BOOK II. SOPHISTICATION. (continued 2)

However, I could not refrain from a few reflections on the apparent hostility of practical men to pure theory, which must after all be the basis of all intelligent action. How much nobler to help to establish principles serviceable to humanity than to make later unconscious use of those same principles to advance one's own selfish interests! Why must there needs be mutual disdain and coolness between those who thought and those who acted? It had been easy for me to perceive at a glance that there was likely to be but little mutual sympathy between my father and Mr. Spence, and the consciousness grieved me.

But I did not falter in my purpose. Mr. Fleisch called to see me the following day and laid out an elaborate course of study. He was to come twice a week to examine me and give me suggestions, but he said that my progress was mainly dependent on my own exertions. I bought a number of books of his selection, and tried to devote five hours each day to systematic work. My tasks were largely of a philosophical character, but poetry and music of a restrained sort were also included in Mr. Fleisch's instruction; and he said that after the foundations were laid, I should be taught the dangers of extremes by studying examples of the overmuch and the undermuch.

At last I was successful one day in finding Aunt Agnes at home, and alone. It was about a week after my visit from Mr. Spence. I was disturbed at seeing her brow contract at sight of me, but my worst fears were realized when she said:—

"I do not wonder that you have preferred to keep away from me."

"On the contrary, Aunt Agnes, I have called twice before, this week."

"When you knew I was out, I dare say."

There was no answering such logic as this.

"I seem never to be able to satisfy you," I said bravely. "I had come to tell you that I am studying hard under the direction of Mr. Fleisch, a favorite pupil of Mr. Spence, and am doing all I can to improve myself."

"Fiddlesticks! Tell me!"

"But, Aunt Agnes, it is so."

"I have heard all about you. You can't tell me anything about the matter I don't know already. We shall hear next of your carrying your habit of flirting into the sanctuary itself. You might almost as well coquet with a minister of the holy Gospel as with him you have selected to try your fascinations on. I might have guessed what would be the result of introducing you to sober-minded people. It was none of my work, thank Heaven! Lucretia Kingsley has herself to blame, for I heard her give you the invitation from her own lips. But I blush for you as my niece. No amount of proficiency or cleverness can be a palliation of your behavior."

"I have been maligned, Aunt Agnes," I cried with flashing eyes. "Some one has told you a pack of falsehoods. It is not true that I have been flirting with anybody. I have given up everything of the kind, as I said I should. Who has been accusing me? I insist on knowing who told you."

"No matter who told me. My authority is of the best."

"I suppose it was your friend Miss Kingsley. I half suspected that she would misrepresent me in private."

"You admit, then, that you are guilty?"

"I admit nothing. If, as your words seem to imply, Miss Kingsley says I acted unbecomingly at her house, she does not speak the truth. She is jealous. The long and short of it is, Mr. Spence was polite to me, and that made her angry. I believe she wishes to marry him herself," I said in the fulness of my anger.

"Virginia! I am astonished at you. It will not mend matters to insult your benefactors. What motive had Miss Kingsley, pray, in asking you to her house but kindness?"

"Pshaw!" I cried, now thoroughly roused. "She asked me because she thought I was fashionable, and because it would read well in the newspaper that I had been at one of her tea-parties. She imagined I was so silly and brainless that her friends would take no notice of me; and when it turned out that they did she lost her temper."

"You have lost yours, Virginia. I presume you will tell me presently that Mr. Spence flirted with you. I never heard such nonsense in my life, and wicked nonsense too; for you are doing your best to injure the character of a young woman who is in every way your superior, and has had none of your advantages. As I just said, I presume you will claim that Mr. Spence flirted with you, and that he wrote to you first."

"Wrote to me? He has never written to me; nor I to him, except to ask his advice about a teacher."

"You admit so much?"

"Why shouldn't I? I was interested in his theories, and I applied to him as the most natural person to consult."

"It is very easy to explain it away in that manner, but unfortunately for you my informant adopted—"

"Why don't you say Miss Kingsley, and have done with it, Aunt Agnes?"

"Very well then, if you prefer, Miss Kingsley adopted a very different style in speaking of you than you employ in speaking of her. She tried to spare you as much as possible, and said what she did only with great reluctance. I could see that she was holding back, and was resolved not to tell the whole. 'Of course,' she said, 'I know Miss Virginia did not mean to offend, and very likely in general society her little indiscretions would have been quite proper; but at a purely intellectual gathering like ours, from which as you know all vanities are rigorously excluded, it did seem to me unsympathetic of a new-comer to introduce an element of coquetry. When I say that since then she has written notes to Mr. Spence, whose time is precious as gold, asking him to call upon her in a social way, you will I am sure, my dear Miss Harlan, excuse my speaking. It is for her own good that I have ventured to do so, as a word from you would convince her of her thoughtlessness.'"

"The hypocrite!" I murmured, too indignant to restrain myself.

"There you go again, vilifying her with abusive epithets when she has simply done her duty as a friend. Contrast for instance your various expressions with hers. 'Jealous;' 'invited you to her house because you were fashionable' (a most unwarranted assumption); 'a hypocrite;' and, worst of all, you accuse her of trying to win the affections of a man whom she venerates as a master, and who though he has never taken the vow of celibacy is too much absorbed in the life-work he is pursuing to give a thought to marriage. And what does she say of you? She merely calls it 'unsympathetic' of a new-comer to disturb the harmony of sober-minded people by the introduction of coquetry. 'Unsympathetic'! If I were to stigmatize such behavior, I should call it disgraceful. I was mortified, Virginia, thoroughly mortified; and especially as Mr. Spence had been here the day before, and spoken of you in terms that made me feel really proud. As Miss Kingsley said, however, he is the last man in the world to notice such a thing as coquetry."

I made a mental interrogation point, but I did not dare to give utterance to the heresy lest I should seem to be carrying out Aunt Agnes's insinuation that I would next accuse Mr. Spence of flirting with me. I replied with as much quietness as I could at the moment command,—

"I can only repeat what I have already said. Miss Kingsley has slandered me, whether intentionally or not I do not know. But her charge of coquetry is utterly without foundation."

"Did you not make eyes at Mr. Barr, and give him a rose?" she interrupted. "You see I know all."

"No, I did not," I answered, flushing. "On the contrary, Mr. Barr made me feel excessively uncomfortable during most of the evening by the absurd compliments he paid me, and by the way in which he stared at me. As for the rose, I dropped it accidentally as I was getting into my carriage, and I believe he picked it up."

"Accidentally!" said Aunt Agnes with a sniff. "As my informant said, 'when a young woman flings herself at the head of a hot-souled poet, what is she to expect?' Human nature is human nature, and there are not many men with the self-control of Mr. Spence."

"Miss Kingsley seems to have given you a great deal of information, Aunt Agnes."

"You are mistaken again, as usual. The person who told me this is a sober-minded woman of middle age, who could not have been influenced by jealousy."

"Mrs. Marsh, I suppose. I might have known it, from her choice vocabulary. Talk of gossips, Aunt Agnes, I never heard a worse one in any drawing-room in the city. Who is Mrs. Marsh?"

I was glowing with indignation again, and justly so as it seemed to me. I had been cruelly misconstrued, and my self-control on the occasion of Miss Kingsley's tea had been wholly unappreciated.

"Who is Mrs. Marsh? You may well ask who is Mrs. Marsh, after what you have said about her. Gossip or no gossip, vocabulary or no vocabulary, Mrs. Marsh is a very deserving woman, who by her own unaided efforts has risen to the position she now occupies. How often shall I be obliged to impress upon you that it is the spirit, not the letter, that is of importance? As secretary of the Society for the Practice of Moderation, Mrs. Marsh can afford to disregard the ill-natured sneers of those who may have enjoyed greater advantages in early life than she. It is not by wholesale abuse of others, Virginia, that you will persuade me of your innocence. On your own showing, you have written to Mr. Spence, and misconstrued Mr. Barr's poetic impetuosity as an attempt to flirt with you. I do not desire to discuss the matter further. We shall soon know whether you are sincere or not in your professions of study. As I have told you before, your future is in your own hands; but first and foremost you must rid yourself of this propensity to behave in a trivial manner."

I felt that silence would be the best palliative for my wounds; and so discouraged was I of being able to change Aunt Agnes's opinion, I thought it a waste of breath at the moment even to mention Mrs. Marsh as my authority for the statement that Miss Kingsley had a tender feeling for Mr. Spence.

V.

A year passed without special incident, and yet certain things require to be told so that the sequel may seem consistent. Contrary to Aunt Agnes's insinuation, I proved sincere in my devotion to study. Mr. Fleisch came regularly twice a week, and during the summer months when I was away from home his instruction was continued by means of correspondence. I found him, as Mr. Spence had predicted, an admirable teacher. His work was everything to him, and he imbued me with his ability to look at our relations as strictly impersonal. He might have been a machine, so little was he susceptible to any mood of mine,—a characteristic which I deemed more and more indispensable each day to a proper understanding between pupil and master.

As a result of his teaching and my own industry, I acquired before many months an intimate knowledge of the views shared by those who called themselves Moderationists, and moreover without the slightest diminution of my enthusiasm. I was able to converse intelligently with the most proficient of the school, and there was little of the system that failed to commend itself to me as entitled to faith and support. I attended meetings and lectures in advocacy of its theories, and occasionally took part in debates on questions relating to the management of the Society for the Practice of Moderation, of which I was elected treasurer. Thus it happened that my name appeared in the newspapers as one of the leading spirits of the movement, and among my former acquaintances there was a general impression that I had become very peculiar. My old ball-room rivals, who were for the most part waltzing as hard as ever, would stop me in the street and say, "Virginia dear, is it true you are going into a convent?" or, "What is this that I hear, Virginia, about you being in favor of female suffrage? Do you really think women ought to vote?" Once in a while some friend, who was either more accurate by nature or who really felt an interest in me, would hit closer to the mark, and perhaps with a sigh express regret at not having the courage to become literary too. "But it does separate one so from other people,—that is, people one knows; don't you think so dear?"

It certainly did. I was completely estranged from my old associations, and spent my time, when not employed in study, largely at the rooms of our Society, where Mrs. Marsh presided as secretary. There were countless circulars and pamphlets to be mailed, setting forth our purposes and needs. Mrs. Marsh, despite an inaccurate acquaintance with and an overweening curiosity regarding the doings of fashionable people, was a model of executive ability. With some one at hand to correct her grammar and spelling, she could transact a greater amount of business than half-a-dozen ordinary women. In my zeal to see things properly done, I constituted myself her assistant; and we managed together the whole work of the Bureau, as Miss Kingsley liked to call our humble quarters.

My relations with Miss Kingsley were outwardly very friendly. I had thought it best upon reflection not to appear offended when we met again, and she on her part greeted me with effusive warmth and a little deprecatory look, as if to say, "You will excuse me, I am sure, for what I said to your aunt. It was for your good, or I should never have spoken." Subsequently, in our relations at the Bureau, she liked to patronize me slightly. She would come whisking into the rooms where Mrs. Marsh and I were hard at work, and putter about for a few moments, asking questions and giving us advice, and then whisk out again with an encouraging nod. She was apt to time her visits so as to meet Mr. Spence, who came regularly sometime during every forenoon, to superintend our labors. He stayed usually about half an hour; and from the first day I became connected with the Bureau I made a point to avoid him as much as possible,—a course which seemed acceptable to him, for he always addressed his business suggestions to Mrs. Marsh, and did not encourage me to converse with him. Once in a while, however, he would approach me in a constrained fashion, and express satisfaction with the reports Mr. Fleisch made of my progress. It was through his silent agency also, I had no question, that I was appointed treasurer, and was regarded as a prominent worker in the cause. With Miss Kingsley, on the other hand, he was easy and familiar. It was evident that he liked her, and he listened to her opinions; but I could never detect what seemed to me any signs of sentiment on his part in her regard. Miss Kingsley must have thought differently, for on one or two occasions she was unable to resist the temptation, as they went out of the door together, of looking back at me with an air of triumph. The more Mr. Spence seemed to avoid me, the kinder and more patronizing was her manner; and she so far evinced her friendship presently as to show me the manuscript of a novel which she had written, entitled "Moderation," and which was dedicated "To him to whom I owe all that in me is of worth,—Charles Liversage Spence." It was an attempt, as she explained to me, to return to the rational style and improving tone of Jane Austen, whose novels were sound educators as well as sources of amusement. From Miss Kingsley's natural fluency and sprightliness I expected something "racy," to quote Paul Barr, and I was disappointed to find "Moderation" dull and didactic. It was however heralded and published with a great flourish of trumpets; and Mr. Spence wrote a review of it in one of the leading newspapers under the symbol XXX (a signature of his known only to the initiated), in which he called attention to its exquisite moral tone, which had no counterpart in fiction since the writings of Miss Edgeworth were on every parlor table. In conclusion he said: "Whatever the too captious critic may say of the dramatic interest of the story, it is indeed a triumph for a young writer, and that writer a woman, to embody in her first novel opinions that will make the book of value to the student of psychology long after the craving of human nature for fictitious narrative has ceased to exist."

My own opinion of the novel was reinforced by that of Paul Barr, which prevented me from thinking, as I might otherwise have done, that I was actuated by ill-nature in judging Miss Kingsley's book. After the first phase of curiosity its popularity waned, and the author adopted the fashion of calling it an artistic success. But the complimentary criticism of Mr. Spence gave me food for thought, and for the first time suggested the idea of a possible feeling on his part for Miss Kingsley stronger than friendship. It interested me, and at the same time annoyed me a little. Why the latter I hardly knew, unless it were a conviction that she was not good enough for him. But when I thought over their daily relations as constantly exhibited in my presence, my former opinion that he had merely a brotherly affection for her returned. If he had been misled to praise her book unduly, it was by his excessive enthusiasm for his own doctrines presented therein, and not by the blind force of love,—which conclusion was directly at variance with the theory of Mrs. Marsh on the subject, who was perpetually referring to the match between them as a foregone conclusion.

Discreet as was my conduct in general during these twelve months, and earnestly as I sought to avoid in its mildest form what Aunt Agnes called coquetry, I was not able to escape the importunities of Mr. Barr. Absorbed as I was in my work, and determined to consider all attentions from my literary friends as mere meaningless gallantries, it was very difficult to disregard the artist-poet's protestations of devotion: they had become little short of that. He was a constant visitor at the rooms of our Society, although his own principles were hostile to those we professed; and he would spend as much time as I would permit, lolling about my desk and whispering all sorts of nonsense. He brought me flowers and fruit, and now and then some new publication,—not in sufficient quantity to permit me to refuse them, but a single rose or a peach, or a tiny volume of verses. He sent me sonnets and madrigals through the post without signature, though in his own handwriting, and denied with asseverations their authorship when questioned. Besides his black and his brown, he had a green velveteen coat, and a different-colored flowing tie for every day in the week. His habits were in complete conformity with his philosophy of extremes. He was apt to tell me when he had been sitting up all night, whether in study or what he called wassail; but I could always guess the fact from his appearance. His method of work was equally irregular, and he lived from hand to mouth. He would be idle as a forced peach on a hot-house wall (to use a simile of his own) for weeks at a time; and yet when he was seized with a desire to work, it was no uncommon thing for him to paint or compose twenty-four hours at a sitting, and come to the Bureau or my house, almost before I was out of bed, with dishevelled raiment and bloodshot eyes, to exhibit or read to me the result of his industry.

I had by this time ceased to regard him with any seriousness as a philosopher. Indeed, it was difficult not to consider his vagaries self-indulgence; and from the veneration I conceived for him at the start, I came to be his mentor in the end. I dared to remonstrate with him on the irresponsible life he was leading, and sought to inculcate in him the doctrine of moderation. I felt that I had an influence over him; and it was the consciousness of this that prompted me not to be too severe in the matter of his attentions and little gifts. When I talked to him, as I often did, on the error of his ways and the waste of his talents, he would listen to me with tears in his eyes, and promise better things for the future. He would become systematic and serious in his habits and work. Without becoming a convert to moderation, he would develop his own scheme of philosophy in an artistic spirit. There was a limit even to extremes, he said; and that limit scientifically determined would induce a perfect happiness. When he talked thus, I felt I could afford to be indifferent to the insinuations and playful sallies of Miss Kingsley and Mrs. Marsh. They might think what they chose of our relations. If by the exercise of sympathy and counsel I could regenerate a man of strong individuality and striking natural gifts from the thrall of self-indulgence, a fig for the idle voice of gossip!

Meanwhile, I grieve to say that my intimacy with Aunt Helen was strained. Many were the tears she shed over my degeneracy, and no words of mine could make her see other than a foolish waste of golden opportunities in the course I was pursuing. This disturbed me greatly, for my attachment to her was very strong, and I knew she would have cut off her right hand to serve me. Our interviews were largely lachrymose on her part and morose on mine, after argument proved futile. She had none of Aunt Agnes's downrightness, but a no less degree of persistence. After many efforts, I succeeded in convincing her that my friends had no connection with the stage, and I persuaded her to accompany me to one of Mr. Spence's lectures. It was the one on Overeating and Undereating, and the most likely to be fully intelligible, I thought. But I caught her napping before the end; and as an all-embracing condemnatory criticism, she cautioned me to beware of homœopathy!

With Aunt Agnes, on the other hand, my relations were more friendly than they had ever been before. Experience had taught me that long conversations with her were not advisable, but I was able to test the thermometer of her feelings toward me in other ways. She had begun to send me books and pamphlets, relating to various abstract theories in which she was interested; and once or twice she read to me articles in manuscript of her own composition, and asked my opinion of their merit. Occasionally, too, she paid a visit to the rooms of the Society; and I shall never forget the expression of satisfaction that flickered over her severe face at seeing me, for the first time, at my desk. From that day, a general softening of her attitude toward me began.

But happy and absorbed as I was in this great interest, I was never quite without a feeling that my father might not be pleased, did he know of my fast-growing intention to devote the energies of my life to it. He was more busy than ever down town, and for weeks at a time would seem scarcely aware of my existence. His questions at dinner regarding my doings were rarely more definite than to ask how I had spent the day, to which any reply seemed to be satisfactory. I usually said that I had been studying; and had it not been for his quiet habit of observation, with which I was now acquainted, I should have imagined that it went in at one ear and out at the other. I never volunteered to tell him the character of my studies; but though he never made inquiries, I had a secret impression that he knew far more than was apparent of the use I made of my time. Nevertheless, the year passed without his showing any signs of disapproval. I was so bold even as to invite Paul Barr once or twice to dinner, when I felt that he needed the moral tonic of a glimpse of home life to fortify his good resolutions. So, too, I did not hesitate to practise in my daily mode of living some of the doctrines to which I held most firmly,—such as early hours of rising and going to bed, temperate diet and simplicity of raiment; but as it was just as incumbent upon me to avoid the other extreme, the changes were not sufficiently marked to excite attention.

The traveller who looks back at night upon a highway sees a long trail of shadow, broken at recurring intervals by the blaze of lamps. Such is the effect of life in retrospect. Much of that which we remember concerning the past is vague and dim, yet here and there along the road some incident stands out which explains and illumines what follows and precedes.

It is difficult for me to analyze more closely than I have done my feelings and thoughts during the period in which I studied the principles of moderation. But the events of three days at its close are indelibly impressed upon my memory. For several weeks during the autumn, Paul Barr had been hard at work upon a picture in regard to which he had seen fit to be mysterious, although he became enthusiastic as to its merits before it was nearly finished. No piece of painting that he had ever attempted was so satisfactory to him, he said, both in the way of conception and performance. So confident was he of its excellence, that I began at last to share his excitement, and expressed a wish to see the masterpiece. But he was resolute in his determination that no one should see it until its completion, and least of all I.

Curious as I felt concerning it,—for one could never be sure that Paul Barr was not a genius,—I was in no haste to have the picture finished, for the artist's own sake. So deep and breathless was his interest, that he had become regular in his hours and habits. He seemed to realize that the best work required a steady hand and an unwearied eye. If I took some slight credit to myself for this change in his methods, it was not unnatural; and yet I was not so far elated as to feel wholly confident it would last. When he had put the finishing touch to his wonderful creation, would he abstain from the dissipation and self-indulgent idleness that was apt to follow any concentration on his part? I liked to believe that this would be the case; and as I cherished the idea, it grew almost into absolute faith.

I have said that Aunt Agnes and I were on pleasant terms; but there was one speck on the mirror of her serenity which threatened at times to mar the whole. It was my intimacy with Mr. Barr. Some one had informed her,—I have no doubt it was Miss Kingsley,—that he was much in my society, and that we behaved like lovers. I had learned by this time not to allow my awe for Aunt Agnes to prevent me from defending myself; but I found exculpation a difficult matter in this instance, on account of the character of the other offender. She styled my attitude hypocritical, because I parleyed with the enemy. Even assuming that there was no flirtation between us,—of which she was by no means convinced,—what right, she asked, had I, as a neophyte of recent standing, to be on terms of intimacy with the arch advocate of the school of thought most opposed to that which I professed?

I mention this in order to explain why I had of late been more chary of my sympathy in my interviews with the artist, and had given him strict orders that he was not to send me any more fruit and flowers. However much I might desire his welfare, self-respect required that I should not let our friendship become so conspicuous as to attract general attention. It was shortly after I issued this mandate that he began the picture to which I have referred; but the immediate result of my words was a fit of angry despondency.

Two days before Christmas he came to me and said the picture would be finished and ready for exhibition on Christmas Eve, and that he wished me to see it first of all. Would I come to his rooms on that afternoon? As he saw me hesitate, he clasped his hands with so piteous an expression that I chose not to say no. Why not, after all, thought I. It was unconventional to be sure. But matrons were out of date and superfluous in the artistic world. Did not Miss Kingsley go about freely to studios and wherever the needs of her profession called her? If she were safe from familiarity, why should not I be? I had a strong belief in the magic circle of respect which surrounds a thoroughly refined woman. If I refused the artist's request, I was certain to disappoint him sorely. It was a small enough favor, I argued, to grant to one who had been striving bravely to overcome his evil nature at my instigation.

Mr. Barr's studio was up seven flights of stairs in the French roof of a building which had no elevator, and had doubtless been chosen by him on account of cheapness and light. Breathless, I paused on the last landing on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, and in response to my knock was greeted by the black beard and large eyes of the artist appearing round the edge of the door. As he threw it wide open he gave a cry of pleasure, singing the while at the top of his lungs the air he played that evening at Miss Kingsley's when he flung himself down before the piano after tea.

"At last, at last, my goddess! I have prayed for this hour," he said, bowing low.

I stopped short in the middle of the room. "If you do not wish me to leave you instantly, you must cease all such language and unseemly conduct. I have come to see your picture, Mr. Barr."

"I will. Believe me, I will. I will be quiet as a lamb, though I am so happy I could dance a minuet with Satan and not tire. But I will obey you. Do not be uneasy. Sit here. No, here. The light is better. There it is. Look, finished! My masterpiece, my ideal! It is only to lift that curtain, and I shall be famous."

Despite his words he was jumping about with nervous, excited gestures. I sat in the armchair he had indicated, and looked from him to the picture on the easel over which a drapery was flung, and back again to him. For an indefinable feeling of dread was coming over me, as I noted the disordered dress and the bloodshot eyes of my strange host. He had failed, then, to keep his pledges; had yielded to temptation. My hoped-for regeneration was a failure, and all was as it used to be with him. But yet it might be overwork and the strain of a night without sleep that gave him such a dissipated aspect. I tried to think it was so. Meanwhile he had seated himself at an old worn-out piano, and looking across to me was pounding out bar after bar of passionate music.

"Really, this is too much! I cannot stay and endure this absurdity," I cried, and I walked to the door.

But he darted at me and seized my hand with fierceness and the grip of a vice, so that I shook with fear.

"You shall not go, not until you have seen her,—her I adore. Sit there!" he thundered; and then, with an apparent sense of his own harshness, he fell on his knees before me and kissed my fingers with feverish frenzy. "My queen! my own!" he cried.

I was so frightened I could not speak. What was I to do? To scream would not have availed me in that attic,—and yet I wonder now I did not try to scream. I tore my hands away from him and sprang from my seat, he not seeking to restrain me, but still kneeling and gazing up at me with wild but penitent eyes.

"Open the door, sir, and let me go! That is the least return you can make for your rudeness," I said.

"No, no, no!" he cried with a wail of grief. "I have insulted my goddess. I have broken her heart. She will not speak to me. But look, look!" he said, darting again toward the canvas and throwing aside the drapery. "She is here! I have her here forever. No one can rob me of her now."

Fancy my emotions. It was a portrait of myself!

I shall never forget the tipsy cunning of Paul Barr's expression, as he watched the effect of his legerdemain. The portrait was excellent; it was, indeed, a masterpiece. I was sufficiently in my senses to appreciate that, though my absorbing thought was how to get out of the room. For some moments we each kept our pose,—I standing surveying the picture, and he with his eyes bent upon me, leaning against the easel which was in the pathway to the door.

Suddenly, and to my intense surprise, he pronounced my name,—

"Virginia!"

It was a whisper almost, and spoken as one might breathe the name of a saint.

"Virginia!"

Then with a low cry he stepped forward a pace or two and dropped on his knees again.

"I love you, I adore you. I have broken your heart, my angel, but it was love that forced me to it. Forgive me, and tell me if you can that there is hope,—a shadow is enough. Hope that I may some day press you to this bosom and call you mine,—mine for eternity! Virginia, hear me!—do not look so cold and cruel; you are a stone, while I am burning! I have loved you since the first moment I saw you. I wish my heart were dust for you to trample on, if it may not beat forever close to yours. With you as my bride I could conquer worlds. I could become an Angelo, a Rubens. Without you I shall die!"

He seized my hands again and covered them with kisses.

"Mr. Barr, Mr. Barr! I cannot listen to you further. Let me go,—you are mad."

"Yes, I am mad,—mad with love for you, sweet Virginia."

I tried to speak calmly, yet decisively, though from fear and pity I was trembling like a leaf. I told him that I could not grant what he asked. I loved him as a friend, as a brother almost, and would do anything to serve him but consent to become his wife. His studio was no place for such a conversation, I said. Let him come to my house, after he had thought it over. He would agree then that he had been carried away by the impulse of the moment, by the tension of his overstrained nerves, and that a marriage between us would be an absurdity. Were not our tastes and habits totally unlike?

Perhaps these were no words to address to an overwrought soul, mastered by passion. But, as I have said, I was terrified and bewildered. The strong desire I felt to treat him with all the gentleness and tender consideration I could muster, must have been to some extent neutralized by my anxiety to put an end to the interview. As I spoke, his eyes seemed to grow darker and to glow with fire, and the cunning, satyr-like expression I had noticed before to intensify.

"Pardon me," I said, "for the pain I cause you. My presence can only increase your suffering. I will leave you, and if you wish, we will talk of this to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" he answered; "there may be no to-morrow. It is still to-day! still to-day!" he repeated with a sort of chuckle. "I will live to-day, though I may die to-morrow. My goddess, my queen is here, and love—love—love!" With a bound he folded me in his huge arms and pressed my face against his lips three times in a mad embrace.

"Coward! wretch!" I screamed; but I was powerless as a babe.

He let me go.

"I will not hurt you, my own true love. A kiss can do no harm. Once more!" and he threw his arms wide open for a fresh embrace.

But another voice interrupted his purpose. "Coward! you shall not touch a hair of her head."

It was Mr. Spence who spoke; we had not noticed the door open. He strode forward and placed himself between me and the artist. On the threshold stood Miss Kingsley, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as our eyes met. I would gladly have given half my fortune to blot out the past few minutes.

"Is this the courtesy of Bohemia?" asked Mr. Spence, breaking the silence that followed. He was pale, and his lips were set, and there had never seemed to me so little difference in stature between him and Mr. Barr.

"It is love," was the answer. "The rapture of those kisses will be on my lips to my dying day." The artist began to troll the words of a mad song of his own composition I had heard before.

"Paul Barr, though we have long differed on many subjects, we have been friends. But after what I have heard and seen to-day, we must meet henceforth as strangers," said Mr. Spence, with a fire I had never known him display before.

"I adore her, and I am human. See there!" he pointed to the portrait, which hitherto had escaped their attention. "I would give even that for another kiss."

At the sight of the picture Mr. Spence gave a start, for the likeness was marvellous. As for Miss Kingsley, she whispered in my ear,—

"Did you sit for it, dear?"

"No, I did not," I answered.

"Detestable philosophy!" continued Mr. Spence, looking from the canvas to the artist. "There was the making of a man in you,—this portrait shows it. But it is too late. The brute is rampant, and genius is no more."

"She could have moulded me in her hands like clay," said Paul Barr. I could not help feeling touched by the despair in his voice.

"How distinctly piteous!" murmured Miss Kingsley.

"I have no more to say. You have heard my decision, Paul Barr."

Mr. Spence seemed greatly moved and excited. I could see him tremble. It was very bitter to me to feel that on my account friends of a lifetime were to be separated. The big artist pulled at his beard, and with another of his faun-like looks, exclaimed,—

"I understand. You want her for yourself. But you cannot rob me of those kisses, ha! ha! They shall lie in the grave with me, and I shall still smile."

Mr. Spence grew paler yet. He seemed about to speak, but controlling himself by an effort turned to leave the room, motioning us to precede him.

"How distinctly piteous!" repeated Miss Kingsley, as we went downstairs. "He acted shamefully, of course, and there is no excuse for his conduct. But though it is impossible to justify him, I can pity him, can't you? His nature is so impressionable; and when he is interested in anything there is no half way with him: he wants the whole or nothing. If you will excuse my saying so, several of us have been afraid of something of this sort. I wanted to warn you; but I said to myself, 'It may be Virginia really likes him,' so I decided not to speak. If I had done so, all this might have been prevented, for it was very evident to the rest of us that he was desperately in love with you. And by such a man, of course the very smallest marks of favor are construed as more significant than open encouragement would be by a less poetic temperament. I have no doubt the poor fellow wears over his heart every rose-bud you ever gave him, and knows by rote every word of sympathy you ever said to him. And then that portrait,—what volumes it tells of itself! Fancy that ardent soul toiling over the canvas to reproduce from memory your image (you tell me you did not sit to him), and when the masterpiece of his life was finished, inviting you to his studio (as I suppose he did), and then in a moment of deep and passionate love casting himself at your feet—and—and forgetting himself! Oh, Virginia, there is something exquisitely pathetic in the thought! But how fortunate too for you that we arrived when we did! In his sober senses Paul Barr would rather die than injure a hair of your head; but none of us, however self-reliant, is free from dread in the presence of a man who has been over-indulging in stimulants, even though sure of his affection. My poor dear, how you must have suffered! What will your Aunt Agnes say? It was only two days ago she said to me she hoped the affair was at an end. I told her then that one can never be sure of a thoroughly Bohemian nature; it is liable to burst into flame at the moment one least expects it. The result shows the correctness of my prediction. Poor Mr. Barr! what will become of him I wonder? I only hope he will not attempt his own life,—that would be worse than anything."

Neither Mr. Spence nor I had spoken as she rattled on in this manner, going down the long flights of stairs to the street. There was just enough of truth in her remarks to make my frame of mind still more wretched, and I could barely refrain from requesting her to keep still. Mr. Spence was evidently much disturbed by what had occurred. The expression of his face showed that he was under the influence of violent emotions. Once or twice, too, I saw him glance almost impatiently at Miss Kingsley, as if her prattle annoyed him. But she was so brimming over with volubility as to be blind to everything but the fancies she saw fit to evoke in regard to the scene she had just witnessed.

When, however, we reached a crossing of streets where her way separated from mine, Mr. Spence said, in a tone that for him was abrupt, "I shall see Miss Harlan home."

Miss Kingsley held my hand for a parting shot. "You must not think me unsympathetic, dear, because I feel sorry for poor Paul Barr. I knew him before you did, you know; and at one time we were quite as intimate, though in a different way. If you feel faint, as I should think you must after such a dreadful experience, why don't you stop at an apothecary's and get some salts? I always intend to carry salts with me; they are so convenient on an occasion of this sort. I do hope you will feel better to-morrow, dear. I shall call the first thing in the morning to inquire about you. Good-night."

For some minutes Mr. Spence and I remained silent. But now that Miss Kingsley was gone I felt an impulse to thank him, and to explain, so far as was possible, my presence at the studio.

"Believe me, Mr. Spence, I am very grateful to you for your aid," I began. "It was very inconsiderate and imprudent of me to go there alone; but he was so anxious for me to see the picture before any one else, that I was foolish enough to consider it allowable. I had no idea that it was a portrait of me, and none that he cared for me in the way it seems he does. I have tried to be kind to him, for I felt he was lonely, and might be saved from excesses by a sympathetic influence. But I see my mistake now. I ought to have known."

An indefinable wish that Mr. Spence should know the exact truth loosened my tongue.

"I understand—I understand perfectly," he said in an emotional tone. "It is I that am to blame. I might have prevented it," he added, as though speaking to himself.

Surprise prevented me from saying more, for I could not see how Mr. Spence was in any way responsible. Nor did he, on his part, continue the conversation. In five minutes we were at my door.

"Will you not come in, Mr. Spence?"

"No, not to-night." He paused an instant. "At what hour are you likely to be at home and disengaged to-morrow?" he asked with suddenness.

"To-morrow? At almost any time. Shall we say four?"

Mr. Spence bowed by way of acquiescence. He seemed so stiff that I feared he was offended with me. But if so, why did he wish to come to-morrow?

"Before you go, you must let me thank you once more for having saved me from a very awkward predicament," I said, holding out my hand. "What should I have done if you had not arrived?" I shuddered involuntarily.

"Poor girl, how you must have suffered!" he exclaimed in a voice full of feeling. Then he turned abruptly and left me.

VI.

As soon as I was safe at home, a terrible reaction followed. I went to bed prostrated physically, and sick at heart. True as it doubtless was that Paul Barr would never voluntarily have insulted me, I had deliberately exposed myself to the tipsy eccentricities of a man whose habits were not unknown. Might I not also have discovered, if I had been wholly candid with myself, that there was genuine feeling in the words of devotion he had so frequently whispered to me, and that under the extravagance of his behavior there lurked a vein of real sentiment? So much is apparent and stands out in another light when one looks back instead of forward! But this much was true at least,—I was disillusioned forever of the hope of successfully proselytizing Bohemia under the guise of sympathy. Mingled with the bitter tears of regret for the suffering of which I had been the cause were resolves that henceforth I would not sneer at conventionality and custom. However much I might be devoted to thought and study, I would practise the ordinary precautions of my sex, and recognize the uses of matrons.

The next day was Christmas, and before I returned from church Miss Kingsley had called. There was a letter from Paul Barr awaiting me,—and such a letter! In it humiliation, despair, poetry, and passion were intermingled. Tears had blurred the pages, and I wept in turn as I read the pitiful sentences. He could not hope for pardon, he said, but he should never cease to love. He wished to die. What would be fame unless shared with the idol of his soul? Existence was for him henceforth a dreary waste; and yet his only fault had been that in the ecstasy of heaven-sent passion he had over-leaped the bounds imposed by human pettiness.

As I read on, his burning words seemed almost intended as a defence. He had outraged my feelings, and for that he was to-day suffering exquisite torture, he said; but in the next paragraph he railed against the social prejudices of the age and the luke-warm character of contemporary love. In another century, he prophesied, the artificial barriers imposed by a narrow and fast-rotting civilization would be swept away by the mighty wave of passion which, pent up in the bosoms of strong men through a score of generations, was about to inundate the world. Under the impulse of this idea, the closing portions of his twelve-paged letter became a fierce tirade against the existing state of society; but the last sentence was so astonishing to me individually, that I blushed with the acuteness of my feelings. "Believing as I do," he wrote, "in the expansion and overflow of the human soul, I would fain have saved you from the cramped and bloodless nature to which you are about to ally yourself in preference to mine. He has robbed me of you, and thereby broken the last tie which held together our conflicting dispositions. With him you can never be supremely happy or supremely miserable,—which seems to me a lot so wretched that my heart, though heavy with the anguish of its own sorrow, is wrung more with pity than with pain."

His meaning was obvious, and I was still sitting with this strange epistle in my lap when Mr. Spence arrived. It would be affectation to say I was greatly surprised, when, after a few moments, he made to me a confession of his love. From his words of the previous evening, from a host of little indications which they had recalled to me, and finally from the jealous suspicions of the unhappy artist, I was not wholly unprepared for this result. There was nothing in the manner of his declaration that calls for mention. It was, as he said, a confession long deferred and struggled against, but he had been mastered at last by a power stronger than himself. He had come, he said, to make this acknowledgment of his feelings, no matter what might be the result; for there was something he must ask me to listen to, which it would be needful that I should know before he could dare to ask me to become his wife, or I should be able to answer.

I felt I knew what he was about to say, and was not mistaken. The question with most young people, he said, was how to find the means upon which to marry; but in his case those means were already provided, and a difficulty of a precisely opposite character stood between him and me. I must have perceived by this time his intense devotion to the system of philosophy of which he was the chief advocate. He had sacrificed everything in life to that one end, and he was prepared to do so so long as he was spared to labor. To practise in every way, so far as was possible, the principles he professed was the only escape, in his opinion, from that worst stigma of would-be-reformers,—hypocrisy. Among the leading obstacles, in his judgment, to a well-ordered life was the accumulation of property beyond enough to satisfy the common needs and comforts of life. He had taken the vow of approximate poverty,—not the extreme obligation of the clerical orders, but a limited, moderate view in accordance with the views just expressed. In seeking a partner to aid him with her support and sympathy in the great up-hill struggle to which he had consecrated his powers, he had wished to make choice of a woman with but small means, if any; but fate had willed otherwise. Once already—he said that he desired to conceal nothing—he had offered himself to a young lady of large property, for whom he felt a deep attachment. He had asked her, as he was about to ask me, to give herself to him in return for his love, without her fortune. With that she was free to do what she wished; it would be easy to dispose of it. After debate she refused him. This was six years ago; and until he saw me no thought of love had refreshed his heart. On that night at Miss Kingsley's, when he saw me for the first time and before he knew of my father's wealth, he loved me, he said, almost without knowing it; but from the moment of hearing the words that warned him of the barrier between us, he had striven to drive my image from his thoughts. Ever since, with all the might and resolution of which he was capable, he had struggled against his love, but in vain. He had tried to avoid my presence; he had resisted the temptation to become my teacher at the time I consulted him on the subject; and subsequently, when we were brought into constant contact at the rooms of the society, he had offended his own sense of politeness by the reserve of his behavior toward me. But, despite all this, he had felt the ground gradually slipping from beneath his feet. A chance look or smile nullified in an instant the self-denial of weeks. He had been many times already on the verge of an avowal. He had seen and heard from others of the intimacy between Mr. Barr and me, and been tortured by the pangs of jealousy. But the events of yesterday had made it impossible for him to remain silent any longer. He loved me with all the fervor of his heart, and it was vain for him to deny it.

He paused, but I remained silent. Spoken in his soft melodious voice his words seemed to soothe me, by way of contrast to the storm of passion I had listened to so recently. I did not try to think. I felt that he had not finished, and I wished to hear him to the end. Perhaps I was conscious, too, that it would be impossible for me to come to a decision on the spot.

One circumstance, he continued, had given him hope that I might feel ready to make the sacrifice he asked, provided that I returned his love,—and that was the earnest spirit of interest I had shown in the work he had undertaken. There was no one among his followers who seemed so completely zealous, and who had so unreservedly labored for the cause of Moderation, as I. If, then, my heart by chance were interested in the founder as well as in the system, it might seem no very serious matter to disclaim the wealth I should inherit from my father. It appeared to him that a nature like mine might find a higher and more entire happiness in the pursuit of ideal truth than in the enjoyment of an excess of money contrary to the whispers of a sensitive conscience. And if at the same time this renunciation of that which less enlightened souls esteemed as a chief good should be abetted by the sympathy of a companion soul, what bliss might not be in store for two lives so wedded to progress and to love!

Such was the substance of Mr. Spence's communication; and when he ceased, my feelings were still so doubtful that I sat looking into space as though to find counsel elsewhere than from my own heart. He had spoken,—deemed it only right to speak, he said,—before closing, of the criticism to which so unusual an act would expose me. I should be called eccentric, and doubtless by many crazy; and the terms of contempt and ridicule already cast at him would be visited, in equal degree, upon his wife. It was this idea of martyrdom, joined to the deep interest I had in the doctrines of Moderation, that now took possession of my fancy and made me incline to accede to his request. Not that I sought ostracism and abuse,—far from it; the very mention of these things oppressed me with dread. But there was to me an inspiring sense of nobility in the thought of a man giving up his life to the prosecution of a great truth indifferent to scoffs and sneers, that made the blood course more swiftly through my veins. If such a one could be made happier, and his power of usefulness increased by any act of mine, no sacrifice seemed too large. For what was I, or what was the value of anything I might do, compared with the progress of humanity as a whole? I could not give him love, perhaps, and the freshness of a young heart; but sympathy and encouragement and the co-operation of a mind deeply interested in the cause with which he was identified, might do much to make the struggle more easy and success speedier. Was I likely ever to meet with any one more congenial? What better use could I make of my life?

These thoughts came to me not only then, but afterwards when Mr. Spence had gone and I was left alone to make up my mind. I had told him that he must give me time; it was impossible for me to decide at the moment. What he had said was so bewildering, and the condition of any possible marriage between us of so serious a character, that I was at a loss for an answer. But I warned him not to feel too much encouragement because I did not give him an immediate reply; the chances were more than likely that upon reflection I should feel what he asked to be impossible. "I respect you thoroughly, Mr. Spence, and I am much interested in your work; but I do not think I should ever love you as you would wish. I feel quite sure of it; but if you are disposed to let me think it over instead of giving you at once an unfavorable reply, I am willing to do so."

Both my aunts dined with us, it being Christmas day, and directly upon her arrival Aunt Helen remarked upon my paleness. It was an unusually silent meal for a Christmas gathering. My father, as I remembered later, seemed absorbed and dull. Aunt Agnes had shown me by a glance that the events of the previous day were not unknown to her. She sat glum and statuesque; but I did not attempt either to brave or to mollify her displeasure, for I knew that compared with the secret in my possession, the wretched affair with Paul Barr would seem to her a mere trifle. I wondered, however, what she would think of such a match. How surprised she would be, and how disappointed probably in Mr. Spence!—for I had little question that she regarded him as too much engrossed in his work ever to think of marriage. Indeed, she had said as much to me when I spoke of Miss Kingsley in that connection. Poor Miss Kingsley! it would be a cruel, bitter blow to her. I believed her to be in love with Mr. Spence, so far as it was possible for any woman to be interested in a man who had not made her an offer; and with the pardonable sense of triumph I experienced was mingled some pity. She was the first to detect the infatuation I had awakened in him, but his subsequent reserve had almost lulled her jealousy to sleep. I knew in advance what Aunt Helen would think. She would regard my conduct as little short of madness, and all sympathy between us would be at an end forever.

But it was my father's opinion on the subject that I most feared to face. I could not doubt what his verdict would be. It was the ambition of his later life to see me use well the fortune he had accumulated. By the marriage I was contemplating I should disappoint these expectations, for I could not suppose he would regard as a good use of the money a disclaimer of the fortune he wished to leave me. It was really between him and Mr. Spence that I must decide.

This was what presented itself to me clearly, as my father and I sat together in the library after my aunts had gone. It was past midnight, and yet neither of us had thought apparently of going to bed. He was smoking, and like myself busy with his own reflections. It seemed to me that he looked tired and worn. I had observed it several times of late. Was I certain that I was right in the choice I was tempted to make? But if I did not marry Mr. Spence, what was the prospect before me? What did my father wish me to do with his money?

As though he understood my silent question, he turned to me suddenly and said,—

"As you may remember, Virginia, I told you—it must be more than two years ago, now—that I was a very rich man. The same is true to-day, though, owing to the severe depression from which all classes of property have suffered during that period, I am no longer as wealthy as I was. Indeed, it has been only by unflagging attention and care that I have been able to avoid very serious losses. But let that pass. Confidence is restored, and the worst is over. My affairs are in a shape now where further depreciation is well-nigh impossible, and you will have all the money that you can possibly need when I am gone."

He paused a moment, and I hastened to express my concern that he had been worried.

"That is all done with now, I hope. I only mentioned it in order that you should know what you have to expect,—and because I have been making up my accounts for the first of the year. No one can tell what another year may bring forth. I am not so strong as I was, I think."

He spoke without emotion; but there was something in his tone that prompted me to go to him, and kneeling by his side to take his hand in mine.

"Are you not well, father?"

"Oh, yes. But when a man has worked hard all his days and gets to be sixty-five years old, the machine does not run so smoothly as it used. That is all. Some day it will stop all of a sudden, just as it did in my father's case. He was worn out when he died; and that is what I shall be. In this country, we most of us have only time to get together our millions and die." He spoke with a smile, and gently stroked my hair. "But we expect our children to make a good use of the leisure we have won for them. You begin where I leave off, Virginia. I had hoped to be able to see a great deal of you during the last few years, but just at the moment when I was about to lay aside the harness came the period of depression. It is very difficult, in this country, for parents to know their children intimately. Neither party has time for the operation. You have your interests, as well as I; and what is more, I scarcely know what they are. I am not complaining; I am merely stating facts. If my life is spared a few years longer, we will try to change all that. Before I die I should like to see you happily married to some one who is worthy of you. Nothing ever gave me so much pain as to see you suffer at the time that fellow deceived you,—nothing at least except the thought of your becoming his wife. But that is past, thank Heaven! and I think I am right in saying that you have forgotten him long since."

He talked in a half soliloquizing fashion, in short, deliberate sentences, and looked up to me as he finished, for a confirmation of his opinion.

"A woman never forgets, father. But I am very glad you saved me from marrying him."

"Yes, yes, it would have been madness," he replied eagerly. "I could not have endured the thought of that good-for-nothing squandering my property. I should never have relented, and I should have been in my grave before this. But let by-gones be by-gones. To-day you are older and wiser, and I have confidence that you will keep the credit of our name untarnished. It has taken three generations of honest men to accumulate the fortune you will inherit," he added proudly.

"But what do you wish me to do with it, father?"

"That is for you to decide when I am gone. I could tell you how to make money, and how to keep it, perhaps; but how to spend it wisely requires a different sort of talent than I possess. I have told you, from the first, that it was to be your life-work. Busy as I have been, I have tried to place the means of understanding the commercial value of money in your way, so that you might not be wholly ignorant when the time came to act."

"And it would be a bitter disappointment to you, then, if I were to give it all up?"

"Give it up?" he glanced at me with a comical expression, as though I had said something preposterous. "You couldn't give it up if you wanted to. It will come to you by my will. I shall leave it all in your hands."

For a few moments I did not reply. Then I turned to him and said:—

"You were speaking just now of wishing to see me happily married, and you referred to Mr. Dale."

"Well?"

"Don't be concerned, father. It is not of him I wish to speak, except to say that though I have been very grateful he is not my husband, I do not believe I shall ever care for anybody else in the same way. But I have had, this very day, an offer of marriage from a man who is in every sense worthy of me. Indeed, I am not worthy of him."

"Of whom are you speaking?"

"Of Mr. Spence, father."

"Spence? I do not recall the name."

"You have met him only once, I think. He came to the house one afternoon, about a year ago, with that Mr. Barr who dines here sometimes."

"Oh!"

I cannot give a precise idea of that ejaculation. It was a strange mixture of pleasantry and consternation.

"He is by profession a poet,—and a philosopher. His writings are highly thought of among literary people, and he is an intimate friend of Aunt Agnes," I said quietly.

"What answer did you give him?" asked my father presently, with a weary air. He leaned his head on his hand, and listened intently and anxiously.

"I told him I would think the matter over," I replied.

"He is not the husband I would have chosen for you, Virginia," he said, after a silence. "But you must suit yourself. Now that you recall him to me, I know who this Mr. Spence is. I have seen his name in the newspapers, and a few weeks ago I remember he delivered a lecture before the Thursday Evening Club. It was a visionary, unpractical address, I thought. Several members spoke to me of it as such. But there were one or two enthusiasts—as there are everywhere—who extolled it as a marvel of originality and cleverness. Are you sure of his habits?"

"His habits ought to be good, for he is the advocate of the theory of Moderation. It is to that he devotes the greater part of his time. Yes, father, I am sure of them."

"I remember now,—Moderation. That was what he talked about. He is one of your so-called reformers. He gets hold of an idea and tries to fit the world to it. And you say you wish to marry him, Virginia?"

"I have not said so. I don't know."

"If you take my advice, you will not. I know nothing further of him than you have told me. The better philosopher a man is, the worse husband he is likely to make. Has he anything to live upon?"

"Yes; enough to support us comfortably, I believe. In fact, he does not wish me to take any money from you."

"That shows him a more independent minded fellow than I supposed. Humph! One literary woman in the family ought to be enough. Still, the great thing is that you should be suited. We are not all cut after the same pattern, and if you have a fancy for a husband of that type, I shall not stand in the way. I interfered once, but that was a very different matter. Satisfy me that there is nothing objectionable against this Mr. Spence, and if you wish to marry him I shall not offer serious opposition. It is all nonsense about your not being able to care for anybody. If you like a man well enough to become his wife, the rest will follow. I should be glad to see you married."

"I like Mr. Spence very much; but it is his theory of Moderation that interests me even more than himself," I answered, uncertain how to lead up to the condition of our marriage, which I knew now would irritate my father greatly. He had received the news of Mr. Spence's offer much more favorably than I expected. It was evident he wished me to marry some one.

"As you have said, father, I have interests of my own of which you do not know. I have given five hours almost every day during the past year to the study of the principles of this philosophy. I have found my field of usefulness there, it seems to me. By continuing this work and becoming the wife of Mr. Spence, I feel that I shall be doing more good in the world than I could in any other way. If you ask me if I love Mr. Spence, candor compels me to say that I do not. If you ask if I am particularly happy at the prospect of marrying him, I must say that I am not. But it seems to me the best chance that is likely to offer. I respect him thoroughly, and, as you say, the rest may follow. A life devoted to a noble theory is better suited to my tastes and capacities than the control of a large fortune."

"You are a little morbid, Virginia," he interrupted. "My original impression is confirmed. This is no match for you. I warn you against the danger of becoming addicted to fads and isms. Your Aunt Agnes has made herself ridiculous and alienated all her friends by just such a course. I have not a word to say against a thorough education, as you must well know; but when a woman begins to talk about devoting her life to the principles of philosophy, 'Look out!' say I. It is not natural. She needs a new bonnet, and a few balls and parties. But even supposing you marry this Socrates and become as learned as he, how is that inconsistent with taking care of your fortune?"

"I thought I told you, father," I said.

"Told me what?"

"That Mr. Spence objected to my fortune."

"Objected, did he? How is he to help himself? Besides, the money is mine until I am dead. If he is so infernally proud, he needn't touch any of it until then. I fancy he might get tired of waiting."

"You don't understand, father. Mr. Spence wants me to agree never to touch any of it. He doesn't think it right for people to keep more than a certain amount, just enough to provide for their actual needs. It is one of the principles he believes in. It is a part of his system."

"Principles! System! Is the girl crazy?"

"It is opposed to all your ideas, I know," I exclaimed earnestly, determined now that I had entered on the matter to dispute it with vigor. "But are you sure that you are in the right? What is the use of so much money to a woman? You want me to make the most of the fortune it has taken you all your life to get together. Is it not possible that in renouncing it I should be doing that? New ideas have to encounter opposition, but they are not all to be presumed unsound on that account. There may be more sense in those of Mr. Spence than you suppose. By setting this example of moderation, I may be able to give an impetus to truth that will be of real service to mankind. Besides, women are different from men, father. They find more comfort and happiness in devotion to something like this than in the practical details of life. I have had some experience. I have seen society, and know the weariness of a merely social existence. As I have already told you, I believe I should be more content with Mr. Spence than with any one else. I need sympathy and an interest. I am morbid, perhaps; but there is every chance of my becoming more so unless you let me have my way in this matter. Leave your money to some deserving charity or college, father, and let me marry Mr. Spence."

"Deserving charity or college! That from the lips of my own daughter! I have wanted to interrupt you a dozen times to tell you how foolish and senseless is the rubbish you were talking. And now that I have heard you to the end, I am speechless. You are crazy! I repeat it, crazy! You are fit only for a convent or a lunatic asylum. I had better find another heir."

He covered his face with his hands, and I could see his whole form tremble.

"Father," I cried, "if I were only sure that you are not mistaken!"

We sat without another word being spoken for many minutes. At last he lay back in his chair with the weary air intensified which I had noticed when I told him of Mr. Spence's offer, and said in a tone in harmony with that,—

"You have been brought up, Virginia, like all American girls, to have your own way. I have given you every indulgence and liberty. Your smallest wish has been regarded. If I could wipe out the past and begin anew, I feel that I should act very differently. I should wield a rod of iron, and teach my own flesh and blood to obey by saying, 'Do this!' and 'You shall not do that!' The result could be no worse than it has been under the other system. Is the judgment of the new generation so infallible," he continued, "that it can afford to dispense with obedience and filial respect altogether? You have had one lesson already, Virginia, but you have failed to profit by it. When that fortune-hunting, idle dandy was whispering his pretty speeches in your ear, was it your own good sense that saved you from a miserable alliance? No; if I had not for once in my life stepped in and said, 'You do this thing at your own peril,' and proved to you the paltry soul of the fellow, what would you be to-day? Broken-hearted and old before your time. But that was when you were almost a child, and without experience. I was made very unhappy, but I said to myself, 'She will grow wiser as she grows older.' And I thought you had. In the multitude of my business cares I have merely had time to observe you in a general way. But I supposed the serious and absorbed air which your face has worn came from the interest of your studies, and that those studies were fitting you for the work I had planned for you. I wish now that you had never touched a book in your life. Better in my opinion to be the careless butterfly of society than the fanatic. I never expected to live to see my only child so blind to common-sense as to wish to follow such a monstrous theory as you have described. Money! Why, it is the power and possibility of the world. But what good are words? If you cannot see the folly and unsoundness of it at a glance, it is useless for me to talk. Go your own ways. Marry whom you like. Not a dollar of my money—"

He stopped as he realized the futility of his threat, and covered his face again with his hands.

Looking back over many years, it seems to me at times incredible that I should have held out so long against such entreaty and distress; but it is to be said on the other hand that my whole future happiness was involved in the decision of the question. My natural obstinacy had deepened as I listened to his words, and had tended to counteract the affection and pity I felt for him.

"If I were only sure that you are right!" I repeated. "What you say about my education is perfectly true. I have been brought up to have my own way, but also, father, to have no counsel but my own. If so much freedom has been given me, was it not with the idea of teaching me to make up my own mind about things? And if I have made up my mind, and I feel my conscience urge me to take a step which involves my happiness for the rest of my life, why is it unfilial of me to follow my own judgment? I have been alone, and thrown upon my own responsibility, ever since I was a child. I am not complaining. I have had no mother; you have been busy down-town, and my aunts never agree in their advice. I have tried to think for myself. I have chosen an interest in life to which I am ready to devote my best energies, and in order to do so more completely should, if you did not forbid, marry a man who is in every way my superior, and whom I thoroughly respect. I am willing to give this all up to please you. But I do not mean, father, that I think you are in the right. I am no longer the child I was when I wished to disobey you before. Then I refused to yield, until you convinced me that I was wrong. To-day I am prepared to sacrifice my own wishes for your sake, but I remain unconvinced. I will write to Mr. Spence to-night, and tell him that I cannot be his wife. I will resign my position as secretary of his Society, and give up what you call fads and isms. Only I shall expect for the future, father, that you will tell me precisely what you wish me to do, and let me do it. You must not deprive me of my liberty of choice, and then treat me just as if I were free. Do with me what you will. Marry me to whom you please. I will obey,—implicitly, unhesitatingly. Only take away from me the responsibility once and for all. I am weary of it."

I had spoken with anger and excitement. My nerves were all unstrung by the events of the past two days; and as I finished, my tears burst forth. I wept with passionate sobs. My father made no effort to comfort me. He sat with his chin resting on his breast, weary and sad.

"I did not mean to be disrespectful," I murmured at last. "I am willing to do all that you desire."

"You have said that you do not love this man, Virginia."

"I love him as much as I shall ever love any one else," I answered.

"I accept your sacrifice, my child. Some day you will thank me. But write to-night. I shall sleep better if I feel that it is done. Promise me," he added, looking at me with a strange eagerness that was pathetic, and made the tears return to my eyes, but this time out of tenderness,—"promise me that whatever happens, you will accept the trust I am going to leave you."

I ran to his side, and kneeling, raised my eyes to his,—"Forgive me, father! I promise faithfully."

Only a few words more need to be said concerning this phase of my life. That night I wrote to Mr. Spence. Gratitude and friendship will not make up for the absence of love, but whatever there can be of consolation in these substitutes I sent to him. Why was it that as I penned the lines which were to disappoint his hopes, I was vaguely conscious that my interest in his theories was already less? So difficult is it in life to determine precisely how far our beliefs are decided by our associations! But it is not to be supposed that because I admit this after the lapse of years, the consciousness of which I speak was at that time more than a secret one, which I shrank from confessing even to myself. Genuine were the tears I shed in private for many days. My life seemed to me a blank, and I had lost the motive of action. For allowing my father to be right, and the principles advocated by Mr. Spence to be monstrous and absurd, I had been too intimately connected with the system not to feel a great void in my existence at severing my relations with it. What was to take its place?

I had to undergo, moreover, one or two disagreeable interviews with my Aunt Agnes before the matter was finally settled. In the intensity of his disappointment, Mr. Spence applied to her and asked her to endeavor to alter my resolution. She sent for me, and though she did not disguise her surprise that her favorite should wish to marry at all, she was unequivocal in the expression of her opinion that I should never get such another chance. As I remained obdurate, she accused me of a deliberate attempt to trifle with his affections. I had already ruined the life of one man of genius, she said, who though a wanderer from the right path might reasonably have become a noble worker but for my influence; and now I was about to blight the happiness of one whose equal was to be found only a few times in a century. She even went to my father, and represented to him the folly I would commit in refusing such an offer. I was not present at the interview; but Aunt Agnes, as she came out of the library into the room where I was sitting, looked angry and severe.

"Money, money, money! That is all your father thinks of from morning until night. It is wearing on him too. It is killing him by inches."

"You are right, Aunt Agnes; he needs rest; he looks tired out," I said, ignoring the first part of her speech.

"It is his own fault. And now he wants to educate you in the same school. Lucretia Kingsley is correct,—oil and water are more fit to be mated than you and Mr. Spence. You have broken her heart, too, by your wanton conduct, Virginia. Her sympathy for Mr. Spence is very affecting."

"Pooh!" I answered, angered by her indifference regarding my father; "she is crazy to marry him herself. That is all the matter with her."

This was the last effort Aunt Agnes made to alter my resolution, but she saw fit to tell Aunt Helen of my escapade at Mr. Barr's studio, who came to me in horror. Her predictions were about to be realized, she said. Notwithstanding all her warnings, my name was associated with a vulgar adventurer. "A handsome wretch as I remember him," she added, "but—even on your aunt's admission, who is none too nice in her estimate of people—unprincipled, and with low agrarian tastes."

A fortnight after my dismissal of Mr. Spence, a misfortune befell me that banished all thoughts save those of grief. My father was seized with a sudden illness, and died within a few hours. The doctors said the cause of his death was disease of the heart, and that he had been aware of the existence of the disorder for some time. It was many days before I thought again of what I was told after the funeral,—that I was left by my father's will sole heiress to four million dollars.