It was generally conceded that nothing could be more agreeable than Mrs.
Sylvestre's position and surroundings. Those of her acquaintance who had
known her before her marriage, seeking her out, pronounced her more full
of charm than ever; those who saw her for the first time could scarcely
express with too much warmth their pleasure in her grace, gentleness,
and beauty. Her house was only less admired than herself, and Mrs.
Merriam, promptly gathering a coterie of old friends about her,
established herself most enviably at once. It became known to the world,
through the medium of the social columns of the dailies, that Mrs.
Sylvestre was at home on Tuesday afternoons, and that she also received
her friends each Wednesday evening. On these occasions her parlors were
always well filled, and with society so agreeable that it was not long
before they were counted among the most attractive social features of
the week. Professor Herrick himself appeared on several Wednesdays, and
it was gradually remarked that Colonel Tredennis presented himself upon
the scene more frequently than their own previous knowledge of his
habits would have led the observers to expect. On seeing Mrs. Sylvestre
in the midst of her guests and admirers, Miss Jessup was reminded of
Madame Récamier and the _salons_ of Paris, and wrote almost an entire
letter on the subject, which was printed by the "Wabash Times," under
the heading of "A Recent Récamier," and described Mrs. Sylvestre's
violet eyes, soft voice, and willowy figure, with nothing short of
enthusiasm.
Under these honors Mrs. Sylvestre bore herself very calmly. If she had a
fault, an impetuous acquaintance once remarked, it was that she was too
calm. She found her life even more interesting than she had hoped it
would be; there was pleasure in the renewal of old friendships and
habits and the formation of new ones, and in time it became less
difficult to hold regrets and memories in check with a steady hand. She
neither gave herself to retrospection nor to feverish gayety; she felt
she had outlived her need of the latter and her inclination for the
former. Without filling her life with excitement, she enjoyed the
recreations of each day as they came, and felt no resulting fatigue.
When Professor Herrick came to spend an evening hour with her and sat by
the fire gently admiring her as he was led on to talk, and also gently
admiring Mrs. Merriam, who was in a bright, shrewd humor, she herself
was filled with pleasure in them both. She liked their ripeness of
thought and their impartial judgment of the life whose prejudices they
had outlived. And as genuinely as she liked this she enjoyed Colonel
Tredennis, who now and then came too. In the first place he came because
he was asked, but afterwards because, at the end of his first visit, he
left the house with a sense of being in some vague way the better for
it. Agnes' manner toward him had been very kind. She had shown an
interest in himself and his pursuits, which had somehow beguiled him out
of his usual reticence and brought the best of his gifts to the surface,
though nothing could have been more unstrained and quiet than the tone
of their conversation. He was at no disadvantage when they talked
together; he could keep pace with her and understand her gentle
thoughts; she did not bewilder him or place him on the defensive. Once,
as he looked at her sweet, reposeful face, he remembered what Bertha had
said of his ideal woman and the thought rose in his mind that this was
she--fair, feminine, full of all tender sympathy and kindly thought; not
ignorant of the world nor bitter against it, only bearing no stain of it
upon her. "All women should be so," he thought, sadly. And Agnes saw
the shadow fall upon his face, and wondered what he was thinking of.
She began to speak to him of Bertha soon afterward, and, perhaps, if the
whole truth were told, it was while she so spoke that he felt her grace
and sweetness most movingly. The figure her words brought before him was
the innocent one he loved, the one he only saw in memory and dreams, and
whose eyes followed him with an appeal which was sad truth itself. At
first Agnes spoke of the time when they had been girls together, making
their _entrée_ into society, with others as young and untried as
themselves--Bertha the happiest and brightest of them all.
"She was always a success," she said. "She had that quality. One don't
know how to analyze it. People remembered her and were attracted, and
she never made them angry or envious. Men who had been in love with her
remained her friends. It was because she was so true to them. She was
always a true friend."
She remembered so many incidents of those early days, and in her
relation of them Bertha appeared again and again the same graceful,
touching young presence, always generous and impetuous, ready of wit,
bright of spirit, and tender of heart.
"We all loved her," said Agnes. "She was worth loving; and she is not
changed."
"Not changed," said Tredennis, involuntarily.
"Did you think her so?" she asked, gently.
"Sometimes," he answered, looking down. "I am not sure that I know her
very well."
But he knew that he took comfort with him when he went away, and that he
was full of heartfelt gratitude to the woman who had defended him
against himself. When he sat among his books that night his mind was
calmer than it had been for many a day, and he felt his loneliness less.
What wonder that he went to the house again and again, and oftener to
spend a quiet hour than when others were there! When his burdens
weighed most heavily upon him, and his skies looked darkest, Agnes
Sylvestre rarely failed to give him help. When he noted her
thoughtfulness for others, he did not know what method there was in her
thoughtfulness for himself, and with what skilful tact and delicate care
she chose the words in which she spoke to him of Bertha; he only felt
that, after she had talked to him, the shadow which was his companion
was less a shadow, and more a fair truth to be believed in and to draw
faith and courage from.
The professor, who met him once or twice during his informal calls,
spoke of the fact to Arbuthnot with evident pleasure.
"He was at his best," he said, "and I have noticed that it is always so
when he is there. The truth is, it would be impossible to resist the
influence of that beautiful young woman."
His acquaintance with Mr. Arbuthnot had taken upon itself something of
the character of an intimacy. They saw each other almost daily. The
professor had indeed made many discoveries concerning the younger man,
but none which caused him to like him less. He had got over his first
inclination towards surprise at finding they had many things in common,
having early composed himself to meet with calmness any source of
momentary wonder which might present itself, deciding, at length, that
he, himself, was either younger or his new acquaintance older than he
had imagined, without making the matter an affair of years. The two fell
into a comfortable habit of discussing the problems of the day, and,
though their methods were entirely different, and Arbuthnot was, at the
outset, much given to a light treatment of argument, they always
understood each other in the end, and were drawn a trifle nearer by the
debate. It was actually discovered that Laurence had gone so far as to
initiate the unwary professor into the evil practice of smoking, having
gradually seduced him by the insidious temptings of the most delicate
cigars. The discussions, it was observed, were always more enjoyable
when, the professor, having his easy-chair placed in exactly the right
position with regard to light and fire, found himself, with his cigar in
hand, carefully smoking it, and making the most of its aroma. His
tranquil enjoyment of and respect for the rite were agreeable things to
see.
"It soothes me," he would say to Arbuthnot. "It even inspires and
elevates me. I feel as if I had discovered a new sense. I am really
quite grateful."
It was Arbuthnot who generally arranged his easy-chair, showing a
remarkable instinct in the matter of knowing exactly what was necessary
to comfort. Among his discoveries concerning him the professor counted
this one, that he had in such things the silent quickness of perception
and deft-handedness of a woman, and perhaps it had at first surprised
him more than all else.
It may have been for some private reason of his own that the professor
occasionally gave to the conversation a lighter tone, even giving a
friendly and discursive attention to social topics, and showing an
interest in the doings of pleasure-lovers and the butterfly of fashion.
At such times Arbuthnot noticed that, beginning with a reception at the
British Embassy, they not unfrequently ended with Bertha; or, opening
with the last dinner at the White House, closed with Richard and the
weekly "evenings" adorned by the presence of Senator Planefield and his
colleague. So it was perfectly natural that they should not neglect Mrs.
Sylvestre, to whom the professor had taken a great fancy, and whose
progress he watched with much interest. He frequently spoke of her to
Arbuthnot, dwelling upon the charm which made her what she was, and
analyzing it and its influence upon others. It appeared to have
specially impressed itself upon him on the occasion of his seeing
Tredennis, and having said that it would be impossible to resist this
"beautiful young woman,"--as he had fallen into the unconscious habit
of calling her,--he went on to discourse further.
"She is too tranquil to make any apparent effort," he said. "And yet the
coldest and most reserved person must be warmed and moved by her. You
have seen that, though you are neither the most reserved nor the
coldest."
Arbuthnot was smoking the most perfectly flavored of cigars, and giving
a good deal of delicate attention to it. At this he took it from his
mouth, looked at the end, and removed the ash with a touch of his
finger, in doing which he naturally kept his eyes upon the cigar, and
not upon the professor.
"Yes," he said, "I have recognized it, of course."
"You see her rather often, I think?" said the professor.
"I am happy to be permitted that privilege," was the answer; "though I
am aware I am indebted for it far more to Mrs. Amory than to my own
fascinations, numberless and powerful though they may be."
"It is a privilege," said the professor; "but it is more of one to
Philip than to you--even more of one than he knows. He needs what such a
woman might give him."
"Does he?" said Arbuthnot. "Might I ask what that is?"
And he was angry with himself because he did not say it with more ease
and less of a sense of unreasonable irritation. The professor seemed to
forget his cigar, he held it in the hand which rested on his chair-arm,
and neglected it while he gave himself up to thought.
"He has changed very much during the past year," he said. "In the few
last months I have noticed it specially. I miss something from his
manner, and he looks fagged and worn. It has struck me that he rather
needs an interest, and feels his loneliness without being conscious that
he does so. After all, it is only natural. A man who leads an isolated
life inevitably reaches a period when his isolation wearies him, and he
broods over it a little."
"And you think," said Arbuthnot, "that Mrs. Sylvestre might supply the
interest?"
"Don't you think so yourself?" suggested the professor, mildly.
"Oh," said Laurence, "_I_ think the man would be hard to please who did
not find she could supply him with anything and everything."
And he laughed and made a few rings of smoke, watching them float upward
toward the ceiling.
"He would have a great deal to bring her," said the professor, speaking
for the moment rather as if to himself than to any audience. "And she
would have a great deal in return for what she could bestow. He has
always been what he is to-day, and only such a man is worthy of her. No
man who has trifled with himself and his past could offer what is due to
her."
"That is true," said Laurence.
He made more rings of smoke and blew them away.
"As for Tredennis," he said, with a deliberateness he felt necessary to
his outward composure, "his advantage is that he does not exactly belong
to the nineteenth century. He has no place in parlors; when he enters
one, without the least pretension or consciousness of himself, he towers
over the rest of us with a gigantic modesty it is useless to endeavor to
bear up against. He ought to wear a red cross, and carry a battle-axe,
and go on a crusade, or right the wrongs of the weak by unhorsing the
oppressor in single combat. He might found a Round Table. His crush hat
should be a helmet, and he should appear in armor."
The professor smiled.
"That is a very nice figure," he said, "though you don't treat it
respectfully. It pleases my fancy."
Arbuthnot laughed again, not the gayest laugh possible.
"It is he who is a nice figure," he returned. "And, though he little
suspects it, he is the one most admired of women. He could win anything
he wanted and would deserve all he won. Oh, I'm respectful enough. I'm
obliged to be. There's the rub!"
"Is it a rub?" asked the professor, a little disturbed by an illogical
fancy which at the moment presented itself without a shadow of warning.
"_You_ don't want the kind of thing he might care for."
This time Laurence's laugh had recovered its usual delightful tone. He
got up and went to the mantel for a match to light a new cigar.
"I!" he said. "I want nothing but the assurance that I shall be
permitted to retain my position in the Treasury until I don't need it.
It is a modest ambition, isn't it? And yet I am afraid it will be
thwarted. And then--in the next administration, perhaps--I shall be
seedy and out at elbows, and Mrs. Amory won't like to invite me to her
Thursday evenings, because she will know it will make me uncomfortable,
and then--then I shall disappear."
"Something has disturbed you," commented the professor, rather
seriously. "You are talking nonsense."
And as he said it the thought occurred to him that he had heard more of
that kind of nonsense than usual of late, and that the fact was likely
to be of some significance. "It is the old story," he thought, "and it
is beginning to wear upon him until he does not control himself quite so
completely as he did at first. That is natural too. Perhaps Bertha
herself has been a little cruel to him, in her woman's way. She has not
been bearing it so well either."
"My dear professor," said Laurence, "everything is relative, and what
you call nonsense I regard as my most successful conversational efforts.
_I_ could not wield Excalibur. Don't expect it of me, I beg you."
If he had made an effort to evade any further discussion of Mrs.
Sylvestre and the possibilities of her future, he had not failed in it.
They talked of her no more, in fact, they talked very little at all. A
shade had fallen upon the professor's face and did not pass away. He
lighted his cigar again, but scarcely seemed to enjoy finishing it. If
Arbuthnot had been in as alert a mental condition as usual, his
attention would have been attracted by the anxious thoughtfulness of his
old friend's manner; but he himself was preoccupied and rather glad of
the opportunity to be silent. When the cigars were finished, and he was
on the point of taking his departure, the professor seemed to rouse
himself as if from a reverie.
"That modest ambition of yours"--he began slowly.
"Thank you for thinking of it," said Arbuthnot, as he paused.
"It interests me," replied the professor. "You are continually finding
something to interest me. There is no reason why it should be thwarted,
you know."
"I wish I did," returned Laurence. "But I don't, you see. They are shaky
pieces of architecture, those government buildings. The
foundation-stones are changed too often to insure a sense of security to
the occupants. No; my trouble is that I don't know."
"You have a great many friends," said the professor.
"I have a sufficient number of invitations to make myself generally
useful," said Laurence, "and of course they imply an appreciation of my
social gifts which gratifies me; but a great deal depends on a man's
wardrobe. I might as well be without talents as minus a dress-coat. It
interests me sometimes to recognize a brother in the 'song and dance
artist' who is open to engagements. I, my dear professor, am the 'song
and dance artist.' When I am agile and in good voice I am recalled; but
they would not want me if I were hoarse and out of spirits, and had no
spangles."
"You might get something better than you have," said the professor,
reflectively. "You ought to get something."
"To whom shall I apply?" said Laurence. "Do you think the President
would receive me to-morrow? Perhaps he has already mentioned his
anxiety to see me." Then, his manner changing, he added, with some
hurry, "You are very good, but I think it is of no use. The mistake was
in letting myself drift as I did. It would not have happened if--if I
hadn't been a fool. It was my own fault. Thank you! Don't think of me.
It wouldn't pay me to do it myself, and you may be sure it would not pay
you."
And he shook the professor's hand and left him.
He was not in the best of humor when he reached the street, and was
obliged to acknowledge that of late the experience had not been as rare
a one as discretion should have made it. His equable enjoyment of his
irresponsible existence had not held its own entirely this winter. It
had been disturbed by irrational moods and touches of irritability. He
had broken, in spite of himself, the strict rules he had laid down
against introspection and retrospection; he had found himself deviating
in the direction of shadowy regrets and discontents; and this in the
face of the fact that no previous season had presented to him greater
opportunities for enjoyment than this one. Certainly he counted as the
most enviable of his privileges those bestowed upon him by the inmates
of the new establishment in Lafayette Place. His intimacy with the
Amorys had placed him upon a more familiar footing than he could have
hoped to attain under ordinary circumstances, and, this much gained, his
social gifts and appreciation of the favor showed him did the rest.
"Your Mr. Arbuthnot," remarked Mrs. Merriam, after having conversed with
him once or twice, "or, I suppose, I ought rather to say little Mrs.
Amory's Mr. Arbuthnot, is a wonderfully suitable person."
"Suitable?" repeated Agnes. "For what?"
"For anything--for everything. He would never be out of place, and his
civility is absolute genius."
Mrs. Sylvestre's smile was for her relative's originality of statement,
and apparently bore not the slightest reference to Mr. Arbuthnot
himself.
"People are never entirely impersonal," Mrs. Merriam went on. "But an
appearance of being so may be cultivated, as this gentleman has
cultivated his, until it is almost perfection. He never projects himself
into the future. When he picks up your handkerchief he does not appear
to be thinking how you will estimate his civility; he simply restores
you an article you would miss. He does nothing with an air, and he never
forgets things. Perhaps the best part of his secret is that he never
forgets himself."
"I am afraid he must find that rather tiresome," Agnes remarked.
"My dear," said Mrs. Merriam, "no one could forget herself less often
than you do. That is the secret of your repose of manner. Privately you
are always on guard, and your unconsciousness of the fact arises from
the innocence of youth. You are younger than you think."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Sylvestre, rising and crossing the room to move a yellow
vase on the top of a cabinet, "don't make me begin life over again."
"You have reached the second stage of existence," said the older woman,
her bright eyes sparkling. "There are three: the first, when one
believes everything is white; the second, when one is sure everything is
black; the third, when one knows that the majority of things are simply
gray."
"If I were called upon to find a color for your favorite," said Agnes,
bestowing a soft, abstracted smile on the yellow vase, "I think I should
choose gray. He is certainly neutral."
"He is a very good color," replied Mrs. Merriam; "the best of colors. He
matches everything,--one's tempers, one's moods, one's circumstances. He
is a very excellent color indeed."
"Yes," said Agnes, quietly.
And she carried her vase to another part of the room, and set it on a
little ebony stand.
It had become an understood thing, indeed, that her relative found
Laurence Arbuthnot entertaining, and was disposed to be very gracious
toward him. On his part he found her the cleverest and most piquant of
elderly personages. When he entered the room where she sat it was her
habit to make a place for him at her own side, and to enjoy a little
agreeable gossip with him before letting him go. After they had had a
few such conversations together Arbuthnot began to discover that his
replies to her references to himself and his past had not been so
entirely marked by reticence as he had imagined when he had made them.
His friend had a talent for putting the most adroit leading questions,
which did not betray their significance upon the surface; and once or
twice, after answering such a one, he had seen a look in her sparkling
old eyes which led him to ponder over his own words as well as hers.
Still, she was always astute and vivacious, and endowed him for the time
being with a delightful sense of being at his best, for which he was
experienced enough to be grateful. He had also sufficient experience to
render him alive to the fact that he preferred to be at his best when it
was his good fortune to adorn this particular drawing-room with his
presence. He knew, before long, that when he had made a speech upon
which he privately prided himself, after the manner of weak humanity, he
found it agreeable to be flattered by the consciousness that Mrs.
Sylvestre's passion-flower-colored eyes were resting upon him with that
delicious suggestion of reflection. He was not rendered happier by the
knowledge of this susceptibility, but he was obliged to admit its
existence in himself. Few men of his years were as little prone to such
natural weaknesses, and he had not attained his somewhat abnormal state
of composure without paying its price. Perhaps the capital had been too
large.
"If one has less, one is apt to be more economical," Bertha had heard
him remark, "and, at least, retain a small annuity to exist upon in
one's maturer years. I did not retain such an annuity."
Certainly there was one period of his life upon which he never looked
back without a shudder; and this being the case, he had taught himself,
as time passed, not to look back upon it at all. He had also taught
himself not to look forward, finding the one almost as bad as the other.
As Bertha had said, he was not fond of affairs, and even his enemies
were obliged to admit that he was ordinarily too discreet or too cold to
engage in the most trivial of such agreeable entanglements.
"If I pick up a red-hot coal," he said, "I shall burn my fingers, even
if I throw it away quickly. Why should a man expose himself to the
chance of being obliged to bear a blister about with him for a day or
so? If I may be permitted, I prefer to stand before the fire and enjoy
an agreeable warmth without personal interference with the blaze."
Nothing could have been farther from his intentions than interference
with the blaze, where Mrs. Sylvestre was concerned; though he had
congratulated himself upon the glow her grace and beauty diffused,
certainly no folly could have been nearer akin to madness than such
folly, if he had been sufficiently unsophisticated to indulge in it. And
he was not unsophisticated; few were less so. His perfect and just
appreciation of his position bounded him on every side, and it would
have been impossible for him to lose sight of it. He had never blamed
any one but himself for the fact that he had accomplished nothing
particular in life, and had no prospect of accomplishing anything. It
had been his own fault, he had always said; if he had been a better and
stronger fellow he would not have been beaten down by one blow, however
sharp and heavy. He had given up because he chose to give up and let
himself drift. His life since then had been agreeable enough; he had had
his moments of action and reaction; he had laughed one day and felt a
little glum the next, and had let one mood pay for the next, and
trained himself to expect nothing better. He had not had any inclination
for marriage, and had indeed frequently imagined that he had a strong
disinclination for it; his position in the Amory household had given him
an abiding-place, which was like having a home without bearing the
responsibility of such an incumbrance.
"I regard myself," Bertha sometimes said to him, "as having been a
positive boon to you. If I had not been so good to you there would have
been moments when you would have almost wished you were married; and if
you had had such moments the day of your security would have been at an
end."
"Perfectly true," he invariably responded, "and I am grateful
accordingly."
He began to think of this refuge of his, after he had walked a few
minutes. He became conscious that, the longer he was alone with himself,
the less agreeable he found the situation. There was a sentence of the
professor's which repeated itself again and again, and made him feel
restive; somehow he could not rid himself of the memory of it.
"No man who had trifled with himself and his past could offer what is
due to her." It was a simple enough truth, and he found nothing in it to
complain of; but it was not an exhilarating thing to dwell upon and be
haunted by.
He stopped suddenly in the street and threw his cigar away. A half-laugh
broke from him.
"I am resenting it," he said. "It is making me as uncomfortable as if I
was a human being, instead of a mechanical invention in the employ of
the government. My works are getting out of order. I will go and see
Mrs. Amory; she will give me something to think of. She always does."
A few minutes later he entered the familiar parlor. The first object
which met his eye was the figure of Bertha, and, as he had anticipated
would be the case, she gave him something to think of. But it was not
exactly the kind of thing he had hoped for, though it was something, it
is true, which he had found himself confronted with once or twice
before. It was something in herself, which on his first sight of her
presented itself to him so forcibly that it gave him something very near
a shock.
He had evidently broken in upon some moment of absorbed thought. She was
standing near the mantel, her hands clasped behind her head, her eyes
seeming fixed on space. The strangeness of her attitude struck him
first, and then the unusualness of her dress, whose straight, long lines
of unadorned black revealed, as he had never seen it revealed before,
the change which had taken place in her.
She dropped her hands when she saw him, but did not move toward him.
"Did you meet Richard?" she said.
"No," he replied. "Did he want to see me?"
"He said something of the kind, though I am not quite sure what it was."
Their eyes rested on each other as he approached her. In the questioning
of hers there was a touch of defiance, but he knew its meaning too well
to be daunted by it.
"I would not advise you to wear that dress again," he said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Go to the mirror and look at yourself," he said.
She turned, walked across the room with a slow, careless step, as if the
effort was scarcely worth while. There was an antique mirror on the
wall, and she stopped before it and looked herself over.
"It isn't wise, is it?" she said. "It makes me look like a ghost. No, it
doesn't _make_ me look like one; it simply shows me as I am. It couldn't
be said of me just now that I am at my best, could it?"
Then she turned around.
"I don't seem to care!" she said. "_Don't_ I care! That would be a bad
sign in _me_, wouldn't it?"
"I should consider it one," he answered. "It is only in novels that
people can afford not to care. You cannot afford it. Don't wear a dress
again which calls attention to the fact that you are so ill and worn as
to seem only a shadow of yourself. It _isn't_ wise."
"Why should one object to being ill?" she said. "It is not such a bad
idea to be something of an invalid, after all; it insures one a great
many privileges. It is not demanded of invalids that they shall always
be brilliant. They are permitted to be pale, and silent, and heavy-eyed,
and lapses are not treasured up against them." She paused an instant.
"When one is ill," she said, "nothing one does or leaves undone is of
any special significance. It is like having a holiday."
"Do you want to take such a holiday?" he asked. "Do you need it?"
She stood quite still a moment, and he knew she did it because she
wished to steady her voice.
"Sometimes," she said at last, "I think I do."
Since he had first known her there had been many times when she had
touched him without being in the least conscious that she did so. He had
often found her laughter as pathetic as other people's tears, even while
he had joined in it himself. Perhaps there was something in his own mood
which made her seem in those few words more touching than she had ever
been before.
"Suppose you begin to take it now," he said, "while I am with you."
She paused a few seconds again before answering. Then she looked up.
"When people ask you how I am," she said, "you might tell them that I am
not very well, that I have not been well for some time, and that I am
not getting better."
"Are you getting--worse?" he asked.
Her reply--if reply it was--was a singular one. She pushed the sleeve
of her black dress a little way from her wrist, and stood looking down
at it without speaking. There were no bangles on the wrist this morning,
and without these adornments its slenderness seemed startling. The
small, delicate bones marked themselves, and every blue vein was
traceable.
Neither of them spoke, and in a moment she drew the sleeve down again,
and went back to her place by the fire. To tell the truth, Arbuthnot
could not have spoken at first. It was she who at length broke the
silence, turning to look at him as he sat in the seat he had taken, his
head supported by his hand.
"Will you tell me," she said, "what has hurt _you_?"
"Why should you ask that?" he said.
"I should be very blind and careless of you if I had not seen that
something had happened to you," she answered. "You are always caring for
me, and--understanding me. It is only natural that I should have learned
to understand you a little. This has not been a good winter for you.
What is it, Larry?"
"I wish it was something interesting," he answered; "but it is not. It
is the old story. I am out of humor. I'm dissatisfied. I have been
guilty of the folly of not enjoying myself on one or two occasions, and
the consciousness of it irritates me."
"It is always indiscreet not to enjoy one's self," she said.
And then there was silence for a moment, while she looked at him again.
Suddenly she broke into a laugh,--a laugh almost hard in its tone. He
glanced up to see what it meant.
"Do you want to know what makes me laugh?" she said. "I am thinking how
like all this is the old-fashioned tragedy, where all the _dramatis
personæ_ are disposed of in the last act. We go over one by one, don't
we? Soon there will be no one left to tell the tale. Even Colonel
Tredennis and Richard show signs of their approaching doom. And
you--some one has shown you your dagger, I think, and you know you
cannot escape it."
"I am the ghost," he answered; "the ghost who was disposed of before the
tragedy began, and whose business it is to haunt the earth, and remind
the rest of you that once I had blood in my veins too."
He broke off suddenly and left his seat. The expression of his face had
altogether changed.
"We always talk in this strain," he exclaimed. "We are always jeering!
Is there anything on earth, any suffering or human feeling, we could
treat seriously? If there is, for God's sake let us speak of it just for
one hour."
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was a sad little smile in their
depths.
"Yes, you have seen your dagger," she said. "You have seen it. Poor
Larry! Poor Larry!"
She turned away and sat down, clasping her hands on her knee, and he saw
that suddenly her lashes were wet, and thought that it was very like her
that, though she had no tears for herself, she had them for him.
"Don't be afraid that I will ask you any questions," she said. "I won't.
You never asked me any. Perhaps words would not do you any good."
"Nothing would do me any good just now," he answered. "Let it go at
that. It mayn't be as bad as it seems just for the moment--such things
seldom are. If it gets really worse, I suppose I shall find myself
coming to you some day to make my plaint; but it's very good in you to
look at me like that. And I was a fool to fancy I wanted to be serious.
I don't, on the whole."
"No, you were not a fool," she said. "There is no reason why _you_
should not be what you want. Laurence," with something like sudden
determination in her tone, "there is something I want to say to you."
"What is it?" he asked.
"I have got into a bad habit lately," she said,--"a bad habit of
thinking. When I lie awake at night"--
"Do you lie awake at night?" he interrupted.
She turned her face a little away, as if she did not wish to meet his
inquiring gaze.
"Yes," she answered, after a pause. "I suppose it is because of
this--habit. I can't help it; but it doesn't matter."
"Oh," he exclaimed, "it does matter! You can't stand it."
"Is there anything people 'cannot stand'?" she said. "If there is, I
should like to try it."
"You may well look as you do," he said.
"Yes, I may well," she answered. "And it is the result of the evil
practice of thinking. When once you begin, it is not easy to stop. And I
think you have begun."
"I shall endeavor to get over it," he replied.
"No," she said, "don't!"
She rose from her seat and stood up before him, trembling, and with two
large tears falling upon her cheeks.
"Larry," she said, "that is what I wanted to say--that is what I have
been thinking of. I shall not say it well, because we have laughed at
each other so long that it is not easy to speak of anything seriously;
but I must try. See! I am tired of laughing. I have come to the time
when there seems to be nothing left but tears--and there is no help; but
you are different, and if you are tired too, and if there is anything
you want, even if you could not be sure of having it, it would be better
to be trying to earn it, and to be worthy of it."
He rested his forehead on his hands, and kept his eyes fixed on the
carpet.
"That is a very exalted way of looking at things," he said, in a low
voice. "I am afraid I am not equal to it."
"In the long nights, when I have lain awake and thought so," she went
on, "I have seemed to find out that--there were things worth altering
all one's life for. I did not want to believe in them at first, but now
it is different with me. I could not say so to any one but you--and
perhaps not to you to-morrow or the day after--and you will hear me
laugh and jeer many a time again. That is my fate; but it need not be
yours. Your life is your own. If mine were my own--oh, if mine were my
own!" She checked the passionate exclamation with an effort. "When one's
life belongs to one's self," she added, "one can do almost anything with
it!"
"I have not found it so," he replied.
"You have never tried it," she said. "One does not think of these things
until the day comes when there is a reason--a reason for everything--for
pain and gladness, for hope and despair, for the longing to be better
and the struggle against being worse. Oh, how can one give up when there
is such a reason, and one's life is in one's own hands! I am saying it
very badly, Larry, I know that. Agnes Sylvestre could say it better,
though she could not mean it more."
"She would not take the trouble to say it at all," he said.
Bertha drew back a pace with an involuntary movement. The repressed ring
of bitterness in the words had said a great deal.
"Is it--?" she exclaimed, involuntarily, as she had moved, and then
stopped. "I said I would not ask questions," she added, and clasped her
hands behind her back, standing quite still, in an attitude curiously
expressive of agitation and suspense.
"What!" he said; "have I told you? I was afraid I should. Yes, it is
Mrs. Sylvestre who has disturbed me; it is Mrs. Sylvestre who has
stirred the calm of ages."
She was silent a second, and when she spoke her eyes looked very large
and bright.
"I suppose," she said, slowly, "that it is very womanish in me,--that I
almost wish it had been some one else."
"Why?" he asked.
"You _all_ have been moved by Mrs. Sylvestre," she replied, more slowly
than before,--"_all_ of you."
"How many of us are there?" he inquired.
"Colonel Tredennis has been moved, too," she said. "Not long before you
came in he paid me a brief visit. He does not come often now, and his
visits are usually for Janey, and not for me. I displeased him the night
he went with me to the reception of the Secretary of State, and he has
not been able to resign himself to seeing me often; but this evening he
came in, and we talked of Mrs. Sylvestre. He had been calling upon her,
and her perfections were fresh in his memory. He finds her beautiful and
generous and sincere; she is not frivolous or capricious. I think that
was what I gathered from the few remarks he made. I asked him questions;
you see, I wanted to know. And she has this advantage,--she has all the
virtues which the rest of us have not."
"You are very hard on Tredennis sometimes," he said, answering in this
vague way the look on her face which he knew needed answer.
"Sometimes," she said; "sometimes he is hard on me."
"He has not been easy on _me_ to-day," he returned.
"Poor Larry!" she said again. "Poor Larry!"
He smiled a little.
"You see what chance I should be likely to have against such a rival,"
he said. "I wonder if it ought to be a consolation to me to reflect that
my position is such that it cannot be affected by rivals. If I had the
field to myself I should stand exactly where I do at this moment. It
saves me from the risk of suffering, don't you see? I know my place too
well to allow myself to reach that point. I am uncomfortable only
because circumstances have placed it before me in a strong light, and I
don't like to look at it."
"What is your place?" she asked.
"It is in the Treasury," he replied. "The salary is not large. I am
slightly in debt--to my tailor and hosier, who are, however, patient,
because they think I am to be relied on through this administration."
"I wish I knew what to say to you!" she exclaimed. "I wish I knew!"
"I wish you did," he answered. "You have said all you could. I wish I
believed what you say. It would be more dignified than to be simply out
of humor with one's self, and resentful."
"Larry," she said, gently, "I believe you are something more."
"No! no! Nothing more!" he exclaimed. "Nothing more, for Heaven's sake!"
And he made a quick gesture, as if he was intolerant of the thought, and
would like to move it away. So they said no more on this subject, and
began soon after to talk about Richard.
"What did you mean," Arbuthnot asked, "by saying that Richard showed
signs of his approaching doom? Isn't he in good spirits?"
"It seems incredible," she answered, "that Richard should not be in good
spirits; but it has actually seemed to me lately that he was not. The
Westoria lands appear to have worried him."
"The Westoria lands," he repeated, slowly.
"He has interested himself in them too much," she said. "Things don't go
as easily as he imagined they would, and it annoys him. To-day"--
"What happened to-day?" Laurence asked, as she stopped.
"It was not very much," she said; "but it was unlike him. He was a
little angry."
"With whom?"
"With me, I think. Lately I have thought I would like to go abroad, and
I have spoken of it to him once or twice, and he has rather put it off;
and to-day I wanted to speak of it again, and it seemed the wrong time,
somehow, and he was a trifle irritable about it. He has not always been
quite himself this winter, but he has never been irritable with me. That
isn't like him, you know."
"No, it isn't like him," was Laurence's comment.
Afterward, when he was going away, he asked her a question:
"Do you wish very much to go abroad?" he said.
"Yes," she answered.
"You think the change would do you good?"
"Change often does one good," she replied. "I should like to try it."
"I should like to try it myself," he said. "Go, if you can, though no
one will miss you more than I shall."
And, having said it, he took his departure.