the thought: "He will follow."

_Chapter XXV_

"The Van Antwerps have come up for the summer," said Miss Joanna, who

had made the same announcement, if you remember, not quite a year

before. "The butcher says they came last night. They never got here so

early before."

Elizabeth, who was arranging flowers, looked up suddenly. "Yes, I

know," she said, quietly, "Eleanor wrote me." She left her roses half

arranged, and wandered restlessly over to the long French window.

Before her stretched the well-kept lawn, with its flower-beds and

rose-bushes and beyond, field and wooded upland, all clothed in their

newest, most vivid dress of green; further still the river, with the

white sails on its surface--that river from which, more than half a

century before, another Elizabeth Van Vorst had resolutely turned away

her eyes, refusing to be reminded of the life that she had given up.

But that woman of an older generation was made of sterner stuff,

perhaps, than her grand-daughter. And then there was not much travel

in those days, no daily mails, no guests coming up to neighboring

house-parties over Sunday.... "It will be nice for you, Elizabeth, to

have Mrs. Bobby," said Aunt Joanna, in her comfortable monotone, her

knitting-needles clicking peacefully. "You have found it a little

dull, you know, dear, since you came back."

A little dull! Elizabeth could have laughed out loud at the words. A

little dull--with such exciting subjects to discuss as the new Easter

anthem, and the latest illness of the Rectory children; with such

diversions as a drive to Bassett Mills, a tea-party at the Courtenays!

...

"If I am dull," she said, turning round presently with the ghost of a

smile "It certainly isn't the fault of the Neighborhood. I didn't tell

you that Mrs. Courtenay has asked me to tea--a third time. She says

'Frank will see me home--no need to send the carriage.'" She laughed a

little, not without a shade of bitterness. "Fancy Mrs. Courtenay

suggesting that--last summer!"

"Well, dear, she means well, I suppose," said Miss Joanna, puzzled but

kindly. Miss Cornelia raised her head with a little, involuntary touch

of pride.

"The Courtenays are--are really quite pushing, I think," she said, a

most unwonted tone of asperity in her voice. "I told Mrs. Courtenay,

Elizabeth, that you had been so _very gay_"--with emphasis--"you

really needed a complete rest."

Elizabeth laughed. "And of course," she said "that only made her--dear

good woman!--all the more anxious to provide me with a little more

amusement. I never realized before how fond the girls have always been

of me. But then that's the case, apparently with the whole

Neighborhood. They always concealed their affection for me very

successfully--until this spring!"

She paused, her aunts made no reply. She went over to the piano and

began absently turning over sheets of music.

"Do you remember, auntie," she said, abruptly--Miss Joanna had left

the room in response to a summons from the maid, and Elizabeth and

Miss Cornelia were alone--"do you remember that I told you once that I

felt myself a sort of nondescript--neither flesh, fowl, nor good red

herring? But now I seem to be considered a very fine fowl indeed--the

ugly duckling, probably, that turned into a swan."

"You never were an _ugly_ duckling, my dear," Miss Cornelia could not

help protesting, in spite of her principles. "It certainly wasn't

that."

"Perhaps not," said Elizabeth, "at all events, I'm no better-looking

than I was--let us say, last year. I heard a woman at The Mills say

the other day that I had "gone off terrible," in my looks. But that

doesn't prevent Frank Courtenay from coming here day after day, boring

me to death, since he has discovered as his mother tells me, that I am

"just the style that he admires"--it doesn't prevent the Johnston

girls from going into raptures over my beautiful hair, and asking if I

mind their copying my lovely gowns. They _have_ copied my new spring

hat, if you notice. Oh, it would be amusing, if it wasn't--so very

petty!" She put out her hand with a weary, contemptuous gesture. "And

then the funny part of it all is that I am not really so nice, if they

only knew it, as I was last year, when they all treated me as if I

had committed some sort of crime, merely in existing."

"My dear," remonstrated Miss Cornelia, "how can you talk like that?

I'm sure you're not a bit spoiled--every one says so."

"Ah, they think so," said Elizabeth, quickly, "they think me nice,

because I've acquired a society manner, and say the correct thing, but

if they knew--everything"--she stopped suddenly and stood for a moment

staring steadily before her, with knit brows. "Do you know, Aunt

Cornelia," she said abruptly "what I think I am?--a sort of moral

nondescript, neither good nor bad. I see the right way--oh, I see it

so very plainly, and I want to take it; and then I choose the

wrong--always and inevitably I choose the wrong, and shall all my

life, until the end. It's not my fault, really--I can't do right, no

matter how hard I try."

"My dear!" Miss Cornelia looked at her, puzzled and shocked. "There's

no one," she said, putting into trite words her own simple conviction

"there's no one, Elizabeth, who can't do right, if they try hard

enough."

"Do you think so, auntie?" said Elizabeth, very gently. "Then probably

I don't try--hard enough." She went over to Miss Cornelia and kissed

her on the cheek. "If I were like you," she said, "I should." Then

without further words, she sat down at the piano and began to play, as

she did every day for hours at a time. Such restless, passionate,

brilliant playing! A vague uneasiness mingled in Miss Cornelia's mind

with her pride in the girl's talent, as she listened to it. Something

was troubling Elizabeth, evidently; something which had brought her

home so unexpectedly, which had changed her in looks and manner beyond

what could be accounted for by excitement and late hours. Yet innate

delicacy and timidity prevented Miss Cornelia from forcing in any way

the confidence which seemed to tremble, now and again, upon the girl's

lips. She had a vague idea that the difficulty, whatever it was, would

soon be decided one way or another, that the Van Antwerps' arrival,

which Elizabeth seemed at once to dread and look forward to, would

bring matters to a crisis, and the whole thing would be explained.

Elizabeth was still playing when Mrs. Bobby interrupted her. That she

had not allowed a day to elapse before hastening to the Homestead was

a fact noted with jealous care by the Misses Courtenay, who met her at

the gate.

"He is desperate." Mrs. Bobby's visit had not lasted many minutes

before she murmured this, holding Elizabeth's hand, and scanning

eagerly her averted face. At Mrs. Bobby's words it quivered, the color

flushed into her cheek; but otherwise she made no sign.

"When you first went away," Mrs. Bobby continued, as no answer came,

"he was all for coming up here at once. He thought it a caprice, a

morbid, unaccountable whim; he was sure that if he could see you,

remonstrate with you--And then there was your letter, forbidding him

to come. He was beside himself! It was all I could do to keep him

from taking the first train up here. I said--Wait--it doesn't do,

always, to force a woman's will; give her a little time. At least she

has paid you the compliment, which she has paid to no one else

of--running away from your attentions."

She paused, her eyes still eagerly fixed upon Elizabeth's face. The

color in the girl's cheek was now brilliant, her lips were parted; but

still she did not speak.

"Day after day," said Mrs. Bobby, "we have talked it over--he walking

up and down, restless, wild; I trying to soothe him, urging him to be

patient--Sometimes he thinks that you are revenging yourself in this

way for his former neglect, that it is a little scheme to pay him

back--the idea drives him frantic, makes him furious with himself, yet

he is always encouraged when he thinks of it. And then again--he

thinks that you don't care for him, that you never will, that there is

some one else.... Ah, my dear, if you really do care, you are cruel,

unpardonably cruel, to torment him like this."

Again she paused. Elizabeth, with a quick, impatient movement, dragged

her hand away from her grasp, and began to pace up and down, gasping

as if for breath. "Cruel," she cried out, "cruel! And you think it

gives me pleasure--to torment him!"

"If it doesn't," said Mrs. Bobby, following her with her eyes and

speaking with some coldness, "I confess I am at a loss to account for

your behavior."

Elizabeth stopped suddenly and bending down, almost buried her face

in the roses, whose fragrance she inhaled.

"There never was a man," said Mrs. Bobby, "who loved a woman more than

he loves you, Elizabeth. And there isn't a man, who, I believe,

deserves a woman better."

"Deserves her!" murmured Elizabeth, "deserves _me_! Oh, good Heavens!"

The exclamation was barely audible, and apparently addressed only to

the roses.

"I said to him yesterday," said Mrs. Bobby, "'You'll come up Saturday,

of course?' But--he's proud now and hurt, Elizabeth--he said: 'I won't

come, I won't force myself upon her without--her knowledge and

consent. If she knows, if she's willing, why, then, I'll come--not

otherwise.'"

There was a pause. Elizabeth turned presently a face which seemed to

reflect the glowing color of the roses over which she had bent. "What

do you--want me to do, Eleanor?" she asked, softly.

"Tell me what I shall say," said Mrs. Bobby "in the letter which I

must write when I get home." She went over to Elizabeth and put her

hand on her arm. "Shall he come, or shall he not? It rests with you."

Elizabeth's eyes were again averted. "It isn't for me, Eleanor," she

murmured, "to drive your guests away, if--if they really want to

come."

And so Mrs. Bobby, when she got home, wrote her letter. It consisted

of only one word.

The Saturday following was extremely warm. The Rector and his wife

came to take tea at the Homestead, and they all sat afterwards in the

dimly-lighted drawing-room. Elizabeth wandered to the long French

window, and stood looking out upon the moon-lit lawn. "It's so warm

that I think I shall go for a walk," she said, half aloud, but no one

heard her. The Rector was telling Miss Cornelia about the death of an

old clergyman in Cranston, who had lived alone with two old servants.

Elizabeth stood and listened for a moment to the deep, impressive

tones which mingled strangely with the comfortable monotone which the

Rector's wife was addressing to Miss Joanna.

"And so," she was saying "you see I have had blue put on it again,

being more summery"--

"I feel particularly sorry," the Rector's voice broke in, "for the old

servants. They were quite prostrated, I fear, poor things! They too

have not long to live."

"Black satin at four dollars a yard," said his wife, "is sure to last

forever."

"He was an excellent man," said the Rector. "His death is a great

loss." But here Elizabeth, weary of listening, softly turned the knob

of the window and stepped out on the lawn.

What a beautiful night it was outside! The long twilight was fading

into dusk, but the moon silvered the shadows that the trees cast

across the road. Elizabeth walked to the gate and stood leaning

against it. In the distance she heard distinctly the sound of a

horse's hoofs. It grew nearer and nearer, and in a few moments a man

on horseback was beside her, and drew his rein abruptly before this

figure in white, which stood like an apparition in his path.

"Elizabeth," he said. "Elizabeth, is it you?"

"Did you think it was my ghost?" she asked, with a soft laugh. Her

white gown shimmered in the moonlight, her hair framed in her face

with a vivid halo, her eyes shone like stars. Gerard sprang from his

horse.

"Elizabeth," he said "were you waiting for me?"

"Yes," she answered, "I was waiting for you."

And the next moment he had her in his arms, and she had forgotten all

other thoughts, all other claims, beneath the fervor of his kisses.

_Chapter XXVI_

The summer passed for an eventful one at Bassett Mills, being marked

by at least two subjects of conversation; the one the engagement of

Elizabeth Van Vorst of the Homestead "that girl of Malvina Jones," to

a gentleman from town, who was reported to be "rolling in wealth;" the

second, the illness of Amanda Jones, of that fashionable disease

called nervous prostration, which no other girl at Bassett Mills but

Amanda, who had always given herself airs, would have had the time or

the money to indulge in. She had been taken ill while visiting her

relations in New York, and her mother had gone up to nurse her, and

announced on her return that Amanda was "that nervous" the

doctor--"the best that could be had," as she observed with pride, had

recommended complete rest, and sending her to a sanitarium for a few

months.

"But there really ain't much the matter with her," Amanda's mother

explained rather tartly to Elizabeth, who inquired for particulars as

to her cousin's illness. "She has fits of crying, and then of sitting

still and staring straight before her, like as if she was in a trance,

and then she'll get up, and walk up and down the room for hours, and

sometimes she'll notice you, and sometimes she won't--but dear me,

it's all nonsense, I say. If she had some hard work to do, it would be

better for her--but the doctor didn't seem to think so, and so I let

her go to the sanitarium. No one shall say that I grudge the expense,

as, thank Heaven! I don't have to, though there ain't another person

at The Mills that wouldn't."

"I'm sure I hope it will do her good," Elizabeth said, kindly. She

felt so glad to have Amanda, whatever the reason, away from Bassett

Mills that she was conscious of a sudden pang of remorse, which

increased when she received a letter from her cousin, congratulating

her upon her engagement. It was a perfectly rational letter, with only

slight references to her illness, and none at all to that unpleasant

last interview in town; and Elizabeth answered the congratulations in

the same amicable spirit in which they were offered, reflecting that,

after all, much of Amanda's peculiarity must be excused on the ground

of her persistent ill-health. And yet, as she sealed and directed her

own letter, she breathed again a fervent thanksgiving that Amanda was

safely out of the way.

There was another person for whose absence just then she felt devoutly

thankful. When her engagement was announced, early in July--against

her own wishes and in deference to Gerard's--she had received a

terrible letter from Halleck, denouncing her perfidy, and threatening

to come up at once. She had answered it as best she could, imploring

his silence, and enclosing a sum of money which she borrowed from her

aunts, on the plea of urgent bills--far from mythical, unfortunately,

but which remained unpaid. Whether or no Paul granted her request, he

pocketed the money, and she next heard of him as having gone abroad

for the summer. The piece of news, casually mentioned one day in the

course of conversation, thrilled her with a sense of overpowering

relief, a suggestion, against which she struggled in vain, of possible

accidents, of all the things that might reasonably happen to those who

travel by sea or land. Elizabeth breathed a devout wish--it might

almost be called a prayer--that this particular traveler might never

return.

Meanwhile, the summer passed; a cool, delightful summer, rich with a

succession of fragrant, sunshiny days and long, balmy evenings; and

signalized by what for the Neighborhood was an unusual amount of

gaiety. Several entertainments were given in honor of Elizabeth's

engagement, among others a large dinner at the Van Antwerps'. And for

this Elizabeth wore--it was Gerard's fancy--the same white gown in

which he had first seen her, which he vowed that he cared for more

than all her other gowns put together. And though she had pouted a

little and declared that the others were far more smart, she yielded

to his wishes in this, as she did in most things. Yet during the

evening she noticed now and again his eyes fixed upon her with an odd,

doubtful expression, as one who searches his memory for the details of

a likeness, and finds inexplicably something lacking.

"I know what it is," he announced, abruptly, when they had wandered

after dinner for a little while into the conservatory. "I was

wondering what it was I missed, and now I know. You haven't got on

your pearls. You wore them that night--in fact, I never saw you in

full dress without them."

She flushed beneath his wondering gaze, reflecting how constantly he

had observed her, wishing--almost--that he had not observed her quite

so much.

"Did you forget them?" he asked smiling, as she made no response, but

merely put up her hand to her white neck, as if just reminded of the

fact that it was unadorned.

She plucked a rose from a plant near by, and began, nonchalantly, to

pull it to pieces.

"Oh, I--I didn't feel in the mood to put them on," she said

carelessly. "I--somehow I think I shall _not_ be in the mood to wear

them again for a long while."

He was watching her lazily, an amused smile gleaming in the depths of

his dark eyes. "What an odd, capricious child you are!" he said.

"You're all made up of moods. I never know what to expect next."

She was picking the rose to pieces very deliberately, petal by petal,

her eyes cast down. "Yes, I'm all made up of moods," she echoed,

softly. "You must never be surprised at anything I do or say."

"I'm not," he returned, smiling. "And yet," he went on, after a

moment, "I confess I'm a little surprised--and disappointed at this

last one. I was thinking, to tell the truth, as I had an idea you

valued those pearls particularly, of asking you to let me have them,

so that I could get you another string to match them exactly."

The last petal of the rose fell from Elizabeth's hand, she stared up

at Gerard with an odd, frightened expression. "Don't," she broke out,

harshly. "I--I hate pearls." Then with a sudden change, as she saw the

absolute bewilderment in his face, she laid her hand gently on his

arm. "Dear," she said, very sweetly, "you must have patience with my

moods. I've got an idea, just now, that pearls are unlucky. It's very

silly, I know, but--don't argue with me. Bear with me, Julian, let me

have my own way--a little."

They were alone in the conservatory. He put his arm around her and

pressed his lips to hers. "A little," he murmured. "Have your own

way--a little! Didn't I tell you, my darling, that you should have

your own way in everything?"

She seemed to shrink away with an involuntary shiver at the words.

"Ah, but I don't want it," she protested. "It's the last thing I want.

If"--she freed herself from his hold and stood looking him, very

sweetly and steadily, in the face--"if we are married, Julian"--

"_If!_" he echoed, reproachfully.

"It's always safer to say 'if'" she said.

"Ah, but that's a suggestion I won't tolerate," he declared, firmly.

"I'll have my own way in that, if in nothing else. But, _when_ we are

married, Elizabeth"--he paused.

"When we are married, then,"--she ceded the point resignedly,

blushing rosy red--"when we are married, Julian, it must be your way,

not mine. Yours is far better, wiser--yes"--she stopped his protest

with an imperious gesture--"I feel it, even though I try sometimes to

dispute it. I shall never do that--later. I shall try, with all the

strength I have, to be more worthy of your love. But now--just now,

Julian"--she looked at him anxiously, and a note of appeal crept into

her voice--"if I seem odd, wilful, don't blame me, don't--doubt me"--

"Doubt you?" He took her hand and raised it reverently to his lips. "I

shall never doubt you--again, my darling, no matter what you do or

say."

There was the ring of absolute confidence in his voice. Yet it might

have been that which made her shiver and shrink away, almost as if he

had struck her a blow.

"I--I think we had better go back to the others," she announced,

abruptly, in a moment, and her intonation was quick and sharp, almost

as if she were frightened and trying to escape from some threatened

danger. "It"--she smiled uncertainly--"it's not quite good form, I

think, for us to wander off like this."

"Hang good form!" said Gerard, but still he followed her back

resignedly to the other room, and she gave, as they reached the lights

and the people, a soft sigh of relief, which fortunately he did not

hear. Yet he noticed that for the rest of the evening she was paler

than she had been at first.

This pallor increased when Mrs. Bobby, too, voiced the question which

had been perplexing her all the evening, as to why she did not wear

the pearls. Elizabeth did not mention her moods--it is evident that

women cannot be put off, in such important questions as that of

jewelry, with the vague answers that might satisfy a man. She said

that the string had broken, and she had sent them to town to be

re-strung. Her aunts knew that they had been there for that purpose

since early spring, and they could not understand why she did not send

for them, since other things had been left at the same jeweler's--notably

that little jeweled watch, which they had heard of, but never seen. It

was odd that Elizabeth should have lost, to so large an extent, her

taste for pretty things.

Gerard, too, noticed this, but he would not ask her any more

questions. Later he gave her a string of emeralds set with diamonds,

which she wore to entertainments in the Neighborhood that autumn, and

no one asked any more questions about the pearls, since it was natural

that she should prefer to wear his gift.

His trust in her was absolute, as he had said. It seemed as if he

would make amends now by the plenitude of his confidence, for that

former instinctive, reasonless distrust. And then she was so different

from the frivolous girl he had first imagined her. Every day he

reproached himself with his old estimate of her character, as he

discovered in her new and unexpected depths of brain and soul. She

read all the books that he recommended--some of them very deep, and

she would once have thought very tiresome--and she surprised him by

the intelligence of her criticisms, she took a sympathetic interest in

those articles by which he was making a name for himself in the

scientific world, and she entered with an apparently perfect

comprehension into all his hopes, thoughts and aspirations. There was

only one thing in which she baffled him, one point where her old

wilfulness would come between them. This was her obstinate and

unaccountable refusal to name their wedding day.

The Neighborhood was exercised on the subject. It had been decided by

unanimous consent that the wedding should be in the autumn--"quite the

best time for a wedding" as the Rector's wife observed, and lay awake

one whole night planning the most charming (and inexpensive)

decorations of autumn leaves and golden-rod. But all the reward she

received for her pains was the information that Elizabeth did not care

for autumn weddings, and as the Misses Van Vorst at Gerard's request,

had taken a small apartment in town for the winter, the Rector's wife

had many pangs at the thought that the Bassett Mills church and her

husband would lose all the prestige that would attend this great

event--to say nothing of the fee.

But when Gerard, as a matter of course, spoke of their being married

in town, Elizabeth looked up deprecatingly into his face.

"Wait till I'm twenty-one," she pleaded. "This is my unlucky year, you

know. Do please, Julian, wait till it's over."

But Gerard's face was set in rigid lines, like that of a man who is

determined to stand no more trifling. Elizabeth's unlucky year would

not be past till April.

_Chapter XXVII_

It was a bleak December day and Central Park seemed the last place

where one would wish to loiter. The sky hung lowering overhead, gray,

cold, heavy with the weight of invisible snowflakes. The wind made a

dull moaning sound, as it stirred the bare branches of the trees. The

lake, where at another season you see children sailing in the

swan-boats, was nearly covered with a thin coating of ice. But

Elizabeth Van Vorst as she stood with eyes intently fixed upon the

small space of water still visible, did not seem to notice either the

cold or the dreariness of the scene. She was leaning against a tree,

and looking at nothing but the lake, till at the sound of foot-steps

on the path, she turned to face Paul Halleck.

"So you got my note," she said, speaking listlessly, without a sign of

surprise or satisfaction. She did not give him her hand, which clasped

the other tightly, in the warm shelter of her muff.

"Yes, I got it; but I could wish you had chosen a warmer

meeting-place, my dear." The last months had changed him, and not for

the better. His figure had grown stouter, his beauty coarser. She

shrank away in invincible repugnance from the careless familiarity of

his manner.

"It was the best place I could think of," she said, curtly. "At home,

we are always interrupted; at your studio--it is impossible. I had to

see you--somehow, somewhere." She sat down on a bench near by, and

shivering drew her furs about her.

"You do me too much honor," Paul returned, lightly. He took the seat

beside her, his eyes resting, in involuntary fascination, on the

rounded outlines of her cheek, the soft waves of auburn hair beneath

her small black hat. "It's a long time since you have wished to see me

of your own accord, my dear," he said, in a tone in which resentment

struggled with his old, instinctive admiration of her beauty.

She turned to him, suddenly, her eyes hard, her face very white and

set. "You know the reason." "I had to see you, to--to talk things

over. You assume a right to control me, you ask me for money, you try

to frighten me with threats. There must be an end of it. I"--she

paused for a moment, and drew her breath quickly, while she flushed a

dull crimson. "I have promised--Mr. Gerard," she said "to--to marry

him next month."

He interrupted her with a scornful laugh. "To marry him--next month,"

he repeated. "And how about that ceremony which we know of--you and

I--in the church at Cranston?"

The crimson flush faded and left her white, but still she did not

flinch. "I have thought of that," she said, steadily, "and I have

decided that it should not--make any difference. I don't believe the

marriage would be legal--but that's neither here nor there. I don't

want a divorce, I don't want the thing known, I don't consider that we

were ever married. I don't think such a marriage as ours, which we

both entered into without the slightest thought, which we have

repented of"--

"Speak for yourself," he interposed.

"Which I have repented of, then," she went on, "ought to be binding.

The clergyman who married us is dead; the witnesses, so old that they

are childish, probably remember nothing about it. There is no one now

living who remembers, except you and I. And for me I have determined

to think of it as a dream, and I want you to promise me to do the

same."

"But--there is the notice in the parish register." He was staring at

her blankly, admiring in spite of himself, the calm resolution of her

manner, the business-like precision with which she was unfolding her

arguments, as if she had rehearsed them many times to herself.

"I have thought of that, too," she said, in answer to his last

objection, "and I don't think it in the least likely that any one will

ever see it. Why should they, without any clue? At all events, this

is--the only way out." She faltered as her mind wandered for a moment

unwillingly to another way which she had now despaired of--too easy a

solution to her difficulties ever to come true. What a fool she had

been to think that he would die! People like that never die. As she

saw him now, in the full pride of his health and good looks, it

seemed impossible to believe that any misfortune could assail

him--least of all death! ...

"There is--no other way," she repeated, with a little, involuntary

sob. "The risks are not great--but, at any rate, I must take them.

Now, there is only one other thing"--She paused for a moment and then

drew out of her purse a plain gold ring, and showed it to him. It was

the ring which she had once worn on her finger for a few minutes,

which she had kept carefully hidden ever since. She glanced about her;

there was no one in sight except the policeman, who in the distance

near the carriage-drive, was pacing up and down at his cold post and

beating his hands to keep them warm. Elizabeth rose and went to the

edge of the lake. With well-directed aim, she threw the tiny circlet

of gold so that it struck the fast-vanishing surface of water and

quickly disappeared. She drew a long sigh of relief. "There," she

said, "that is over."

Paul watched her curiously. He saw that she attached to this little

action a mysterious significance. He sneered harshly. "Very pretty and

theatrical," he said. "But do you really think that by a thing like

that--throwing away a ring--you can dissolve a marriage?"

She turned to him, her white face still resolute and intensely solemn.

"I don't know," she said, quietly, "but I wanted to throw it away

before you, so that you would understand that everything is over

between us, and that day at Cranston is as if it never had been.

_Never had been_, you understand," she repeated, with eager emphasis.

"I want you to promise to think of it like that."

He shrugged his shoulders. "How we either of us think of it, I

suppose, doesn't make much difference so far as the legality of the

thing goes," he said. "But,--have your own way. If you choose to

commit a crime, it's not my affair."

"A crime!" She started and stared at him. "Do you call that a crime?"

He smiled. "It's a rough word to use for the actions of a charming

young girl," he said "but I'm afraid that the law might look at it in

that light."

Elizabeth returned to the bench and sat down. She seemed to be

pondering this new view of the matter. "I can't help it," she said at

last, in a low voice. "If that's a crime, why--I understand how people

are led into them. And I can't ruin his happiness, crime or no crime."

"And my happiness?" he asked her bitterly. "You never think of that?

You professed to love me once. You took me for better, for worse, and

how have you kept your word? If my life is ruined, the responsibility

is yours. If you had gone with me as I wanted you to, I should have

been a different man." There was a curious accent of sincerity in his

voice. He really believed for the moment what he said.

The reproach was not without effect. She looked at him more gently,

with troubled eyes that seemed to express not only contrition, but a

certain involuntary sympathy. "It's true," she said. "I have treated

you badly, and broken the most solemn promise any one could make. I

don't defend myself; but--I'm willing to make what amends I can. I

can't give you myself, but at least I can give you what little money

you would have had with me. When I am married to"--she paused and

flushed, but concluded her sentence firmly--"to Mr. Gerard, I will

give you--all the money I have."

Paul paced up and down, apparently in deep thought. It was evident

that her offer tempted him, yet some impulse urged him to refuse it.

He stopped suddenly in front of her. "Principal or interest, do you

mean?" he asked, in a tone in which the thirst for gain distinctly

predominated.

The doubtful sympathy in Elizabeth's eyes faded, and was replaced by a

look of unmistakable disgust. "I suppose I could hardly give you the

principal," she said, coldly. "But I will pay over the income every

year." She named the sum. "Isn't it enough?"

"That depends," he said, looking at her coolly. "It is enough, of

course, for Elizabeth Van Vorst, but for Mrs. Julian Gerard"--

He stopped as an electric shock of anger seemed to thrill Elizabeth

from head to foot. "You don't suppose," she cried, "that I would give

you _his_ money?"

"Then," said Paul, curtly, "he doesn't know?"

"Certainly not," she said, haughtily.

He began again reflectively to pace up and down. "I don't see," he

said, "how you are to pay me over this money without his knowing it."

"Don't trouble yourself about that," said Elizabeth, contemptuously.

"Mr. Gerard will never ask what I do with my money."

"Well he has enough of his own, certainly," said Paul,

philosophically. "And yet, poor fellow, I am sorry for him if he ever

finds out how you have deceived him."

"He never _shall_ find out," said Elizabeth. She rose and pulled down

her veil. "It is so cold," she said shivering, and indeed she looked

chilled to the core. "I cannot stay here any longer. This thing is

settled, isn't it? You will promise?" There was a tone of piteous

entreaty in her voice.

"How am I to know," he asked, still hesitating "that you will keep

your word? Once married to Gerard, you might--forget."

"If I do," she returned quietly, "you will always have the power to

break yours and ruin my happiness."

"So be it, then. I won't interfere with you. After all, we probably

shouldn't have got on well. Come--let us part friends, at least."

He held out his hand, but hers was again securely hidden in her muff,

and the smile that gleamed on her face was pale and cold as the winter

day itself. "Good-bye," she said, and turned away. He fell back, with

a muttered oath.

"Upon my word, my lady," he said, "you might be a little more

gracious." At that moment Elizabeth came back. There was a softer look

on her face.

"I loved you once," she said. "Good-bye." And she held out her hand.

He took it in silence. Thus they parted for the last time.

It had been a successful interview. She had gained all that she dared

hope for. Seated in the warm car going home, and shivering as from an

ague, she told herself that she had silenced forever all opposition to

her wishes. Yet it did not seem a victory. Words which Paul had said

lingered in her mind, stinging her with their contempt, the fact that

even he could set himself above her. "A crime!" She had never

considered it in that light. Surely it was impossible on the face of

it that she, Elizabeth Van Vorst, could commit a crime.... And then

again--what was it he had said? "Poor fellow, I am sorry for him, if

ever he finds out how you have deceived him."

"But he never shall," she said to herself, resolutely as before.

"Crime or no crime, his love is worth it. He never shall find out."

_Chapter XXVIII_

Elizabeth had little time in those days for thought. There was still

less time, even, when she was alone with Gerard. The days passed in a

whirl of gaiety, in which she had been swallowed up since her return

to town. It was a state of things which bored Gerard extremely, but

secure in the promise he had at last obtained from her that the

wedding should be at the end of January he possessed his soul in such

patience as he could muster. And when he requested as a special favor,

that she would refuse all invitations for the thirty-first of December

and see the Old Year out in peace, she consented at once, and the hope

of a quiet evening buoyed him up through other weary ones, when he

would lean in his old fashion against the wall, and watch her across a

ball-room, the center of an admiring court. Yet, even as he did so,

the proud consciousness of proprietorship swelled his heart. She was

his--his! He had no longer any doubt of her, or jealousy of the men

who talked to her.

Why then was the expected evening, when it came, fraught with an

intangible sense of gloom, of oppression, which made the time pass

heavily? The old Dutch clock, which the Misses Van Vorst had brought

with them from the country seemed to-night to mark the hours with

extraordinary slowness, as if the Old Year were in no hurry to be

gone, even though the noises in the street, the blowing of horns and

of whistles were enough, one might have thought, to hasten his

departure.

Elizabeth was pacing restlessly up and down the room. Her hands were

clasped carelessly before her, her long house-dress of white cashmere,

belted in by a gold girdle, fell about her in graceful folds. There

was a flush in her cheeks, a somewhat feverish light in her eyes; she

started nervously now and then as some enterprising small boy blew an

especially shrill blast on his horn.

"I don't know why it is," she said at last with a petulant little

laugh, coming back to her seat by the fire opposite Gerard, and taking

up a piece of work, in which she absently set a few stitches, "New

Year's Eve always gets on my nerves, I think of all my sins--and

that's very unpleasant!" She broke off, pouting childishly, as if in

disgust at the intrusion of unwelcome ideas.

He was watching her lazily, with the amused, indulgent smile which

certain of her moods had always the power to call forth; the smile of

a strong man, who felt himself quite able to cope with them. "With

such terrible sins as yours, Elizabeth," he said, "it must be indeed a

dreadful thing to think of them."

She turned quickly towards him. "You don't think that they can be very

bad?"

"I should be willing to take the risk of offering you absolution."

She bent down over her work so that her face was hidden. "Ah, you--you

don't know"----she rather breathed than spoke. He only smiled

incredulously, as one who knew her better than she did herself.

"Play for me, darling," he said, after awhile, and she went

mechanically to the piano. But her playing was always a matter of

mood, and to-night her fingers faltered, the keys did not respond as

usual. She passed restlessly from one thing to another--snatches of

Brahms, Chopin, Tschaikowski, with the same jarring note running

through them all.

She broke off at last, with a wild clash of chords. "I can't play

to-night," she said, and came back to the fire. "How calm you are!"

she said, standing beside Gerard and looking down at him with eyes

almost of reproach. "This horrible evening doesn't get on your nerves

at all."

"How can it?"--Gerard possessed himself of her hand and raised it to

his lips.--"How can I waste any regrets on the Old Year," he said,

"when the New Year is to bring me--so much happiness?"

She started and caught her breath, as if the words held a sting. "Ah,

yes," she repeated, very low "it is to bring you--so much happiness!"

For a moment she left her hand in his and then withdrew it with a

stifled sigh. She went back very still and pale, to her seat on the

other side of the fire, and taking up her work, she fixed her eyes

upon it intently.

"And so you think it is to bring you happiness?" she said, in a low

voice, continuing the subject as it seemed in spite of herself. "You

are quite sure of that, Julian, you have--no doubts?" She raised her

eyes with a wistful questioning that puzzled him.

"Doubts, Elizabeth!" He stared back at her reproachfully, his brows

drawn together frowning. "Why do you harp so much on that, my darling?

Why should I have doubts?"

"Why, some men might, you know."--Her eyes were bent again upon her

work.--"You yourself--you had them, you know, when you first knew me."

He flushed. "Don't remind me of that," he said, hastily.

"Well, it may have been a true presentiment."--She gave him an odd,

furtive look. "I've wondered--sometimes--if I were as nice naturally

as other girls I know. I hadn't, to begin with, the sort of mother

that--most girls have"----She hesitated, a painful crimson flooded her

face, her eyes filled with tears. Gerard stared at her in amazement.

He had never heard her allude to her mother before, and had supposed

her entirely ignorant of all painful facts in the family history.

"Darling," he broke out, indignantly, "who has told you--things like

that?"

"Who? Oh! I don't know."--She put the question aside listlessly.--"One

always hears unpleasant facts, somehow. I always knew that she wasn't

the--the sort of person that the Neighborhood would call on"--a

painful smile hovered about her lips. "It used to make me very

unhappy--but lately--it hasn't seemed to matter. And yet--I think of

it sometimes"----She broke off suddenly and looked at Gerard with a

strange light in her eyes. "Doesn't it make a difference to you?

Doesn't it occur to you sometimes that I may be--my mother's daughter;

that it would be wiser to--distrust me?" Her voice died away at the

last words into a hoarse whisper.

"Elizabeth!"--Gerard sprang to his feet. He went over to her and took

both her hands in his strong grasp. "Elizabeth, never let me hear

these morbid fancies again. Never suppose that anything your mother

did or left undone, can make a difference in my faith in you!"

He stood looking down at her with eyes full of an imperious

tenderness. She trembled and shrank away before them, as if

frightened. "You trust me, then?" she repeated, and she drew a long

sobbing breath. "You're quite _sure_ you trust me?"

"Absolutely."--Gerard's smile lit up his face.--"How often, you

exacting woman," he asked, "do you want me to promise that I will

never doubt you again."

There was silence for a moment. The noises in the street sounding

suddenly with redoubled violence in the stillness, seemed to punctuate

Gerard's words with an outburst of derision. To Elizabeth's fancy the

whole atmosphere of the room was tense, vibrant, filled with jarring

echoes of the noise without. Even the old Dutch clock, whose ticking

was one of her earliest memories, seemed to beat with a new,

discordant note of mockery, as if it too were uttering its ironical

comment on the wisdom of a man's faith.

Elizabeth shuddered and thrust Gerard's hands away. "I wish--I wish I

deserved your trust, Julian," she broke out, wildly. Then she laid her

face on the arm of the chair and sobbed. He fell back and stared at

her aghast. The tender smile was arrested, frozen on his lips. For

him, too, as for her, the room was suddenly filled with discordant

vibrations, a sense of unreasoning dread.

In a moment Elizabeth looked up; with a great effort she conquered her

tears. She went to Gerard and put her hand on his arm. The face she

raised to his was white, trembling in a pathetic appeal. The tears

still glistened on her long lashes, there was a tremulous sweetness in

her great dark eyes, in the quivering lines about her pale lips.

"Julian," she said, "if I'm not--not worthy of your trust--not worthy

of your love, even"--she faltered--"if I had deceived you--_were_

deceiving you still"----she paused and looked him in the face with an

agonized questioning.

"Yes?"--Gerard's hoarse voice urged her on.--"If you were deceiving

me? It isn't--it can't be true, but if you were?"----

"If I were," she went on, steadily, "if I had kept one thing from

you--against my will--oh, God knows! sorely against my will"--her

voice broke--"if it had been a weight on my mind day and night--if I

had longed to tell you and had tried to do it and always--my courage

failed me, and--and--if at last--at last, I told you--would

you--think me so very much to blame, couldn't you--forgive?"--Her

voice again faltered piteously, the last word was barely audible.

He broke away from her and took two or three turns up and down the

room, breathing heavily, like a man who had been running. "Tell me

what this secret is?" he broke out, fiercely, pausing suddenly in

front of her. "How can I tell if----I could forgive, till I know what

it is?"

Again the silence. Elizabeth's white lips tried, apparently in vain,

to form an answer. The courage which a moment before had possessed

her, seemed to shrivel up and die away, before that fierce light in

his eyes.

"Tell me," he repeated, inexorably, "what it is."

She put out her hand suddenly with a pleading gesture. "Ah, let us

first see the Old Year out together," she murmured, "as we planned. I

should like to feel that you loved me till--the very end of it. You

may not--afterwards. It won't be long. See--it's nearly time." She

glanced up at the clock. It was ticking faster now, as it seemed, and

steadily, the hour hand well towards midnight.

Elizabeth went to the window and flung it open. The current of cold

air which flooded the room seemed to give her relief; she leaned out

as far as she could, inhaling it in long, fevered gasps. Gerard

followed and stood behind her, in an agony of impatience, distraught

by a hundred incongruous, terrible suggestions. The prolonged suspense

seemed, in his over-wrought state, a very refinement of cruelty, yet

some instinct kept him silent, left to her the mastery of the

situation.

In the street there was unwonted stir and bustle. A crowd assembled to

greet the New Year. Small boys, whose horns made the night hideous,

pranced about like uncouth imps of darkness; the street-lamps, as they

flickered, cast a weird, uncertain light on the snow-covered ground.

But the moon, riding overhead, shone peacefully, and myriads of stars

studded the wintry sky. Down towards the Battery one could hear, above

all coarser sounds, the chimes of Old Trinity ringing faint but true.

Elizabeth's eyes were riveted upon St. George's clock, which stood

out, not many blocks away, above the roofs of intervening houses. Her

lips moved, but no sound came; one hand grasped convulsively the

curtain behind her. To Gerard as he watched her those fifteen minutes

before the New Year were the longest of his life.

Suddenly all noises slackened; upon the listening crowd outside there

fell a pause, a hush of expectation. St. George's clock boomed out the

hour in twelve majestic strokes. The old Dutch clock within the room

echoed it in quieter tones. And then, as the last stroke died away,

the crowd stirred, there arose a hideous Babel of sound--cat-calling,

shouting, blowing of horns and whistles; pandemonium set loose. It

raged for several minutes, and stopped abruptly, exhausted by its own

violence. There was again silence, and then a burst of laughter. Some

one in the crowd cried loudly and heartily: "Happy New Year!"

Elizabeth shivered, as if with a sudden consciousness of the cold. She

shut the window and faced Gerard. Against the vivid background of the

crimson curtain, in her clinging white dress, her pale beauty, crowned

by her red-gold hair, stood out with a strange, unearthly quality,

like that of some pictured saint. There was a look on her face which

was tragic in its despairing resolution, yet which had in it a certain

exaltation, as if she had risen for the moment at least, above

herself, to heights hitherto unknown.

"You shall know the worst of me, at last. You won't"--she gave an odd

little laugh--"you won't grant me absolution, Julian, I'm afraid. But

oh, I'm sick--God knows, I'm sick of lies!" She paused and caught her

breath as if for one supreme effort. "This is the truth," she said. "I

was married to Paul Halleck--before I knew you, more than a year ago."

He staggered back, as if she had struck him a blow. "You

were--married--to Paul Halleck?"

"Yes," she repeated, in a dull monotone, "married to him--more than a

year ago."

He was still staring at her as if stupefied. "Married!" he repeated,

"married all this time!--when you professed to love me! When"--a

pause--"you promised to marry me! Oh, it's impossible," he cried, with

a sudden flash of incredulity, and he put out his hand and touched her

involuntarily. "Say you're only playing with me," he begged her,

"trying my faith--say it's not true." His voice shook, unconsciously

his hand closed upon her wrist with a grasp that might have hurt her,

had she been capable just then of feeling physical pain.

"It--it is true," she said, and stood motionless, white and rigid as a

statue, her head bent.

He still stared incredulous for a moment, and then the reality of what

she said seemed to sink into his soul. With a quick, involuntary

gesture, which wounded more than words, he let her hand fall, and

began to pace up and down the room.