II

It was the second morning after Marguerite's ball.

Marguerite, to herself a girl no longer, lay in the middle

of a great, fragrant, drowsy bed of carved walnut, once her

grandmother's. She had been dreaming; she had just awakened. The

sun, long since risen above the trees of the yard, was slanting

through the leaves and roses that formed an outside lattice to her

window-blinds.

These blinds were very old. They had been her grandmother's when

she was Marguerite's age; and one day, not long before this,

Marguerite, pillaging the attic, had found them and brought them

down, with adoring eyes, and put them up before her own windows.

They were of thin muslin, and on them were painted scenes

representing the River of Life, with hills and castles, valleys and

streams, in a long series; at the end there was a faint vision of a

crystal dome in the air--the Celestial City--nearly washed away.

You looked at these scenes through the arches of a ruined castle.

A young man (on one blind) has just said farewell to his parents on

the steps of the castle and is rowing away down the River of Life.

At the prow of his boat is the figurehead of a winged woman holding

an hour-glass.

Marguerite lay on her side, sleepily contemplating the whole scene

between her thick, bosky lashes. She liked everything but the

winged woman holding the hour-glass. Had she been that woman, she

would have dropped the hour-glass into the blue, burying water, and

have reached up her hand for the young man to draw her into the

boat with him. And she would have taken off her wings and cast

them away upon the hurrying river. To have been alone with him, no

hour-glass, no wings, rowing away on Life's long voyage, past

castles and valleys, and never ending woods and streams! As to the

Celestial City, she would have liked her blinds better if the rains

of her grandmother's youth had washed it away altogether. It was

not the desirable end of such a journey: she did not care to land

_there_.

Marguerite slipped drowsily over to the edge of the bed in order to

be nearer the blinds; and she began to study what was left of the

face of the young man just starting on his adventures from the

house of his fathers. Who was he? Of whom did he cause her to

think? She sat up in bed and propped her face in the palms of her

hands--the April face with its October eyes--and lapsed into what

had been her dreams of the night. The laces of her nightgown

dropped from her wrists to her elbows; the masses of her hair, like

sunlit autumn maize, fell down over her neck and shoulders into the

purity of the bed.

Until the evening of her party the world had been to Marguerite

something that arranged all her happiness and never interfered

with it. Only soundness and loveliness of nature, inborn,

undestroyable, could have withstood such luxury, indulgence,

surfeit as she had always known.

On that night which was designed to end for her the life of

childhood, she had, for the first time, beheld the symbol of the

world's diviner beauty--a cross. All her guests had individually

greeted her as though each were happier in her happiness. Except

one--he did not care. He had spoken to her upon entering with the

manner of one who wished himself elsewhere, he alone brought no

tribute to her of any kind, in his eyes, by his smile, through the

pressure of his hand.

The slight wounded her at the moment; she had not expected to have

a guest to whom she would be nothing and to whom it would seem no

unkindness to let her know this. The slight left its trail of pain

as the evening wore on and he did not come near her. Several

times, while standing close to him, she had looked her surprise,

had shadowed her face with coldness for him to see. For the first

time in her life she felt herself rejected, suffered the

fascination of that pain. Afterward she had intentionally pressed

so close to him in the throng of her guests that her arm brushed

his sleeve. At last she had disengaged herself from all others and

had even gone to him with the inquiries of a hostess; and he had

forced himself to smile at her and had forgotten her while he spoke

to her--as though she were a child. All her nature was exquisitely

loosened that night, and quivering; it was not a time to be so

wounded and to forget.

She did not forget as she sat in her room after all had gone. She

took the kindnesses and caresses, the congratulations and triumphs,

of those full-fruited hours, pressed them together and derived

merely one clear drop of bitterness--the languorous poison of one

haunting desire. It followed her into her sleep and through the

next day; and not until night came again and she had passed through

the gateway of dreams was she happy: for in those dreams it was he

who was setting out from the house of his fathers on a voyage down

the River of Life; and he had paused and turned and called her to

come to him and be with him always.

Marguerite lifted her face from her palms, as she finished her

revery. She slipped to the floor out of the big walnut bed, and

crossing to the blinds laid her fingers on the young man's

shoulder. It was the movement with which one says: "I have come."

With a sigh she drew one of the blinds aside and looked out upon

the leaves and roses of her yard and at the dazzling sunlight.

Within a few feet of her a bird was singing. "How can you?" she

said. "If you loved, you would be silent. Your wings would droop.

You could neither sing nor fly." She turned dreamily back into her

room and wandered over to a little table on which her violin lay in

its box. She lifted the top and thrummed the strings. "How could

I ever have loved you?"

She dressed absent-mindedly. How should she spend the forenoon?

Some of her friends would be coming to talk over the party; there

would be callers; there was the summer-house, her hammock, her

phaeton; there were nooks and seats, cool, fragrant; there were her

mother and grandmother to prattle to and caress. "No," she said,

"not any of them. One person only. I must see _him_."

She thought of the places where she could probably see him if he

should be in town that day. There was only one--the library.

Often, when there, she had seen him pass in and out. He had no

need to come for books or periodicals, all these he could have at

home; but she had heard the librarian and him at work; over the

files of old papers containing accounts of early agricultural

affairs and the first cattle-shows of the state. She resolved to

go to the library: what desire had she ever known that she had not

gratified?

When Marguerite, about eleven o'clock, approached the library a

little fearfully, she saw Barbee pacing to and fro on the sidewalk

before the steps. She felt inclined to turn back; he was the last

person she cared to meet this morning. Play with him had suddenly

ended as a picnic in a spring grove is interrupted by a tempest.

"I ought to tell him at once," she said; and she went forward.

He came to meet her--with a countenance dissatisfied and

reproachful. It struck her that his thin large ears looked

yellowish instead of red and that his freckles had apparently

spread and thickened. She asked herself why she had never before

realized how boyish he was.

"Marguerite," he said at once, as though the matter were to be

taken firmly in hand, "you treated me shabbily the night of your

party. It was unworthy of you. And I will not stand it. You

ought not be such a child!"

Her breath was taken away. She blanched and her eyes dilated as

she looked at him: the lash of words had never been laid on her.

"Are you calling me to account?" she asked. "Then I shall call you

to an account. When you came up to speak to grandmother and to

mamma and me, you spoke to us as though you were an indifferent

suitor of mine--as though I were a suitor of yours. As soon as you

were gone, mamma said to me: 'What have you been doing, Marguerite,

that he should think you are in love with him--that he should treat

us as though we all wished to catch him?'"

"That was a mistake of your mother's. But after what had passed

between us--"

"No matter what had passed between us, I do not think that a _man_

would virtually tell a girl's mother on her: a boy might."

He grew ashen; and he took his hand out of his pockets and

straightened himself from his slouchy lounging posture, and stood

before her, his head in the air on his long neck like a young stag

affronted and enraged.

"It is true, I have sometimes been too much like a boy with you,"

he said. "Have you made it possible for me to be anything else?"

"Then I'll make it possible for you now: to begin, I am too old to

be called to account for my actions--except by those who have the

right."

"You mean, that I have no right--after what has passed--"

"Nothing has passed between us!"

"Marguerite," he said, "do you mean that you do not love me?"

"Can you not see?"

She was standing on the steps above him. The many-fluted parasol

with its long silken fringes rested on one shoulder. Her face in

the dazzling sunlight, under her hat, had lost its gayety. Her

eyes rested upon his with perfect quietness.

"I do not believe that you yourself know whether you love me," he

said, laughing pitifully. His big mouth twitched and his love had

come back into his eyes quickly enough.

"Let me tell you how I know," she said, with more kindness. "If I

loved you, I could not stand here and speak of it to you in this

way. I could not tell you you are not a man. Everything in me

would go down before you. You could do with my life what you

pleased. No one in comparison with you would mean anything to

me--not even mamma. As long as I was with you, I should never wish

to sleep; if you were away from me, I should never wish to waken.

If you were poor, if you were in trouble, you would be all the

dearer to me--if you only loved me, only loved me!"

Who is it that can mark down the moment when we ceased to be

children? Gazing backward in after years, we sometimes attempt

dimly to fix the time. "It probably occurred on that day," we

declare; "it may have taken place during that night. It coincided

with that hardship, or with that mastery of life." But a child can

suffer and can triumph as a man or a woman, yet remain a child.

Like man and woman it can hate, envy, malign, cheat, lie,

tyrannize; or bless, cheer, defend, drop its pitying tears, pour

out its heroic spirit. Love alone among the passions parts the two

eternities of a lifetime. The instant it is born, the child which

was its parent is dead.

As Marguerite suddenly ceased speaking, frightened by the secret

import of her own words, her skin, which had the satinlike fineness

and sheen of white poppy leaves, became dyed from brow to breast

with a surging flame of rose. She turned partly away from Barbee,

and she waited for him to go.

He looked at her a moment with torment in his eyes; then, lifting

his hat without a word, he turned and walked proudly down the

street toward his office.

Marguerite did not send a glance after him. What can make us so

cruel to those who vainly love us as our vain love of some one

else? What do we care for their suffering? We see it in their

faces, hear it in their speech, feel it as the tragedy of their

lives. But we turn away from them unmoved and cry out at the

heartlessness of those whom our own faces and words and sorrow do

not touch.

She lowered her parasol, and pressing her palm against one cheek

and then the other, to force back the betraying blood, hurried

agitated and elated into the library. A new kind of excitement

filled her: she had confessed her secret, had proved her fidelity

to him she loved by turning off the playmate of childhood. Who

does not know the relief of confessing to some one who does not

understand?

The interior of the library was an immense rectangular room. Book

shelves projected from each side toward the middle, forming

alcoves. Seated in one of these alcoves, you could be seen only by

persons who should chance to pass. The library was never crowded

and it was nearly empty now. Marguerite lingered to speak with the

librarian, meantime looking carefully around the room; and then

moved on toward the shelves where she remembered having once seen a

certain book of which she was now thinking. It had not interested

her then; she had heard it spoken of since, but it had not

interested her since. Only to-day something new within herself

drew her toward it.

No one was in the alcove she entered. After a while she found her

book and seated herself in a nook of the walls with her face turned

in the one direction from which she could be discovered by any one

passing. While she read, she wished to watch: might he not pass?

It was a very old volume, thumbed by generations of readers. Pages

were gone, the halves of pages worn away or tattered. It was

printed in an old style of uncertain spelling so that the period of

its authorship could in this way be but doubtfully indicated.

Ostensibly it came down from the ruder, plainer speech of old

English times, which may have found leisure for such "A Booke of

Folly."

Marguerite's eyes settled first on the complete title: "Lady

Bluefields' First Principles of Courting for Ye Use of Ye Ladies;

but Plainly Set Down for Ye Good of Ye Beginners."

"I am not a beginner," thought Marguerite, who had been in love

three days; and she began to read:

"_Now of all artes ye most ancient is ye lovely arte of courting.

It is ye earliest form of ye chase. It is older than hawking or

hunting ye wilde bore. It is older than ye flint age or ye stone

aye, being as old as ye bones in ye man his body and in ye woman

her body. It began in ye Garden of Eden and is as old as ye old

devil himself_."

Marguerite laughed: she thought Lady Bluefields delightful.

"_Now ye only purpose in all God His world of ye arte of courting

is to create love where love is not, or to make it grow where it

has begun. But whether ye wish to create love or to blow ye little

coal into ye big blaze, ye principles are ye same; for ye bellows

that will fan nothing into something will easily roast ye spark

into ye roaring fire; and ye grander ye fire, ye grander ye arte_."

Marguerite laughed again. Then she stopped reading and tested the

passage in the light of her experience. A bellows and--nothing to

begin. Then something. Then a spark. Then a name. She returned

to the book with the conclusion that Lady Bluefields was a woman of

experience.

"_This little booke will not contain any but ye first principles:

if is enough for ye stingy price ye pay. But ye woman who buys ye

first principles and fails, must then get ye larger work on ye Last

Principles of Courting, with ye true account of ye mysteries which

set ye principles to going: it is ye infallible guide to ye

irresistible love. Ye pay more for ye Big Booke, and God knows it

is worth ye price: it is written for ye women who are ye difficult

cases--ye floating derelicts in ye ocean of love, ye hidden snags,

terror of ye seafaring men_."

This did not so much interest Marguerite. She skipped two or three

pages which seemed to go unnecessarily into the subject of

derelicts and snags. "I am not quite sure as to what a derelict

is: I do not think I am one; out certainly I am not a snag."

"_Now ye only reason for ye lovely arts of courtinge is ye purpose

to marry. If ye do not expect to marry, positively ye must not

court: flirting is ye dishonest arte. Courting is ye honest arte;

if ye woman knows in ye woman her heart that she will not make ye

man a good wife, let her not try to Cage ye man: let her keep ye

cat or cage ye canary: that is enough for her_."

"I shall dispose of my canary at once. It goes to Miss Harriet

Crane."

"_Now of all men there is one ye woman must not court: ye married

man. Positively ye must not court such a man. If he wishes to

court ye, ye must make resistance to him with all ye soul; if you

wish to court him, ye must resist yourself. If he is a married man

and happy, let him alone. If he is married and unhappy, let him

bear his lot and beat his wife_."

Marguerite's eyes flashed. "It is well the writer did not live in

this age," she thought.

"_Ye men to court are three kinds: first ye swain; second ye old

bachelor; third ye widower. Ye old bachelor is like ye green

chimney of ye new house--hard to kindle. But ye widower is like ye

familiar fireplace. Ye must court according to ye kind. Ye

bachelor and ye widower are treated in ye big booke_."

"The swain is left," said Marguerite. "How and when is the swain

to be courted?"

"_Now ye beauty of ye swain is that ye can court him at all seasons

of ye year. Ye female bird will signal for ye mate only when ye

woods are green; but even ye old maid can go to ye icy spinnet and

drum wildly in ye dead of winter with ye aching fingers and ye

swain mate will sometimes come to her out of ye cold_."

Marguerite was beginning to think that nearly every one treated in

Lady Bluefields' book was too advanced in years: it was too

charitable to the problems of spinsters. "Where do the young come

in?" she asked impatiently.

"_Ye must not court ye young swain with ye food or ye wine. That

is for ye old bachelors and ye widowers to whom ye food and wine

are dear, but ye woman who gives them not dear enough. Ye woman

gives them meat and drink and they give ye woman hope: it is ye

bargain: let each be content with what each gets. But if ye swain

be bashful and ye know that he cannot speak ye word that he has

tried to speak, a glass of ye wine will sometimes give him that

missing word. Ye wine passes ye word to him and he passes ye word

to you: and ye keep it! When ye man is soaked with wine he does

not know what he loves nor cares: he will hug ye iron post in ye

street or ye sack of feathers in ye man his bed and talk to it as

though nothing else were dear to him in all ye world. It is not ye

love that makes him do this; it is ye wine and ye man his own

devilish nature. No; ye must marry with wine, but ye must court

with water. Ye love that will not begin with water will not last

with wine_."

This did not go to the heart of the matter. Marguerite turned over

several pages.

"_In ye arte of courting, it is often ye woman her eyes that settle

ye man his fate, But if ye woman her eyes are not beautiful, she

must not court with them but with other members of ye woman her

body. Ye greatest use of ye ugly eyes is to see but not be seen.

If ye try to court with ye ugly eyes, ye scare ye man away or make

him to feel sick; and ye will be sorry. Ye eyes must be beautiful

and ye eyes must have some mystery. They must not be like ye

windows of ye house in summer when ye curtains are taken down and

ye shutters are taken off. As ye man stands outside he must want

to see all that is within, but he must not be able. What ye man

loves ye woman for is ye mystery in her; if ye woman contain no

mystery, let her marry if she must; but not aspire to court. (This

is enough for ye stingy price ye pay: if ye had paid more money, ye

would have received more instruction.)_"

Marguerite thought it very little instruction for any money. She

felt disappointed and provoked. She passed on to "Clothes." "What

can she teach me on that subject?" she thought.

"_When ye court with ye clothes, ye must not lift ye dress above ye

ankle bone_."

"Then I know what kind of ankle bone _she_ had," said Marguerite,

bitter for revenge on Lady Bluefields.

"_Ye clothes play a greate part in ye arte of courtinge_."

Marguerite turned the leaf; but she found that the other pages on

the theme were too thumbed and faint to be legible.

She looked into the subject of "Hands": learning where the palms

should be turned up and when turned down; the meaning of a crooked

forefinger, and of full moons rising on the horizons of the finger

nails; why women with freckled hands should court bachelors. Also

how the feet, if of such and such sizes and configurations, must be

kept as "_ye two dead secrets_." Similarly how dimples must be

born and not made--with a caution against "_ye dimple under ye

nose_" (reference to "Big Booke"--well worth the money, etc.).

When she reached the subject of the kiss, Marguerite thought

guiltily of the library steps.

"_Ye kiss is ye last and ye greatest act in all ye lovely arte of

courtinge. Ye eyes, ye hair, ye feet, ye dimple, ye whole trunk,

are of no account if they do not lead up to ye kiss. There are two

kinds of ye kiss: ye kiss that ye give and ye kiss that ye take.

Ye kiss that ye take is ye one ye want. Ye woman often wishes to

give ye man one but cannot; and ye man often wishes to take one (or

more) from ye woman but cannot; and between her not being able to

give and his not being able to take, there is suffering enough in

this ill-begotten and ill-sorted world. Ye greatest enemy of ye

kiss that ye earth has ever known is ye sun; ye greatest friend is

ye night_.

"_Ye most cases where ye woman can take ye kiss are put down in ye

'Big Booke_.'

"_When ye man lies sick in ye hospital and ye woman bends over him

and he is too weak to raise his head, she can let her head fall

down on his; it is only the law of gravitation. But not while she

is giving him ye physick. If ye woman is riding in ye carriage and

ye horses run away; and ye man she loves is standing in ye bushes

and rushes out and seizes ye horses but is dragged, when he lies in

ye road in ye swoon, ye woman can send ye driver around behind ye

carriage and kiss him then--as she always does in ye women their

novels but never does in ye life. There is one time when any woman

can freely kiss ye man she loves: in ye dreame. It is ye safest

way, and ye best. No one knows; and it does not disappoint as it

often does disappoint when ye are awake_.

"_Lastly when ye beautiful swain that ye woman loved is dead, she

way go into ye room where he lies white and cold and kiss him then:

but she waited too long_."

Marguerite let the book fall as though an arrow had pierced her.

At the same time she heard the librarian approaching. She quickly

restored the volume to its place and drew out another book. The

librarian entered the alcove, smiled at Marguerite, peeped over her

shoulder into the book she was reading, searched for another, and

took it away. When she disappeared, Marguerite rose and looked;

Lady Bluefields was gone.

She could not banish those heart-breaking words: "_When ye

beautiful swain that ye woman loved is dead_." The longing of the

past days, the sadness, the languor that was ecstasy and pain,

swept back over her as she sat listening now, hoping for another

footstep. Would he not come? She did not ask to speak with him.

If she might only see him, only feel him near for a few moments.

She quitted the library slowly at last, trying to escape notice;

and passed up the street with an unconscious slight drooping of

that aerial figure. When she reached her yard, the tree-tops

within were swaying and showing the pale gray under-surfaces of

their leaves. A storm was coming. She turned at the gate, her hat

in her hand, and looked toward the cloud with red lightnings

darting from it: a still white figure confronting that noonday

darkness of the skies.

"Grandmother never loved but once," she said. "Mamma never loved

but once: it is our fate."