UNDER THE ORANGE-BLOSSOMS.
One beautiful day in August, about a month after the events just
narrated, Miss Charlotte came over to see Clara. She was looking quite
radiant with some new happiness, and Clara noticed that the plain
Quakerish knot in which she was wont to confine her really pretty dark
hair had undergone considerable change in its structure. It was less
rigidly twisted, and from the mass depended several natural curls. She
wore a pretty silver-gray barêge, flounced to the waist, and with the
upper skirt open, short, and looped up at the sides with ribbon.
Seating herself in an arm-chair, she said, “Now stand right there,
Clara—no, just behind a little, and fan me while I tell you something.”
Clara obeyed.
“Dear me! How shall I ever commence? I begin to repent.”
“Take your own time, Miss Delano. I will wait as long as you wish.”
“No; I won’t wait. If I do, I shall never tell you—_The old maid is
going to make a fool of herself. There!_”
“Oh, that is splendid! You are going to marry Paul’s cousin Felix. This
is most agreeable news. From all I hear of him, he is an admirable
gentleman.”
“Yes; but I wish he’d cut off that terrific Blue-Beard moustache. Do you
like moustaches? I can’t endure them. They are too signal a confirmation
of Darwin’s Origin of Species, according to which I believe we lose our
hair as we advance to higher types. Is that so?”
“Papa says,” replied Clara, laughing, “that the coming man’s head is
going to be as smooth as an ostrich egg; but I think, myself, the
moustache will change. I think it is ugly just in proportion as it hides
the contour of the lips.”
“I see you are thinking of Paul’s blonde, silky affair. Well, that is
very different. It stays where he puts it. At table a little twist of
his fingers, and his mouth is free; but Felix—well, I’m sure I must be
in love with him, or I should never have consented to marry him after
seeing him eat soup every day for a year.”
Miss Charlotte then told Clara they were to be married in a month, and
move into an elegant suite of apartments in the left wing of the Social
Palace. She was going to Boston in a day or two, to choose the most
charming furniture she could find. Felix was to organize the schools,
and she was to have a share of that work. The idea of having something
useful to do, seemed to inspire her. “In my old life,” she said, “I used
to spend days and days helping to get up articles for fairs for
charitable purposes; but there was never the right kind of satisfaction
about it.”
“How could there be?” asked Clara. “Charity is an insult to human
nature. What we want is to give the poor the conditions for a
comfortable, independent life. Now my mother and Mrs. Kendrick have won
a reputation for benevolence on about the poorest stock of virtue
imaginable; though of course they have acted from good motives. They
ride around in their carriages among the poor, and carry food and
clothing—cast-off garments of their own children and themselves. My
father has been trying for years to get the ladies here to establish a
_crèche_, as they do in foreign cities—a place for poor women to leave
their little children when they wish to go out to do work. This would
enable them to keep their elder children in school, instead of at home
to nurse the little ones. Then he would have them establish some
industry by which the poor women could earn money; but he could never
get them to do it.”
“No,” said Charlotte; “women’s lives are so narrow, their ambition so
dwarfed, that most of them actually enjoy going in their carriages and
rich clothing into the homes of the poor and patronizing them. I confess
I always felt like a fish out of water, and generally contrived to give
money, and let somebody else do the rest. You may palliate wretchedness
by charity, but you can never raise the condition of the poor by it.”
“Dependence and degradation are synonymous,” said Clara; “and now you
see why this workingmen’s palace is a mighty work. There, for their
labor, all the industrious can have comforts and luxuries beyond even
the power of the rich to enjoy, while their rents go to pay for their
homes.”
“Oh, it is a noble work!” exclaimed Miss Delano. “I am catching,
imperceptibly, the great enthusiasm of Paul and Felix. I see what must
be the educational influence of these daily baths, these walks in
beautiful gardens and groves, with music, and rare green-houses filled
with exotics, the splendid schools, the reading-room, the library, the
societies. Why, it is enough to inspire the coldest and most selfish
heart.”
“And you see clearly, if all this was given to the people as a
charity——”
“Why, it would not have a thousandth part of the good effect. The hope
of owning all this, will so elevate the honest pride of these people,
give them such strength and courage to work. Why, they will not care how
much rent they pay.”
“No; the count says the great trouble will be, that these laborers will
deny themselves leisure and proper clothing, and put everything into
their rents; but he is sure that it would not be well to have them own
it too soon. They will be so much better able to appreciate and enjoy
the ownership after ten or fifteen years, when the new and better
educated generation will come on the stage to help preserve the order
and prosperity of the institution. It does my heart good that you are
going to live there and help on the education.”
“Oh, you needn’t say anything to inspire or encourage me. I tell you I
am a radical, a social reformer of the deepest dye,” replied Miss
Charlotte gayly, as she took her leave.
Later in the day Paul came. He walked with Clara and Susie through the
green-houses and nurseries, now largely occupied by the stock for the
Social Palace. Already thousands of trees had been set out in the new
grounds, and were doing well, while the great conservatory in the court
of the right wing was being rapidly filled, under Susie’s direction. The
great palm, of historical fame, was in its place, having borne its
journey in May without the slightest injury. The great pink blossoms of
Susie’s banana-trees had long since fallen, and the bunches of young
fruit were ripening, while the rich perfume of exotics in great variety
filled the air. Passing back to the house, through the old conservatory,
the little one first built, and which Susie kept now only for flowers in
blossom, the count expressed great admiration for the two quite large
orange-trees, laden with blossoms, and he asked her how she managed to
make these flower so long after the usual time. “Why, it is very
simple,” said Susie; “by keeping them back; that is the technical term
for denying them water and plenty of sunlight. Then when you are ready,
you bring them right under the glass, in a warm room, and sprinkle them
lavishly every day at sunset. They can’t resist; they are powerless, and
must send out their blossoms, whether they like it or not.”
When they re-entered the house, Susie left them. The count stayed only a
short time, during which Clara tried to overcome her repugnance to speak
of the divorce—that hideous divorce, that was ever in her thoughts; but
she could not. If anything outside of themselves could have broken down
the invisible barrier that separated these two, Min on this occasion
certainly would have accomplished it. As Paul rose to go, she climbed up
on the head of the sofa beside where he stood, and taking the ends of
his long moustache in her dimpled hands, she pressed her little lips to
his very demonstratively. Then jumping down with a bound, she ran to
Clara, and standing on tip-toe beside her chair, she kissed “auntie,”
laughing, as she exclaimed, “Oh, auntie, am I not good?”
“Why, my child, are you specially good just now?”
“Because I’ve given you the _sweetest_ kiss! Oh, you don’t see,”
persisted Min. “Why, I’ve given you Paul’s own kiss, and you didn’t know
it!”
“You insufferable magpie!” exclaimed Clara, blushing in spite of
herself. “Go away now and don’t come back—hear?” Min, much discomfited,
shot a Parthian arrow as she edged toward the door, where she turned
while hunting for a chocolate-drop in the bottom of a little white
paper-bag, and having crammed it into her mouth, said, “I don’t care, I
don’t; auntie don’t like Paul’s kisses, but Min does; so!”
The count laughed quietly, and commenced at once to talk of some new
plans for the stage of the theatre. “May I bring them for you to see
this evening,” he asked.
“I should like to see them; but do not make any excuse to come. Come
freely whenever you wish. That will please me best.”
“I thank you. That is very gracious, but the margin is wide—whenever _I_
wish. You do not know,” he said, passing her hand to his lips, “how
boundless and insatiable are _my_ wishes. I even wish to create wishes
sometimes; but that is when I am not wise. You know the one supreme
desire of my heart, embracing and holding in abeyance all others, is
that I may be worthy of Clara. The dear words that you wrote me, the
written page just as I saw it, is burned into my memory. I can imagine
no sweeter praise than that ‘in no way have I ever offended you in the
slightest word, or tone, or motion.’ You see how I remember.” He would
have said more, but Clara was troubled. He could almost hear her heart
beating as she answered, without looking directly in his face, as she
spoke, “And yet it was only a negative praise. It seems to me there were
other words more worthy of remembering.”
“You are right; but not even a lover’s vanity could justify him in
repeating those.”
“You have no vanity, Paul. You have _no_ imperfections; or if you have,
it will be my fault if you ever manifest them—no, I don’t mean that: I
mean if you ever manifest any faults, they must be new possibilities
created by my folly. No—don’t answer. Go now and return by-and-by.” Paul
kissed her hand again, and with the pressure of his lips came the words,
just above a whisper, “_Tu es adorable_.”
“Oh, he’s getting very bold,” said Clara to Susie, who entered the
moment the count left, and she involuntarily looked at the fingers of
her right hand.
“Because he kissed your hand? Oh, that is nothing for a gallant
foreigner. It is, indeed, only a mark of respect and obedience, such as
that due to queens.”
“But he said ‘Thou art adorable.’ Surely that is more than a gentleman
would say to a mere queen,” replied Clara, delighting, like all those in
love, to linger over the trifles that make up their bliss, when they are
so fortunate as to have a friend wholly worthy of confidence.
“Did he say ‘_tu es_,’ really? Then you are lost,” replied Susie,
laughing. “He must feel very sure of his position, or he would never
dare _tutoyer_.”
“Oh, Susie!” said Clara, embracing her friend, “I am going to be
wonderfully sweet to Paul to-night—that is, if I can. He is coming
back.”
“Are you? I doubt it. You are so cold to him. I would not be so cruel as
you are. I should appreciate such respect, such delicacy. Most men, when
you show them the slightest favor, behave like bears.”
“Do I not know that well? If men only knew where their power lay! You
know papa says, in the Golden Age women will always take the initiative
in love. You believe that, Susie?”
“If the coming man is to have a head like an ostrich egg, I think he’ll
be incapacitated for gentle, seductive arts,” said Susie, laughing.
“When you speak of women taking the initiative in love, vulgar people
think you mean proposals of matrimony, or caresses at least. The
initiative is that which the word implies—the first movement; it is but
the slightest thing. When Paul has pressed my hand, I have always drawn
it away after a few seconds. He is waiting for me to leave it in his
just one second longer. I have never given him a really tender glance.
If I were to do so, the ‘bear,’ as you say, would instantly be
developed; though I should not apply that word to him. He is the perfect
gentleman in everything. He _could_ not offend. I mean to speak to him
about that hateful divorce, which forbids me to marry ‘until the said
defendant be actually dead.’ I say I mean to; but I have not the
slightest certainty that I shall have the courage. I don’t believe you
can imagine how I feel about it.”
“Yes I can, dear. Don’t trouble your precious soul about it. Only be
sweet and good to Paul, and everything will be well. You are not going
to wear that dress? Do put on that lovely white organdie. Will you? I
will loop up the skirt with ivy.”
The vision that met the count’s eyes as he entered Clara’s parlor must
have charmed the most fastidious taste. The white, gauze-like organdie
was looped with ivy by Susie’s cunning hand. It was that rare,
silver-edged ivy, with a light crimson flush in some of the leaves. Over
the low corsage she wore a Louis-Quinze basque of white duchess lace,
the graceful folds of which fell over her exquisite hands that were
without ornament of any kind. In the coronal roll of her hair, which
fell in many curls from the mass behind, she wore a tiny bouquet of
mignonnette and white Neapolitan violets, relieved by a border of green.
The basque was closed at top of the corsage with a beautiful cameo of
her father’s head in profile. Paul knew she had dressed for him, and the
thought was delicious. He expressed warmly his admiration for her
toilet—a thing foreign gentlemen are as careful to remember as Americans
are to forget; not that they are not sensitive to the beauties of
woman’s dress, but it is a habit with very many to ignore the fact that
dress can enhance beauty; and then, perhaps from a feeling of delicacy,
for American gentlemen are among the most refined in their sentiments
toward women. With the older civilizations, dress is a pure art, and
artistic effects are always a fit subject for study.
Edward Page and Susie were present when the count entered, but after a
half hour or so Susie left, and the young man soon followed. The
conversation then turned upon the engagement of Miss Delano and Felix
Müller. “It will be a very happy union,” said Paul. “If the theory of
opposites hold true, they are well suited to each other, and they are
certainly much in love. They are constantly together. They sit up
evenings after all are abed, and then take long strolls in the park
before breakfast. It is a most happy courtship. They are both among
friends who give them full sympathy, and there is never a straw in the
way of their bliss.”
“The old adage, then, about the course of true love, is likely to prove
false in this instance,” said Clara; and then changing the subject
abruptly, as women are wont to do—when they see fit—she asked the count
if he had brought the theatre plans.
“Ah! I forgot them. From the time I left you until I returned, I don’t
think I was once conscious of the existence of business. Are you
disappointed?”
“In what? In which?” asked Clara, a little mischievously, perceiving
that his question was susceptible of ambiguity; but she repented in a
moment, seeing how gravely the count regarded her, and added, “I know
you mean the plans. I don’t care to see them to-night. I wish you would
sing to me.”
Paul sat down to the piano almost hurriedly, and as his deft fingers ran
over the key-board, he said—the music making his low words even more
distinct—“Hear what Paul says to his love.” He looked at her as she
stood on his left, but her eyes were studiously fixed upon his hands.
The consciousness of a well-trained voice, able to express with divine
eloquence words that may not be fitly spoken without music, is perhaps
the proudest gift a lover can possess. Paul played the prelude once, and
then repeated it, as if waiting for the certainty of self-control. The
music he was playing Clara had never heard; but she knew that it was his
own; for there was a certain latitude of interpretation in Paul’s style,
when playing his own compositions, which he would not presume to
attempt, in following the masters. Paul sang the words of some poet
unknown to Clara.
“O meadow-flowers, primrose and violet!
Ye touch her dainty ankles as she moves,
But I that worship may not kiss her feet.
“O mountain airs! where unconfined float
Her locks ambrosial, would that I were you,
To wanton with the tangles of her hair.
“O leaping waves! that press and lip and lave
Her thousand beauties, when shall it be mine
To touch, and kiss, and clasp her even as you?
“But she more loves the blossom and the breeze
Than lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp,
O barren sea! than these impassioned arms.”
The last line of each stanza was repeated. Clara realized that Paul had
never sung to her before. “I don’t like your song,” she said, but
doubtless with that glance which, according to her confession an hour
ago to Susie, she had never given him; for he rose with a cry of
tenderest passion, clasped her in his arms, and pressed his lips long
and silently upon her hair, holding her head the while softly against
his breast. Clara heard his heart beating loud and fast. There they
stood. Neither could desire to speak or move. It was heaven enough to
know that the supreme moment that revealed them fully to each other, had
come at last. From this close embrace to the folding-down of Love’s kiss
upon the lips, in “perfect purple state,” as Mrs. Browning says, “the
transition was easy,” which Mrs. Browning does not say. The kisses of
these two were different from nearly all others. It was soul meeting and
mingling with soul, and the sensitive lips were only the medium. That
may seem obscure to philosophers who are always seeking in vain for the
seat of the soul. Lovers of the nobler and finer type, emotional beings,
who will not have their altars profaned by the contact of unholy
offerings, never have any doubts about soul. To them it is not an entity
which may be found here or there; it is life—the one thing infinitely
precious, and they are not to be disturbed by nicely-studied
definitions. Are not lovers of this rare type the truest philosophers?
It is like an impertinence to try to describe the unutterably perfect
state of Paul and Clara as they stood there by the piano. A cynical
observer would probably have said that they uttered more nonsense in the
short space of ten minutes than he would have believed possible; but he
would only thereby show his ignorance of the mysterious power they
possessed of
“Kissing _full_ sense into empty words.”
After a time, Susie’s light step was heard passing the partially-open
door, and Clara called her and said, as she entered, “Come and see how
cold and cruel I am to your friend.”
“Oh, this is too good!” exclaimed Susie, embracing both with effusion.
“My cup of joy runneth over. If you and Paul had not turned to each
other, as naturally as flowers to the light, I should have lost faith in
providence; but I never had any doubt. But come, my precious lovers, you
will grow faint on your diet of the ineffable. I knew by intuition that
you two would find your souls to-night, and so I have prepared a little
feast in honor of the occasion. Edward and I, I mean, but it is not
quite ready yet. In about fifteen minutes I shall call you. Into that
fifteen minutes you have full liberty to crowd all the bliss you can. I
know your capacity in that direction must be miraculous,” she added.
“What could be so gracious as this dear girl’s sympathy?” exclaimed the
count, bending down and kissing her forehead.
“Why, when we love our friends dearly, we must naturally enjoy most that
which makes them most happy. _C’est bien simple_,” said Susie, and with
that she left.
When Paul and Clara entered the dining-room they were amazed at what
Susie had accomplished. The folding-doors of the conservatory were flung
wide open, revealing that fairy-like effect which all have noticed who
have seen foliage and flowers lighted from beneath. The light of the
central hanging-lamp was dimmed by the light of numerous sections of
wax-candles, set in the earth under the plants and small trees. In the
dining-room the table, decked with flowers, was laden with a choice
collation.
“Am I in the land of fairies?” asked the count.
“How have you done all this in so short a time, you darling Susie?”
Clara asked. “Why, it is like enchantment!”
“Why, we have had time enough,” answered Susie, glancing at young Page,
who stood by the folding-doors enjoying the effect of the surprise. “We
commenced,” he said, “when we heard the count’s beautiful song.” “Yes,”
said Susie, “we knew then it was time to prepare for the bridal feast.”
“You see, Paul,” said Clara, “you are Orpheus, working magic through the
music of your voice.”
“May I not meet the fate of Orpheus,” said Paul; “but I think I should
be more patient than he was when his Eurydice was coming out of Hades.”
Clara looked at Paul thinking her own sweet thoughts.
“Now you must be just as happy, just as free, as children; yes, a
hundred times more happy. We are all lovers. I am in love with several
people, and Edward, he is also, but with one especially. Is it not so?”
Susie added, turning to the young man, who blushed as prettily as a girl
as he answered, “I should be very sorry to contradict Madam Susie.”
“That is not a frank admission.”
“Then I admit frankly.”
“That is as it should be,” said Paul. “I sympathize with Claude
Melnotte, who would ‘have no friends that were not lovers.’”
“Oh, we must have some of that delicious _Sauterne_ that _we_ brought
from France,” said Susie, addressing the count. “Red wine alone will
never answer.” Edward disappeared in search of the wine.
“Why, Susie is as happy as we are, one would say,” said Clara.
“You think nothing but the prospect of marrying Paul ought to make any
woman happy.”
“How sweet she looks, Paul!” said Clara, her whole face breaking into
dimpling smiles. “I should think you would want to marry Susie too.”
“I do, of course,” answered the count gallantly; “but you know the
wicked world has such prejudices! Susie had trouble enough abroad to
convince people in hotels and _auberges_ that we required separate
apartments;” and he laughed, remembering certain scenes that had caused
her vexation.
“Well, you know that was all Min’s fault; she was forever in your arms.
Here comes our _Chateau Yquem_. What! who on earth can be ringing the
door-bell at this hour?”
“I know that is my father,” said Clara, going to the front door. Edward,
for some reason, disappeared at the same time.
“Now tell me what I am here for,” said the doctor, after laying down his
hat and saluting the friends. “I sat in my studio for an hour, and
resisted the impulse to come over. It is ten o’clock, and you know I
never came here, or anywhere, at such an hour, unless I was called.”
“Well, you were called,” answered Susie, who loved to nurse little
superstitions.
“Count, what do you think of it?” asked the doctor.
“I will not say it is impossible for us to act upon each other at a
distance. I have known several instances that would seem to prove it.”
“We were so happy, papa,” said Clara, putting her arms around her father
tenderly. “I think my own joy must have filled the world like an
atmosphere, and so it embraced you, and you being a ‘_sensitive_,’
responded.”
“Papa’s own girl is radiant to-night,” he said, kissing her. “I never
saw you look so well,” and glancing at the conservatory and the table,
and then at Paul, he read the mystery. “Why this is very irregular,” he
added, gayly. “Are my paternal rights to be disregarded? Are you going
to marry my girl without my consent?”
“I trust not, sir,” said Paul, confidently.
“Oh, do you not know, papa, I cannot marry any one?”
“Why not, pray?” But as Clara did not answer her father’s question,
Susie explained the clause in the divorce.
“Why, this is what has troubled you, darling,” said Paul, in his
tenderest voice. “Be reassured. It is only a form. By marrying you might
be liable to a charge of contempt of court, the penalty of which is only
a fine. No one ever notices this injunction; at least, I never heard of
a case.”
“Is that all?” asked Clara, amazed and almost ashamed that she had been
so long disturbed by a mere bugbear. “But women are so ignorant of legal
matters.”
“The Social Palace will make a wiser generation of women,” Susie said.
“The children will learn politics in their cradles.”
“And _bambins_ will commence to exercise the franchise by balloting for
their little industrial leaders,” said Susie. “But come, our _Chateau
Yquem_ is waiting. There is only one thing wanting. If these two dear
ones could only be married to-night, and have the bother all over!”
“Papa,” said Clara, “I must have inherited from you my repugnance to
ceremonies. I would never get married in the world, if it wasn’t for my
love for Paul,” she added, looking at him.
“We will have no ceremony, dear one,” he said. “The marriage contract,
duly attested, is all that is necessary; besides, any one can perform
the marriage ceremony. It is not necessary that it should be a priest,
for marriage is a civil contract.”
“Why, let us draw up the contract now,” said Susie, forgetting the
waiting _Sauterne_. “Here is my desk and all proper materials.”
Paul did not need any urging. The contract was duly signed in less than
ten minutes. As Clara signed her name, she exclaimed, “Why, I am a
victim to a conspiracy! My consent to this precipitate act has not been
even asked.”
“But there is your name,” said Paul. “It is too late for retraction. I
shall at once assert my prerogatives.”
“Come, my children!” said the doctor, “let us have a gloriously radical
marriage ceremony, after our wicked latitudinarian hearts.”
“Oh yes, do, Clara; just to make Susie happy. Here is Edward come for
another witness.”
“You know my sentiments on this matter,” said the count, addressing the
doctor. “As any one may perform the ceremony, I should choose you from
all the world.”
Clara would have postponed further action after the signing of the
marriage contract, but there was no resisting the enthusiasm of Susie,
the doctor, and Paul. Susie would have them married in the little
conservatory, among the flowers. And so it happened. There was no need
of orange-blossoms, for the happy lovers stood beneath the two
blossom-laden orange-trees, that dropped their fragrant petals on the
united hands of Paul and Clara, as the doctor said, in his deep, solemn
voice, “Paul von Frauenstein, do you take this woman to be your lawful
and wedded wife?” Clara was a thousand times more deeply affected than
she had been at her former marriage, when her heart was in rebellion all
the time against the “show,” as the doctor called it. She sobbed in the
doctor’s arms for some time, and his own eyes were hardly dry. At last
he said, handing Clara over to Paul, “I will not comfort your sorrowing
wife any more. _That_ is one of your prerogatives, unquestionably.”
“Sorrowing, papa; what a word,” replied Clara, looking divinely
beautiful through her tears at her father, and then at Paul. “If this is
sorrow, may I never be comforted;” and then, while the rest left the
conservatory, she listened to words from Paul, which were far too sweet
for repetition.
Susie was wild with delight. She poured out the choice _Sauterne_,
proposed toasts, made everybody reply, and was so gay in her _abandon_,
that her friends scarcely knew her.
In the midst of the hilarity there was heard in the hall the patter of
little feet, and the next moment Min, aroused by the unusual noise,
opened the door, in her long white gown, looked at the lighted
conservatory, and then at the _convives_, exclaiming with a very grave
air:
“What is all this row about? I should like to know.”
“You little ghost!” said the doctor. “Where do you come from?” Min
curled herself up in the doctor’s arms, and then directed her attention
to the attractions of the table.
“Min, somebody is married to-night—can you guess who?” asked Susie,
colloquially if not grammatically.
Min looked at Edward. “It isn’t you,” she said, “’cause Linnie isn’t
here.”
“Ah! a cat out of the bag!” said the doctor, noticing the vivid
reddening of the young man’s fair face.
“And it isn’t you, auntie, ’cause you don’t like Paul’s kisses.”
“Oh, but I do, Minnie. I have found out how sweet they are,” replied
Clara, archly.
“Well, you were a long time finding out,” said the spoiled pet, changing
her place to Paul’s lap.
It was difficult to get Min back to bed, but the promise of a ride with
Paul the next day finally proved a sufficient inducement. Edward left
soon after Min, but it was some time after midnight when the doctor took
his hat to go. Clara handed Paul his.
“What!” exclaimed the doctor. “You to be sent away, Paul? That is
wrong.” Susie wickedly confirmed the sentiment, but Paul, noticing a
kind of distress in Clara’s face, said, as he held her a moment in his
arms, “We do not recognize rights, dearest. All the events of this
evening, so crowded upon each other, have quite unstrung your nerves.
See, doctor, how cold her hands are!”
“Well,” said the doctor, taking his daughter’s hand, “you are
right—right, I mean, in leaving all things to her; but you know how
instinctively women cling to precedents. You may find this a dangerous
one.”
“I have no fears,” replied Paul, embracing Clara tenderly. “Does she not
love me? and is not love sure to respond to love’s needs? Her desire is
mine always.”