At the Mercy of Tiberius

by Augusta J. Evans

  CHAPTER XXX.

  "Why deny it, Leo? Let us at least be frankly realistic, and 'call aspade a spade' when we set ourselves to dig ditches, draining thestagnant pools of life. Each human being has a special goal towardwhich he or she strains, with nineteen chances out of twenty againstreaching it in time; and if it be won, is it worth the race? With someof us it is love, ambition, mundane prosperity; with others,intellectual supremacy, moral perfection, exalted spirituality,sublimated altruism; but after all, in the final analysis, it is onlyhedonism! Each struggles with teeth and claws for that which gives thelargest promise of pleasure to body, mind, or soul, as the individualhappens to incline. To Sybarites the race is too short to be fatiguing,and the goal is only an ambuscade for satiety and ennui; to ascetics,the race course stretches to the borders of futurity, but even for themone form of pleasure, spiritual pleasure, lights up eternity. The thingwe want, we want; not because of its orthodoxy, or its excellency orbeauty PER SE; we want it because it gratifies some idiosyncraticcraving of our threefold natures. The good things of this world arevery adroitly and ingeniously labelled, but we rummage in thebonbonniere for a certain marron glace, and if it be not there, all thecaramels in Venice, all the 'gluko' in Greece, all the rahatlicum inTurkey will not appease us."

  With her arms thrown back, and clasped around the satin cushion crushedagainst her head and shoulders, Miss Cutting lay on a red plush divanin her father's picture gallery at home; and the swathing folds of atopaz-hued surah gown embroidered with scarlet poppies half concealedthe feet that beat a tattoo on the polished oak floor.

  "Then you have missed your marron glace?" answered Leo, turning fromthe contemplation of a new picture which Mr. Cutting had recently addedto his collection.

  "Of course. Do not all of us sooner or later? Where is yours? Safeunder lock and key, or hanging on some crag, ripening for theconfectioner; or filched by some stealthy white hand, devoured by someeager lips that smile derisively at you while they nibble?"

  From beneath drooping lids, Alma's oblique glance noted the result ofher Scipio Africanus' tactics.

  "Alma, too intemperate and prolonged diet of sweets has ruined yourdigestion; has rendered you an ethical dyspeptic. A surfeit of sugarbetrays itself in fermentation, and you have reached the stage of moralacidulation."

  "Ah, don't drift into homiletics! I see your marron grows hard by thevineyard where sour grapes flourish. Leo, I am not so serenely proud asyou, but a trifle more honest, and I have cried for my bonbon, neverflouting its delicious flavor; hence, when I am ordered back to boiledmilk and oatmeal, I make no feint to disguise my wry faces."

  Alma's low, teasing laugh stung like some persistent buzzing insect,and a slight flush tinged her companion's cheek as she replied:

  "Why plunge to the opposite extreme? You will starve on that porridgeyou are desperately preparing for yourself."

  "What else remains? This world is a huge bazaar, a big church fair, andlike other eager-eyed children I promptly set my heart on the great'bisc' doll with its head turning coquettishly from side to side,singing snatches from 'La Grande Duchcsse', and clad like Sheba'squeen! I stake all my pennies on a chance in the raffle, which has a'consolation prize' hidden away from vulgar gaze. By and by the dicerattle, and over my head, quite out of my reach, is borne the covetedbeauty (owned now by a girl I know), bowing and singing to the newowner, who exultantly exhibits her as she departs; and into myoutstretched arms falls something hideous enough to play Medusa in atableau, a rag baby with grinning Senegambian lips, rayless owlisheyes, and a concave nose whose nostrils suggest the Catacombs! Bitterrage and murderous fury possess me, but I am much too wise to show mytempers at the fair; so I hug my 'consolation prize', and get away asfast as possible with my treasure, and once safe from observation, box,deride, trample upon it, and toss it into the garret as suitable preyfor dust, cobwebs and mildew! After a time, the keenness of thedisappointment dulls, like all other human aches that do not kill, andby degrees I think less vindictively of the despised substitute.Finally comes a day, when all else failing to amuse me, I creepsheepishly into the attic and pick up the rejected, and persuade myselfit is at least better than no doll at all, and forthwith adorn it withrags of finery; but the echoes of 'La Grande Duchesse' will always ringin my ears, and through the halo of tears I see ever and anon the prizebeauty that was withheld. The two-edged sword in the diablerie of fateis, that we are ordained to fret after 'bisc,' when stuffed rags havebeen meted out as our share of the fair."

  Leo drew a chair near the divan and seated herself; looking steadilyinto the velvety black eyes that instead of betraying hid, like adomino, the soul of their owner.

  "Alma, better cross empty arms forever over empty heart, than mock yourwomanhood by acceptance of a 'consolation prize'."

  "We all say that the day after the fair; but wait a few years as I havedone; and like all your sisters in the ranks of the disappointed, youwill ultimately crawl back to the attic and kiss the thick lips, andtry to persuade yourself the nose is not so formidable, thoughcertainly a trifle less classic than Antinous's! We set out with oureyes fixed on Vega, blazing above, and flaunt our banner--'tout ourien!'--but when the campaign ends, Vega laughs at us from the horizon,quitting our world; and we console ourselves with a rushlight, andshelter it carefully from the wind with another flag: 'Quand on n'a pasce qu'on aime, il faut aimer ce qu'on a!' Such is the worldly wisdomthat comes with ripening years, like the deep stain on the sunny sideof a peach. Moreover, 'folding empty arms,' is only melodrama metaphor,and 'empty hearts' are, begging your pardon, only figments of romanticbrains. Our hearts aren't empty, more's the pity! They hold deep, deep,the image of Vega, and the flare of the tallow eandle on the surfaceserves as cross lights to dazzle the world, and help us to hide thereflection of our star. I saw that metaphor in some novel, andrecognize its truth. Do you, my princess?"

  "I will never so utterly degrade myself. I could neither lower mystandard, nor sacrifice my ideal," said Leo, with a touch of scorn inher usually gentle voice.

  "You prefer that your ideal should sacrifice you? One enjoys for aseason the wide expanse visible from that lofty emotional pinnacle; butthe atmosphere is too rarefied, and we gladly descend to the warm,denser air of the plains of common sense selfishness. If it be loweringyour standard to become the wife of a bishop (the youngest everordained in his State), clothed with the double distilled odors ofsanctity and popularity, then heaven help your standard, which onlyheaven can fitly house."

  "Since you persist in assuming that so flattering an offer has beenmade me, I will set this subject at rest, by a final assurance thateven were your surmise correct, I could never under any imaginablecircumstances marry my cousin, Bishop Douglass. Although I trust andreverence him beyond all other men, 'I love my cousin cousinly, nomore,' and he is too much absorbed by his holy office and its solemnresponsibilities, to waste thought on the frail, sweet, rosy garland ofany woman's love. Fret yourself no longer in casting matrimonialhoroscopes for me."

  The flushed cheeks, and a certain icy curtness in Leo's tone, warnedher companion that she was rashly invading sacred precincts.

  "Eight years ago I made the solemn asseveration that I would nevermarry; and I ran as a raw recruit to swell the army of foolish virginswho lost all the wedding splendors, the hypothetical 'cakes and ale',for want of the oil of worldly wisdom. Now I am thirty-three, and mylamp is filled to the brim, and the bridegroom is in sight. Why not?Adverse weather, rain, rust and mildew spoiled my beautiful goldenharvest ten years ago, but aftermath is better than bare stubblefields, and though you miss the song of the reapers, you escapestarvation. Deny it as we may, we are hopelessly given over tofetichism, and each one of us ties around her stone image somebeguiling orthodox label. Leo, yours is pride, masquerading in the dungarb of 'religious duty'. Mine is self-love, pure and simple, theworldly weal of Alma Cutting; but nominally it is dubbed 'gratefulrequital of a life of devotion' in my lover! You grieve over myheartlessness? That is the one compe
nsation time brings, when men andwomen have killed the best in our natures. Teeth ache fiercely; thenthe nerve dies, and we have surcease from pain, and find comfort inknowing that the darkening wreck can throb no more. There was a timewhen the pangs of Prometheus seemed only pastime to mine, but allthings end; and now I get on as comfortably without a heart, as thevictims of vivisection--the frogs, and guinea pigs, and rabbits--dowithout their brains."

  "I do indeed grieve over the fatal step you contemplate; I grieve overyour unwomanliness in marrying a man whom you do not even pretend tolove; and some terrible penalty will avenge the outrage againstfeminine nature. Some day your heart will stir in its cold torpor, andthen all Dante's visions of horror, will become your realities,scuurging you down to despair."

  "Because 'Farleigh Court' may lie dangerously close to 'Denzil Place'?Be easy, Leo; the cold remains of my ossified affection will lie in asdecorous repose as the harmless ash heaps of some long buried damoselof the era of Lars Porsenna, dug out of Vulci or Chiusi. To make a safeand brilliant marriage is the acme of social success. What else doesthe world to which I belong, offer me now?"

  "There remains always, Alma, the alternative of listening to theinstinctive monitors God set to watch in every woman's nature; and wehave the precious and inalienable privilege of being true to ourselves.Better mourn your 'bisc' than stoop to a lower substitute. Be loyal toyourself, be true to your own heart."

  "I know myself rather too intimately to offer a tribute of admirationon the altar of ego; and I prefer to make the experiment of trying tobe true and loyal to some one else, with whose imperfections I am notso well acquainted. When you meet your adorable 'bisc' in society, witha wife hanging on his arm,--when as pater familias he convoys his flockof small children who tread on your toes at the chrysanthemum shows,what then? The world, my world, is generously and munificently lax, andthough the limits of respectable endurance may be as hard to find asthe 'fourth dimension of space', or the authenticity of the 'Book ofJasher', still for decency's sake we submit there are limits ofdecorum; certain proprietorial domains upon which we may not openlypoach; and mcum et tuum though moribund, is not yet numbered withbelief in the 'grail'. Female emancipation is not quite complete evenin America, and noblesse oblige! our code still reads: 'Zeus hasunquestioned right to Io; but woe betide Io when she suns her heart inthe smiles that belong to Hera!' Some women find exhilaration in theeffort to excel, by flying closest to the flame without singeing theirsatin wings; by executing a pirouette on the extremest ledge of theabyss, yet escape toppling in; female Blondins skipping across thetight rope of Platonic friendship, stretched above the unmentionable.You are shocked?"

  "Indeed, I am pained. I can scarcely recognize the Alma of old."

  "Wait one moment, I have the floor. In the days when I wept formy--shall I say 'bisc'? for impersonality is hedged about with safety,and the consolation prize had not yet been invited to come back fromCoventry, a funny trifle set me to thinking seriously of my sin ofcovetousness. One summer at a certain fashionable resort, let us callit villeggiatura of the Lepidoptera, the amusement programme hadreached the last act, and people yawned for something new, when 'sweetcharity' came to the rescue, and proposed an entertainment to raisefunds for enlarging an ecclesiastical 'Columbary' where aged, unsightlyand repentant doves might moult, and renew their plumage. Musical,dramatic, poetic recitations, and tableaux vivants constituted themethod of collecting the money, and the selections would have madeRabelais chuckle. We had the most flagitiously erotic passages(rendered in costume) from opera and opera bouffe, living reproductionsof the tragic pose of Paolo and Francesca that would hare inspiredCabanel anew; of 'Ginevra Da Siena,' of 'Vivien,'--a carnival of thecarnal! where nurseries were robbed to supply the mimic ballet, andwhere bald-headed clergyman, and white-haired mothers in Israel clappedand encored. One fair forsaken dame, whose indignant spouse was seekinga divorce, came to the footlights in an artistic garment so decolletethat a man sitting behind me whispered to his friend: 'What picturesdoes she suggest to you? "Phryne before the Judges"--or Long's"Thisbe?" She languorously waved a floral fan of crimson carnations,and recited with all of Siddons' grace and Rachel's fire selectionsfrom a book of poems, that were so many dynamite bombs of vicesmothered in roses. Amid tumultuous applause, she gave as encoresomething that contained a fragment of Feydeau, and its closing wordswoke up my drowsy soul, like a clap of thunder: 'Ce que les poetesappellent l'amour, et les moralistes l'adultere!' Leo, there is a moralsomnambulism more frightful than that which leads to midnightpromenades on the combs of roofs, and the borders of Goat Island; so Iwiped my tears away, and after that day, began to read the billet douxand wear the flowers of my 'consolation prize'."

  "You do not love him, and your marriage will degrade you in your ownestimation. Your bridal vows will be perjury, an insult to your God,and a foul terrible wrong against the man who trusts your truthfulness.According to our church, wedlock is a 'holy ordinance'; and to me anunloving wife is unhallowed; is a blot on her sex, only a few degreesremoved from unmarried mothers. You know the difference betweenfriendship and love, and when you go to the altar, and give the formerin exchange for the latter, the base counterfeit for the true gold, youare consciously and premeditatedly dishonest."

  "Thanks, for your clearness of diction, your perspicuity which leavesno cobweb of misty doubt wherewith to drape my shivering moraldeformity! To 'see ourselves as others see us' is as disappointing asthe result of plunging one's hand into the 'grab-bag', but at least itbrings the stimulating tingle of a new sensation. Suppose each knowsperfectly well that as regards the true gold, both are equallybankrupt? There is a queer moral fungus called 'honesty among thieves',and we both know that we never sang snatches from Offenbach to eachother, through pink 'bisc' lips. He loved quite desperately a mignonneof a blonde, with heavenly blue eyes and cherubic yellow hair, who, notknowing his expectations from a California uncle, jilted him for a richCuban. Look you, Leo, because I cannot wear Kohinoor, must I disportmyself without any diamond necklace? Since he can never own 'LaPeregrina,' must he eschew pearl studs in his shield front? Wedistinctly understand that we are not first prizes; but perhaps we maybe something better than total blanks in the lottery, even though wequite realize the difference between love and friendship. Do you?Portia should know every jot and tittle of the law, and all the subtleshades of evidence, before she lifts her voice in court."

  Alma pushed away her cushion, sat upright, and the slumbering fireflashed up under her jet lashes.

  "If I do, that knowledge which earlier or later comes to all women, iscertainly linked with the comforting consciousness that I can trustmyself to govern and protect myself, without being tied to a watch-dog,whose baying would serve much the same purpose as that picture inmosaic in the House of the Tragic Poet. I have a very sincere affectionfor you, Alma, but the day on which you sell yourself in a lovelessmarriage, will strain hard on the cable of esteem."

  "Is it for this reason that you refuse to officiate as my bridesmaid?"

  "Solely because I will neither witness nor participate in an act whichwill give me great pain by lowering my estimate of your character."

  Alma's long, supple, tapering fingers were outstretched, and takingLeo's white dimpled hands, drew them caressingly to her face, pressinga palm against each cheek.

  "Your good opinion is so precious, I cannot afford to lose it. Weaccept men's flattery and expect their compliments, because it is atraditional homage that survives the chivalry that inspired it; but wedon't mistake chaff for wheat, and the purest, sweetest, noblest andholiest friendship in life is that of a true, good woman. The perfumeis as different as the stale odor of a cigar, from the breath of thehoneysuckle that bleached all night under crystal dew, floats in atyour window like a message from heaven, I love you dearly, my prettyPortia, hence I wince a trifle at your harsh ascription of cave canemmotives in my marriage. In the idyllic Arthurian days, the 'Lily Maidof Astolot' made a touching picture, weeping and dying for the man whorode away
, marauding on kingly preserves; but this is the era of wise,common sense 'Maud Mullers', and she and the Judge, mating as best theycan, lead peaceful lives in a wholesome atmosphere, and cause noscandal by following 'affinities' across the lines of law; as some highin literature, art, and society have done, trusting that the starredmantle of genius would hide their moral leprosy. With all my faults, atleast I am honest; and when I bow my stiff neck under the yokeconnubial, I promise you I will keep step demurely and sedately. Do youremember a sombre book we read while yachting, which contained thisbrave confession of a woman, whose marriage made her historic? 'Ithought I had done with life. I knew I had now cause to be proud ofbelonging to this man, and I was proud. At the same time I as littlefeigned ardent love for him, as he demanded it from me.' Leo, you and Irepresent different types. You are an eagle brooding in cold eternalsolitude upon the heights, rather than be wooed by valley hawks; I amonly a very tired wren, who missed a mate on my first Valentine season,and seeing my plumage grows a rusty brown, I accept the overtures ofone similarly forlorn, and hope for serene domesticity under thesheltering eaves of some quiet, cosey barn. You are a nobler bird, nodoubt; but trust me dear, I shall be the happier."

  Leo withdrew her hands, and pushed back her chair, widening the spacethat divided them.

  "You disappoint me keenly. I thought you too brave to crouch before thejeers hurled at 'old maidenism'. Moral cowardice is the last flaw Iexpected in one of your fibre."

  "Wait till you are thirty-three, and stand as a target at Society'sarchery meeting. Yesterday Celeste was pale with horror when she showedme two white hairs pulled from my 'bangs', and added, 'Helas races! andpowdered hair no more the style!' My dear girl--

  "'True love, of course, is scarcely in society, Unless in fancy dress, and masked like one of us--'"

  still I really am very proud of my six feet two inches prospectiveconjugal yoke-fellow; proud of his martial bearing, his brilliantreputation, 'proud of his pride'; and I think I shall grow very fond ofhim, because in a mild way I think he cares for me'; and we can make alittle Indian Summer for each other before the frosts of Winter fallupon us. What else can I do with my life? Think of it. Papa will bemarried soon, and while I don't propose to tear my hair and insult hisbride, nobody can be expected to reach such altitudes ofself-abnegation as to want a step-mother. Poor papa, I am sure I hopehe may be very happy, but it is superhuman to elect to live under thesame roof, and smile benignantly on his bliss. Rivers, too, has slippedunder the matrimonial noose, and I am absolutely thrown on my ownresources for companionship. What does society offer me? Haggard,weazen old witch, bedizened in a painted mask; don't I know the yellowteeth and bleared eyes behind the paste-board, and the sharp nails inthe claws hidden under undressed kid? Have not I gone around for yearson her gaudy wheel, like that patient, uncomplaining goat we sawstepping on the broad spokes of the great wheel that churned thebutter, and pressed the cheese in that dairy, near Udine? The dizzyingcircle, where one must step, step--keep time or be lost! In Winter,balls, receptions, luncheons, teas, Germans, theatre parties, operasuppers; a rush for the first glimpse of the last picture that emergesfrom the custom-house; for a bouquet of the newest rose that took theprize at the London Show. In season, coaching parties, tally ho! Thenfox hunting minus the fox, and later, boating and bathing and lawntennis!--and--always--everywhere heart-burnings, vapid formalities;beaux setting belles at each other like terriers scrambling after amouse; mothers lying in wait, as wise cats watching to get their pawson the first-class catch they know their pretty kittens cannot managesuccessfully. Oh! Don't I know it all! I dare say my world is the verybest possible of its kind; and I am not cynical, but oh Lord! I am sodeadly tired of everything, and everybody."

  "No wonder, unless you mercilessly calumniate it; but you have onlyyourself to blame. You made social success your aim, fashionable lifeyour temple of worship, sham your only God. If you habitually drinkpoppy juice, can you fail to be drowsy?"

  "Oh bless you! I have been polytheistic as any other well-read pagan ofmy day, and changed the heads and the labels of the fetiches on myaltar almost as often as my ball wardrobe. I aspired to 'culture' inall the 'cults', and I improved diligently my opportunities. One yearthe stylish craze was sesthetics, and I fought my way to the front ofthe bedlamites raving about Sapphic types, 'Sibylla Palmifera' and'Astarte Syriaca'; and I wore miraculously limp, draggled skirts, thattangled about my feet tight as the robes of Burne Jones' 'Vivien.' Nextseason the star of ceramics and bric-a-brac was in the ascendant, and Iran the gamut of Satsuma, Kyoto, de la Robbia, Limoge and Gubbio; ofniello, and millchori glass, of Queen Anne brass and Japanese bronze;while my snuff boxes and my 'symphony in fans' graced all the loanexhibitions. Soon after, a celebrated scientist from England who hadbowled over all the pins set up by his predecessors, lectured in ourBojotia; and fired with zeal for truth, I swept aside all my costlyidealistic rubbish into a 'doomed pyramid of the vanities', and sworeallegiance to the Positive, the 'Knowable', whose priests handledhammers, spectroscopes, electric batteries--and who set up for me awhole Pantheon of science fetiches. I bought a microscope and peeredinto tissues, pollen cells, diatoms, ditch ooze; and pitied my cleverand very talented grandmother who died ignorant of the family secretsrevealed by 'totemism', ignorant of 'parthenogenesis' which proved soconclusively the truth of her own firm conviction, that the faults shedeplored in her son's children were all inherited directly from herdaughter-in-law, whom she detested; ignorant of the fact that the sunwhich she regarded as a dazzling yellow fire was by bolometric measuresshown to be in reality of a restful, and refreshing blue color. By thetime I was fully convinced that teleology was as dead as the Ptolemaictheory, and that 'wings were not planned for flight, but that flighthas produced wings', hence that Haeckel's gospel of 'Dysteleology' orpurposelessness in Nature satisfactorily explained creation--a greatwave of oriental theosophy overflowed us; and a revival of Buddhisminvited me to seek Nirvana as the final beatitude, where--

  "'We shall be Part of the mighty universal whole, And through all icons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!'"

  Or to make matters clearer still:

  "'Om, mani Padma, Om! the dewdrop slips Into the shining sea!'"

  Even a sponge can hold only so much, and I fell back--or shall I sayforward--in the path of progress to rest in the dimness of agnosticism.Is it strange, Leo, that I am desperately tired; and willing to plantmy feet on the rock of matrimony, which will neither dissolve nor slipaway, and to which my vows will moor me firmly?"

  "If you had clung to your Bible, and prayed more, you would not havewasted so signally the years that might have brought you enduringhappiness. Forgive me, Alma, but you have lived solely for self."

  "Yet now, when I propose to live solely for somebody else, you shake meoff, and repudiate me? Selfish you think? I dare say I am, but religionnow-a-day winks at that, nay fosters it. Each church is an octopus, andthe members are laboriously striving to disprove the Saviour'sadmonition: 'Ye cannot serve God and mammon.' I am no worse than myritualistic sisters whom I meet and gossip with, under cover of theorgan muttering, and sometimes I wonder if after all we are any nearerthe kingdom of heaven that Christ preached, than the pagans whosecustoms we retain under evangelical names. 'They sacrificed a white kidto the propitious divinities, and a black kid to the unpropiticus.' Donot we likewise? The church or one of its pensioners needs money; soinstead of denying ourselves some secular amusement, cutting short ourchablis, terrapin, pate de foie gras, gateau, Grec, Amontillado;wearing less sealskin and sables, buying fewer pigeon-blood rubies,absolutely mortifying the flesh in order to offer a contribution out ofour pockets to God, how ingeniously we devise schemes to extract thelargest possible amount of purely personal pleasure from theexpenditure of the sum, we call our contribution to charity? We buildchapels, and feed orphans, and clothe widows, and endow reformatories,and establish beds in hospitals, how? By a devout, consecratingself-denial w
hich manifests itself in eating and drinking, in singingand dancing, at kirmess, charity balls, amateur theatricals, gardenparties; where the cost of our XV. Siecle costume is quadruple theprice of the ticket that admits to our sacrifice of black and whitekids in the same sanctuary. We serve God with one hand, and we surelyserve with the other the Mammon of selfishness and vanity. We haveLenten service, Lenten dietetics, Lenten costumes even; Lentenprogressive euchre, Lenten clubs; but where are the Lenten virtues,where the genuine humility, charity, self-dedication of body and soulto true holiness?"

  "The church is a school. If pupils will not heed admonition, and defythe efforts of instructors, is the institution responsible for thefailure in education? The eradication of selfishness is the mission ofthe churches; and if we individually practised at home a genuineself-denial for righteousness' sake, we should collectively show theworld fewer flaws for scoffing reprimand."

  "The Shepherds are too timid to control their flocks. If they only hadthe nerve to pick us up, turn our hearts inside out, show us the blackcorners, and the ossifications, and call sin, sin, we should begin torealize what despicable shams we are. Dr. Douglass, the Bishop, is theonly one I know who lays us on the dissecting table, and who does notspeak of 'human fallibility' when he means vice. He told us one daythat the Gospel required a line of demarcation between the godly andthe ungodly, between Christians and unbelievers; but that it has becomeimaginary like the meridian and the equator; and that he very muchfeared the strongest microscope in the laboratories could not findwhere the boundary line ran between the World, the Flesh and the Devil,and the Kingdom of God in our souls. I am sorry a distant State calledhim to her Episcopal chair, for his cold steel is needed among us. Nowtell me, Leo, what you intend to do with your life?"

  "Spend it for God and my fellow creatures; and enjoy all the purehappiness I can appropriate without wronging others. I have so manyprivileges granted me, that I ought to accomplish some good in thisworld, as a thank offering."

  "Take care you don't make a fetich of Jerusalem missions, Chinesetracts, and Sheltering Arms; and lose your dear, sweet personality in agoody-goody machine bigot. Forgive me, dear old girl, but sometimes Ifear a shadow has fallen in your sunshine."

  "Sooner or later they fall into every life, yet mine will pass away Ifeel assured. 'Pain, suffering, failure are as needful as ballast to aship, without which it does not draw enough water, becomes a playthingfor the winds and waves, travels no certain road, and easilyoverturns.' If the gloomiest pessimist of this century can extract thatcomfort, what may I not hope for my future? I am going to rebuild myhouse at X----and when it is completed, I shall expect the privilege ofreturning the hospitality you have so kindly shown me. I shall be verybusy for at least two years, and I am glad to know that Aunt Patty isbeginning to manifest some interest in my plans."

  "Leo, may I ask something?"

  "If you are quite sure you have the right to ask, and that I can haveno reason to decline answering."

  "I can't bear that you should live and die without being a happy wife.I don't want you to become a mere benevolent automaton set aside forchurch work, and charities; getting solemn and thin, with patientcurves deepening around your mouth, and loneliness looking out of--

  "'Eyes, meek as gentle Mercy's at the throne of heaven.'"

  "To be a happy wife is the dream of womanhood, and if the day shouldever dawn when God gives me that crown of joy, I shall wear it gladly,proudly, and feel that this world has yielded me its richest blessing;but, Alma, to-day I know no man whom I could marry with the hope ofthat perfect union which alone sanctions and hallows wedded love. Imust be all the world to my husband; and he--next to God--must be theuniverse to me. There is Gen'l Haughton coming up the stairs, so Iconsiderately efface myself. Good-bye till luncheon."

  As she glided away and disappeared behind the curtain leading into thelibrary, Alma looked after her, with very misty eyes, full oftenderness.

  "Brave, proud soul; deep, sorrowful heart. If she can't drown her star,at least she will admit no lesser light. She will never swerve one iotafrom her lofty standard, and some day, please God, she may yet wear hercoveted crown right royally. Governor Glenbeigh is worthy even of her,but will his devotion win her at last?"