I.

To those that have suffered certain things there are forms of

entertainment which neither amuse nor bore, but which pain. And this

evening, as Justine sat in the stalls, the play which was being given,

and which, as plays go, was endurable enough, caused her no pleasure, no

weariness even, only a longing to get away and be alone. Now and then a

shudder visited her, her hand tightened on her fan, and at times she

would close her eyes, dull her hearing, and try to fancy that her

girlhood was recovered, that she was free again, that she was dead, that

her husband was--anything imaginable in fact, save the knowledge that

she was there, side-by-side with him, and that presently they would

return together to the hideousness of their uptown flat.

She had been married now a little more than two years, and during the

latter portion of that time life had held for her that precise dose of

misery which is just insufficient to produce uncertainties of thought in

a mind naturally exalted. There had indeed been moments in which the

possibility of insanity had presented itself, and there had been moments

also in which she would have welcomed that possibility as a grateful

release: but those moments had passed, the possibility with them; and

this evening as she sat in the stalls her outward appearance was much

such as it had been two years before. But within, where her heart had

been, was a cemetery.

Among our friends and acquaintances there are always those who to our

knowledge have tombstones of their own. But there are others that evolve

a world--one that glows, subsides, and dies away unknown to any save

themselves. The solitudes of space appall; the solitudes of the heart

can be as endless as they. In those which Justine concealed, a universe

had had its being and its subsidence; a universe with gem-like hopes for

stars--one in which the sun had been so eager its rays had made her

blind. There had been comets gorgeous and tangential as aspirations ever

are; there had been the colorless ether of which dreams are made; and

for cosmic matter there was love. But now it was all dispersed; there

was nothing left, one altar merely--the petrefaction of a prayer erected

long since in the depths of her distress, and which for conscience' sake

now and then she tended still.

And now, as the play at which she assisted unrolled before her unseeing

eyes, one by one scenes from another drama rose unsummoned in its stead.

First was the meeting with Mistrial at Tuxedo, then the episode at

Aiken, the marriage that followed, and the banishment that ensued: a

banishment, parenthetically, which at the time being she was powerless

to understand. Her father's anger had indeed weighed on her; but it was

not wholly that--she was too much in love to let it be more than a

shadow on her delight; nor was it because of unfamiliar lands: it was

that little by little, through incidents originally misunderstood and

then more completely grasped, the discovery, avoided yet ever returning,

came to her, stayed with her, and made her its own--that the man whom

she had loved and the man whom she had married were separate and

distinct.

The psychologist of woman has yet to appear, and if he keep us waiting

may it not be because every woman he analyzes has a sister who differs

from her? The moment he formulates a rule it is over-weighted by

exceptions. Woman often varies, the old song says; but not alone in her

affections does she do so: she varies in temperament as well. And, after

all, is it not the temperament that makes or mars a life? Justine, in

discovering that the man she married and the man whom she loved were

separate and distinct, instead of being disgusted with herself and with

him, as you, madam, might have been, tried her utmost to forget the

lover and love the husband that had come in his place. In this effort

she had pride for an aid. The humiliation which the knowledge of

self-deception brings is great, but when that knowledge becomes common

property the humiliation is increased. The world--not the world that

ought to be, but the world as it is--is more apt to smile than condole.

There may be much joy in heaven over the sinner that repents: on earth

the joy is at his downfall. And according to the canons we have made for

ourselves, Justine, in listening to the dictates of her heart instead of

to those of her father, had sinned, so grievously even that that father

had bid her begone from his sight. She was aware of this, and in

consequence felt it needful to hold her head the higher. And so for a

while she made pride serve as fig-leaf to her nakedness. If abashed at

heart, at least the world should be uninformed of that abashment.

This effort on her part Mistrial hindered to the best of his ability.

Whether or not he loved her, whether save himself he was capable of

loving anyone, who shall say? Men too are difficult to decipher. There

were hours when after some _ecart_ he would come to her so penitent, so

pleasant to the eye, and seemingly so afflicted at his own misconduct,

that Justine found the strength--or the weakness, was it?--to forgive

and to forget anew.

During this period they lived not sumptuously, perhaps, but in that

large and liberal fashion which requires a ponderable rent-roll to

support; and at that time, however Mistrial comported himself elsewhere,

in her presence he had the decency to seem considerate, and affectionate

as well. But meanwhile, through constant demands, the value of the

letter of credit into which he had converted the better part of her

mother's estate became impaired. Retrenchment was necessary, and that is

never a pleasant thing. The man that passes out of poverty into wealth

finds the passage so easy, so Lethean even, that he is apt to forget

what poverty was; but when, as sometimes happens, he is obliged to

retrace his steps, he walks bare of foot through a path of thorns. To

count gold, instead of strewing it, is irritating to anyone not a sage,

and Mistrial, who was not a sage, was irritated; and having, a wife

within beck and call he vented that irritation on her.

It was at this time that Justine began to feel the full force of the

banishment. That her husband was, and in all probability would continue

to be, unfaithful to her, was a matter which she ended by accepting with

a degree of good sense which is more common than is generally supposed.

At first she had been indeed indignant, and when in that indignation her

anger developed into a heat that was white and sentiable, Mistrial

experienced no remorse whatever, only a desire to applaud. He liked the

force and splendor of her arraignment; it took him out of himself; it

made him feel that he was appreciated--feared even; that a word from

him, and a tempest was loosened or enchained.

But what is there to which we cannot accustom ourselves? Justine ended,

not by a full understanding of the fact that man is naturally

polygamous; but little by little, through channels undiscerned even by

herself, the idea came to her that, if the man she loved could find

pleasure in the society of other women, it was because she was less

attractive than they. It was this that brought her patience, the more

readily even in that, at her first paroxysm, Mistrial, a trifle alarmed

lest she might leave him, had caught her in his arms, and sworn in a

whisper breathed in her ear, that of all the world he loved her best.

Madam, you who do the present writer the honor to read this page are

convinced, he is sure, that your husband would rather his tongue cleaved

to the roof of his mouth than break the vow which bound you to him. But

you, madam, have married a man faithful and tried. You know very well

with what dismay he tells you of Robinson's scandalous conduct, and you

know also how he pities Robinson's poor little wife; yet when, in your

sorrow at what that poor little woman has to put up with, you are

tempted to go and condole with her, pause, madam--Mrs. Robinson may be

equally tempted to condole with You.

There are--in Brooklyn, in Boston, and in other recondite regions--a

number of clever people who have been brought up with the idea that

Divorce was instituted for just such a thing as this. Yet in one hundred

cases out of a hundred-and-one a woman who appeals to the law never does

so because her husband has broken a certain commandment. If his

derelictions are confined to that particular offence she may bewail,

and we all bewail with her; but if she wants the sympathy of judge, of

jury, and of newspaper-public too, she must be prepared to allege other

grievances. She must show that her husband is unkind, that he is

sarcastic, that he is given to big words and short sentences; in brief,

that he has developed traits which render life in common no longer to be

endured.

It was traits of this description that Mistrial unexpectedly developed,

and it was during their development that the sense of banishment visited

Justine. She was unable to make further transference of her affections;

the lover had disappeared; the husband she had tried to love in his

place had gone as well. For sole companion she had a man who had worn a

mask and dropped it; where he had been considerate, he was selfish; when

he spoke, it was to find fault; now that he could no longer throw her

money out of the windows, he threw his amiability in its stead. By day

he was taciturn, insultingly dumb; at night he was drunk.

Mistrial had served his novitiate where the _pochard_ is rare. It is we

that drink, and with us the English, the Slavs, and Teutons; but in the

East and among the Latins sobriety is less a matter of habit than of

instinct. And in lands where man prefers to keep his head clear,

Mistrial, at that age, which is one of the most impressionable of all,

had seen no reason to lose his own. But presently the small irritations

of enforced economy affected his manners, and his habits as well. He

took to absinthe in the morning, and, as he happened to be in France, he

drank at night that brutal brandy they give you there. Not continuously,

it is true. There were days when the man for whom Justine had forsaken

her home returned so completely she could almost fancy he had never

gone. Then, without a word of warning, at the very moment when Faith was

gaining fresh foothold, the tragi-comedy would be renewed; he was off

again, no one knew whither, returning only when the candle had been

utterly consumed.

Such things are enough to affect any woman's patience, and Justine's

became wholly warped. It was unaccountable to her that he could treat

her as he did. She watched the gradual transformation of the perfect

lover into the perfect beast with a species of sorrow--a dual sorrow in

whose component parts there was pity for herself and for him as well.

The idea that he had married her uniquely because of her father's

wealth, that he was impatient to get it, and that when he got it he

would squander all he could on other women, occurred to her only in the

remotest ways, and then only through some expression which, in his

exasperation of the diminishing bank account and the unreasonable time

which it took her father to forgive her, fell from him now and then by

chance. For Mistrial had indeed counted on that forgiveness. He had even

counted on receiving it by cable, of finding that it had preceded and

awaited them before their ship reached France. And when, to use an idiom

of that land, it made itself expected, he was confident that the longer

it delayed the completer it would be. At the utmost he had not dreamed

that the old man would detain it more than a few months; but when

twenty-four went by, and not only no forgiveness was manifest, but

through his own improvidence the funds ran low,--so low, in fact, that

unless forgiveness were presently forthcoming they would be in straits

indeed,--he dictated a letter, penitent and humble, one in which

impending poverty stood out as clearly as though it had been engraved,

and which it revolted her to send. Its inspiration, however, must have

been patent to Mr. Dunellen, for that gentlemen's reply, expressed in

the third person, was to the effect that if his daughter returned to him

he would provide for her as he had always done, but in no other

circumstances could he assist.

Had Justine been anyone but herself she might have acted on the

invitation: but the tone of it hurt her; she was annoyed at having

permitted herself to send the letter Mistrial had dictated, and to which

this was the reply. Her pride was up--all the more surely because she

knew her father had been right; and there is just this about pride--as a

matter of penitence it forces us to suffer those consequences of our own

wrongdoing which through a simple confession it were easy to escape. To

Justine such confession was impossible. She had left her father in the

full certainty that he was wrong, and when she found he was not, death

to her were preferable to any admission of the grievousness of her own

mistake.

At this juncture Mistrial's aunt assisted at the funeral of a sister

spinster, sat in a draught, caught cold in her throat, and, the glottis

enlarging, strangled one night in her bed. By her will the St. Nicholas

Hospital received the bulk of her property. The rest of her estate was

divided among relatives; to her nephew Roland Mistrial--3d no

longer--was bequeathed the princely sum of ten thousand dollars in cash.

At the news of this munificence Roland swore and grit his teeth. Had his

circumstances been different it is probable that the ten thousand,

together with some enduring insult, he would have flung after her to the

eternal purgatory where he prayed she had gone. As it was, the modicity

of the bequest sobered him. Through some impalpable logic he had counted

but little on any inheritance at all; he had indeed hoped vaguely that

she might die and leave him what she had; and it may even be that, had

he learned that her will was in his favor, and had a suitable

opportunity presented itself, in some perfectly decorous manner he would

have hastened his aunt's demise. But concerning her will he had no

information; moreover, during his visit to the States the old lady saw

as little of him as she could help; and when she did see him, in spite

of gout and the ailments of advancing years there was such a rigidity in

her manner that the nephew told himself she might live long enough to

see him hanged. As a consequence he had expected nothing. But when the

news of her death reached him, together with the intelligence that

instead of the competence he might possibly have had he was mentioned

merely to the tune of ten thousand dollars,--this outrage, in

conjunction with Dunellen's relentlessness, sobered him to that degree,

that for a day and a night he gave himself to a debauch of thought. From

this orgy he issued with clearer mind. It may be--though the idea

advanced is one that can only be hazarded--it may be that had his aunt

disposed of her estate in his favor he would there and then have washed

his hands of the job he had undertaken, and left his wife to her own

devices. As it was, he saw that, to keep his head above water, the only

possible plank was one that Mr. Dunellen might send in his reach; and it

was with the knowledge that before the present scanty windfall

disappeared some conquest of Honest Paul's affection should be attempted

that he determined to return to New York. Once there again, who knew

what might happen? Surely, if the preceding year Mr. Dunellen had

strength for violence, to the naked eye he was even then manifestly

infirm. There was no gainsaying the matter--he at least would not live

very long. As to the disposition of his property after death Mistrial

was still assured. Whatever his attitude might be for the present, in

the end he could not wholly disinherit Justine--at least one-half the

property must come to her. On that fact Mistrial would have staked his

life; after all, it was the one hope he had left; and an ultimate hope,

we all know, is the thing we part with last.

Thereupon he recovered himself. He became amiable and considerate--a

change of demeanor which gave Justine a chill. She consented

nevertheless to the return trip, and the day after arriving called at

her father's house. When she got back to the hotel where they had put up

Mistrial was waiting for her. In answer to his questions she told him

that her father was willing to receive her, but her alone. "You must

take your choice," he had said, she repeated--"You must take your

choice."

"And what is that choice?" Mistrial had asked.

"I have made it," she answered, "and by it I will abide."

But at this he had expostulated; and when, seeing at last what he

meant--understanding that he would have her feign a compliance for the

sake of coin which at her father's death she could come back and share

with him--when, divining the infamy of his thought, she refused, he had

struck her in the face.

Because a man is not Chesterfield, it does not follow he is Sykes.

Mistrial had never struck a woman before, and in this initial assault it

is probable that he was actuated less by a desire to punish than by that

force which overmasters him who has ceased to be master of himself. By

instinct he was not a gentleman; for some time past he had not even

taken the trouble to appear one; yet at that moment, dancing in derision

before him, he saw the letters that form the monosyllable Cad. The sense

of abasement he displayed was so immediate and sincere, that Justine,

who, trembling with anger and disgust, stood staring in his face, read

it there and understood. Instead of separating them forever, the blow

reunited their hands. During the week that followed they were nearer to

each other than they had been for months before. The reconciliation was

seemingly complete. Mistrial made himself the lover again, and Justine

permitted herself to be wooed. They left their hotel and found a

flat--a furnished apartment in the neighborhood of Central Park; and

there the storm departing placed a rainbow in its stead.

A rainbow, however, is not a fixture, and this one went its way. While

Justine closed her eyes Mistrial's were alert. He had no intention of

suffering her to be disinherited, and though it was well enough to rely

on the courts it was better still not to be forced to do so. Rather than

run an avoidable risk he would have abandoned his wife, and forced her

through that abandonment to return to her father's house, convinced that

afterwards he could win her together with the estate back again to him.

Meanwhile another interview could not in any way jeopardize the chances

to which he clung. On the contrary, it might be highly serviceable. Mr.

Dunellen, he had learned, was much broken; he had given up his practice,

the the world even, everything in fact save perhaps the devil that was

in him, and sat uncompanioned in the desolate and spacious emptiness of

his house. It was only natural that he should wish to coerce his

daughter into obedience; yet now that he saw she was steadfast, her

pride unhumbled still, it was not improbable that he would yield; it was

presumable even that he was then waiting, weak of heart, prepared at her

next advance to welcome and forgive.

Of these things Mistrial made his wife aware, and it was then that the

rainbow departed. His arguments were as revolting as the cynicism they

exhaled. But she made no attempt to combat them. Since she had seen her

father she had felt a sorrow for him that Mistrial's altered demeanor

had given her time to heed. She knew that his attitude was due to her

defiance of his express commands, but she had no reason to suppose that

he had any other objection to her husband than such as his poverty might

have caused or instinctive antipathy might bring. But now, her own

experience aiding, she knew that he had been right; and, as he seemed

feeble and dispassionate, in answer to Mistrial's arguments she tied her

bonnet-strings and went. It was early in the afternoon when she started,

it was night when she returned.

Mistrial had been waiting for her, and when she entered the room in

which he sat he rose eagerly and aided her with her wrap. He was

impatient, she could see; and she was impatient also.

"Why did you not tell me of Guy's sister?" she began, at once.

And as he answered nothing she continued: "Years ago I knew of what she

died; it was only to-day I learned that it was you who murdered her."

"It is a lie."

"Oh, protest. I knew you would."

"From whom is it you heard this thing? Not from your father, I am sure."

As Mistrial spoke he gazed at her inquisitorially with shrewd,

perplexing eyes.

"What does it matter?" she answered. Her head was thrown back, her lips

compressed. "What does it matter since the charge is true?"

"But it is false," he cried; "it is a wanton lie. Your father never

could have stated it."

"Ah, but he did, though; and Guy was there to substantiate what he

said."

"Guy!" As he pronounced her cousin's name there came into his face an

expression which she knew and which she had learned to dread. "Madam,

you mean your lover, I suppose. And it is his _ipse dixit_ you accept in

preference to mine?"

"Mistrial, you know he is not my lover."

"I know he was in love with you, and you with him."

"So he was; so he is, I think; and it was not until this night I saw my

own mistake."

"_Voila!_" said Roland, suddenly calmed. He paused a second, and after

eying the polish of his finger-nails, affected to flick a speck of dust

from his sleeve. "Your cousin is mad," he added.

"He is sane as--" and Justine hesitated for a simile.

"His mother, you mean. Were you never aware that insanity is hereditary?

If his sister--presupposing that the accusation which he formulates

against me was originally advanced by her--if his sister--whom, by the

way, I never saw but once--if his sister accused me of complicity, then

she suffered from the hereditary taint as well. If I was guilty of what

your cousin charges, why was I not arrested, tried, and sentenced? But

are you such a dolt you cannot see that Guy is mad--mad not only by

nature, but crazed by jealousy as well. You say you know he loves you.

You have even the candor to admit that you love him! Now ask yourself

what would any impartial hearer deduce from statements such as yours?"

"My father was an impartial hearer, and he--"

"But how is it possible to be so blind? Can you not see that your cousin

has prejudiced him against me? I said, impartial hearer. But let the

matter drop. I tell you the charge is false; believe it or not, as you

prefer. There is, however, just this in the matter: if the charge is

made again, I will have your cousin under arrest. You forget that there

is such a thing as libel still."

Again he paused, and strove to collect himself; there was a design in

the carpet which appeared to interest him very much, but presently he

looked up again.

"Now tell me," he said, "what did your father say?"

"Nothing, save what he said before."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing that you would care to hear." Her eyes roamed from the

neighbourly ceiling over to him and back again. "He said," she added,

"that if I persisted in living with you his money would go to my child,

if I had one; if I had none, then to Guy."

"Were you alone with him when he said this, or was Guy, as you call him,

there?"

"No, I was alone with him; Guy came later."

"And is he aware of this provision?"

For all response Justine shrugged her shoulders.

"Does he know it, I ask you?"

"He does not," she answered. "Father told me that he never would, until

the will was read."

"H'm." And for a moment Mistrial mused. Then presently he smiled--yet

was it a smile?--a look that an hallucinated monk in a medieval abbey

might have seen on that imaginary demon who, flitting by him, the

forefinger outstretched, whispered as he vanished through the wall,

"Thou art damned, dear friend! thou art damned!" "H'm," he repeated;

"and in view of the provisions of your father's will, will you tell me

why is it that you are without a child?"

As he spoke he had arisen, and, smiling still, though now as were he

questioning her in regard to the state of the weather, he looked into

her eyes. She had drawn yet further back into the chair in which she

sat; a deadly sickness overcame her; to her head there mounted the

nausea of each one of his many misdeeds. The memory of the blow of the

week before, one which, despite her seeming forbearance, had not ceased

to rankle, returned to her; and with it, one after another in swift

succession, she rememorated the offences of the past. But soon she too

was on her feet and fronted him. "Why is it I am without a child?" she

repeated. Her voice was low and clear, and between each word she

permitted a little pause to intervene. "Why is it?"

The subtlety of his reproach battening on nerves already overwrought was

exciting her as nothing had done before. "It is you," she cried, "who

are to blame. What have you done with your youth? What have you done

with your manhood? Look at me, Roland Mistrial! If I have borne you no

child it is because monsters never engender." As she spoke, with one

gesture she tore her bodice down. Her breast, palpitant with health and

anger too, heaving at the sheer injustice of his reproach, confronted

and confuted him. "It is there that women have their strength; tell me,

if you can, what have you done with yours?"

And thereat, with a look a princess might give to a lackey who had dared

to question her, she turned and left him where he stood.

The next day he tried to make his peace with her. In this he succeeded,

or flattered himself he had, for subsequently she consented to accompany

him to the play. And as she sat in the stalls it was of these things

that she thought.