A Woman's Fancy

I.

THE warmest admirer and friend of Mary Arden could not have denied that as a connection she had some serious drawbacks, nor that Brandon Messenger was the very last of men to take them lightly or to overlook them. He was a shy, cool-eyed, stern-jawed young man, with a face whose clean-cut stubbornness gave the index to his character. As to that, it was at least genuine. This much may be said for him. Essentially of the New South, whatever of older grace, charm, and tenderness had been lost was here creditably replaced by inflexible uprightness, by prudence, and by industry. Though not unreasonably ambitious, he had yet fully resolved to make a success of his life, and his idea of a good beginning for that end did not include a marriage with any penniless girl, but least of all with Mary Arden’s father’s daughter.

Now concerning Mary Arden herself, concerning her exquisite native refinement, her instinctive honor and goodness, there could be no two opinions. All the traditional traits of hereditary gentryhood seemed to be concentrated in her, outside as well as in. Her face, her manner, her voice, were all eloquent of this, as also the turn of her slim neck upon its shoulders, and the shape of her long, slender hands. The face was of the sort oftenest called lovely ; being very young, girlish, and sweet. A singularly sensitive countenance, — both guileless and acute, transparent and yet at times inscrutably reserved. There were then depths in the large hazel-gray eyes as in deepest and darkest water-pools ; depths into which the startled spirit shrank like some amphibious down-diving creature. And Brandon Messenger could but stand on the brink at such times, baffled, though no less attracted. Was it not, indeed, in this same remoteness that the chief attraction lay ?

The acquaintance between them had begun when they were children. Though the father and brothers to whom he justly objected had sunk below even a somewhat lax Southern standard in more ways than one, there was still good descent to back them. They were on the outer fringes of the old “ good family ” set. Besides a visit to the house now and then Brandon Messenger found many occasions of meeting Mary Arden. In the intervals of his school and college life it had been kept up. That it never passed the bounds of mere outward friendliness is saying a good deal for his prudence. He was really as much in love with her as he could be with any one. Though the heart never got the better of that cool head, it was a tough pull sometimes. It was rather a relief at last when the day came for him to seek his fortune elsewhere.

He was, as I have hinted, a matter-offact young man. He had talked the matter over with his mother, — or had, rather, for once let her talk. They were on confidential terms, those two. They resembled each other. They had agreed that Mary Arden was “impossible.” There was but one more indulgence that he claimed for himself, and that was a farewell interview.

He carried out his intention by seeing her home from church the next evening. It was the place where they had oftenest met. The long walk across the fields was one full of associations for them both. It was a typical Virginia walk, around them the sedgy waste, in front, drawing ever nearer like a dreary Fate, the dilapidated old home of her girlhood. It was a little after sunset. The time of the year was autumn. There was a sunburnt smell in the air, yet mingled with the frost, suggesting fire. Had she been by herself Mary would have been apt to pick up a few dry sticks that they passed. She had one comfort at home, in the shape of big fireplaces. As it was now, she walked unheedful of them. It was in vain for these two that the landscape displayed its purplish reaches, gold-andcrimson dotted. They were thinking of other things. In spite of himself Brandon Messenger’s heart was beating high. The hot blood leaped to his cheek. It was the last time, — and he had resolved not to speak the one thing that he most wanted to say.

Still one cannot walk in silence for almost two miles. Is not silence, too, more dangerous than speech sometimes ? After the ice was broken they talked, or he did, and he let himself go. In strange, pale quiet she listened. He ran on with still stranger eagerness. He told her all his plans; of the route he was going to take, of the little middle-Western town to which he was going to practice law. It is a sort of talk most natural and sweet between a man and the woman he loves enough to marry. But there was something wanting here. There was a sort of intoxication about going so close to his limit, without once overstepping it; but as he went on to speak gayly of his plans for the future, he seemed skirting the edge of something hard and cold.

It is not possible, however, to cheat one’s self entirely. He was quite aware, after all, of the preciousness of what he was missing. It was filling him more and more with a sort of anger to think of the might-be even now possible. If he were only not quite himself, — just a little different ! He was not an imaginative man, but somehow just here there came to him with curious lifelike distinctness a vision of the sort of man he ought for her sake to have been. It was as if some elder brother stood aloof from and reproached him ; an old-fashioned, before - the-war sort of somebody, chivalrous and absurdly high - minded. In the eyes of this person good blood covered all social sins ; the wedding of first love all social or professional failures. It seemed just now a very hard fact that he should belong essentially to a later generation.

All things come to an end at last. When they reached the steps of the high rickety porch of the old mansion, where seven generations of Ardens had come down from affluence to poverty, — when they reached these steps there came a pause. He could not go in. For the first time he looked at her. He had not dared before. She looked tired and pale, puzzled and wistful. He was poignantly aware of the unconscious appeal of those hazel eyes. Even to the last of such a crucial interview as this there is apt to be an element of uncertainty. As he took her hand to say good - by she looked up at him quite simply, with a wave of crimson rushing over her cheeks. Her small mouth was quivering slightly. He felt that he might have kissed it without any active resistance on her part. In a young man of his standard one such step beyond the line would have bound him to her in honor, past recall. He was just at the point where a touch would turn the scale. What was it, he asked himself afterward, that kept him just then, more than all extraneous obstacles, safe and free ? Was it what those eyes did not reveal ? All at once he became aware of that strange sudden withdrawal of her nature. She was gone beyond his touch and ken. It was baffling, but just now relieving. At least she was not without her reserves to fall back on !

Next moment he had shaken hands and turned away.

The early autumn twilight was falling as he went. His way at first lay down a road into which their path had merged. Though his head was still unsteady, his steps were firm enough. He was aware that he had behaved well at the last. He had been both cool and dignified, and, though friendly, had not once overstepped the bounds of friendliness. Why should a man under such circumstances feel like a hound ? And yet if she had looked even a little more desolate! As he thought of that upturned face he paused, and half turned. Should he even now go back or not ? And once again the question was answered.

It was, as I have said, early twilight. Through the haze in front came a sound of voices and the tramp of horses’ feet. Down the road came three horsemen, no other than Mary Arden’s father and two brothers. They were wending their late way home from some Sunday rendezvous that was not church. The sorry horses that they rode had evidently eaten but little that day, and their riders had drunk too much. The elder man, sitting unsteadily in an old army saddle, was apparently lecturing on the ills of dissipation. His voice was thick and foolish, but he was still not past knowing an acquaintance. Brandon Messenger paused, frowning in response to the boisterous and over-familiar greeting. If he had not cared for Mary Arden he would simply have disliked and avoided her relatives. As it was, he hated them from the bottom of his heart.

The hand which he now held out perforce to Captain Sam Arden was most affectionately squeezed. “ Come back, Branny, my boy,” hiccoughed that worthy amiably. “ Mary be glad to shee—we’ll all be glad to shee you. Any friend of muh darter — welcome to us all.” Brandon Messenger repressed a shudder as best he could. When he finally with some difficulty got away, it was to strike into the field path with a step most resolute and a long breath as of danger escaped.

II.

About ten years after the parting just described Brandon Messenger awoke one day to a realization that the main obstacles between himself and Mary Arden had been unexpectedly removed. His preference for her remained unchanged. She was still single and, as far as he knew, disengaged. Last, but not least, his success in his profession would admit of his marrying without considering the question of money.

Captain Arden and his eldest son, though of a sort whose days are too often long in the land, had been gathered to the fathers they had helped to disgrace. They had died, one in a fit of apoplexy, the other of a fever brought on by irregular living. Equally surprising and gratifying to Brandon Messenger, though in a different way, had been the other brother’s turning out. He had gone to the far West, prospered, and after a visit home some months before, announced his intention of never coming back again. Altogether it seemed to Mary Arden’s former lover that Fate had most kindly worked out for him the problem abandoned that autumn night. She was now absolutely alone and untrammeled. They were still young ; in life’s very noon and prime. After all, there was no reason why they should not be happy together.

He had made, since leaving it, several visits to his old neighborhood, but they had been brief and hurried. Mary Arden was one of the people whom he had never seen. He had never dared to trust himself to call; and no accidental meeting, such as he had secretly half longed for, half dreaded, had ever come to pass. Between himself and his mother her name was rarely mentioned, but he had still heard enough, both from her and from others, to know the general outlines of Mary’s life. In a letter from Mrs. Messenger, which finally led him to a certain important decision, occurred these words : —

“ Mary Arden is still living on alone — of course I mean with a servant. She still has old Aunt Sally, — as fat and black as ever, — but is otherwise all by herself. I suppose she is attached to that dreary old place, though why she should be I cannot imagine. What she lives on nobody knows. Her father left nothing but debts. She not only keeps the place, but is paying them off, nobody knows how. Do you know, I think her a remarkable woman ? She grows more and more interesting to me. Now that Sam Arden is dead I am thankful to say that one can go with pleasure to see her. I called the other day, and must repeat what I have said, — she is a very interesting person. Even in a less dull place than this I think one might be struck with her. You know, my dear, that even when I most approved of your — well never mind that now! but I was always fond of her, and what change there is has been for the better. By this you will see that there has been a change. I cannot define or describe it. It seems to suggest a sort of mystery, — something kept back, hidden, though of course I don’t mean anything discreditable. It is here, I think, where the fascination lies. She is clever too. You know she was always clever, in a soft, sweet way. Now there is less sweetness perhaps, but (though I may not be a judge) I think her cleverer than ever. Besides looking and talking that way she somehow gives one the impression of her own reserves to fall back on. I think people are rather afraid of her. Don’t think by this that she is conceited or sarcastic. Not at all. But she is certainly very different from anybody else about here. There’s a sort of distinction about her in fact, both as to appearance and manner. It may be the effect of living so much alone. People who do that are bound to be either superior to others or else vastly inferior. Even before her father died she was practically alone. My dear Brand, what a father-in-law yon escaped there ! Thank Heaven, she is free from him at last — and from that horror, Crawford. How nice to think they are both dead ! As for Tom, she seems fond of him, but his late visit could hardly have been much pleasure to her. To be sure he is a great improvement on those others, but bad enough, slangy and bragging. He went off in high dudgeon with her for refusing to go with him. I don’t think she is grieving, though, — for him or them or any one. Maybe she did once, but there’s no trace of it now. She looks perfectly comfortable now — and somewhat amused. I am sure I don’t know why she should be. What on earth has she had to be amused at! But to come to the point, dear boy, I have this much more to say: I can’t believe it natural or even possible that such a young woman, and such a pretty woman, should be content to go on living as she does unless she is holding herself consecrated to the memory of some particular person. There ! laugh at your romantic old Mamma if you choose, but that is my conviction. In spite of all disadvantages she has had admirers. I know of two offers she has refused. Though she seems to hold men off, they are still attracted by her. But I must hurry this to a close. I don’t think you will need telling that I have not written without a definite aim in view. What I want to say is this : If your feeling for Mary Arden is still what it used to be, I know of no girl who would now make you a more creditable wife, — or one who, for my part, I would more gladly welcome as a daughter-inlaw. I think you will understand why I feel it my duty to say this much if no more.”

Late in the afternoon of the next day but one, after reading this letter, Brandon Messenger found himself in his native county, — walking rapidly across the fields which lay between Mary Arden’s home and the nearest railway station.

He had not written to or seen his mother. To go tamely to her first, to discuss or arrange this matter, would have been to his present mood impossible. It was curious, indeed, how much of a barrier their agreement long ago had always been. He could not quite reach over it yet. After to-day it might be different. He did not know. He dared not guess. An intense feverish impatience was shaking and scorching him. One of those rare fever-fits that come two or three times in a life to men of his cool temperament had come to him. It would not be reasoned down. He had noticed people glancing at him curiously on the train, and was conscious of the dull red flush on his face, the smouldering fire of his eyes. His hands were unsteady, his feet felt unnaturally light and mechanical. Old thoughts and memories were busy within him, but in a new light. Despite the knowledge that so tried again he would do as he had done, a fierce self-contempt had laid hold of him. It was crying out against the tame submission, the cold prudence of the last ten years ! How incredible it now seemed that he should have so shaken hands with adverse Fate ! Was he indeed that plodder, that poor, painstaking fool, who had given her up to settle down, grubbing his way through years of sordid disappointment to a still more sordid success ? It was the sort of moment that comes to us all in our more exalted moods. As one of the great novelists has said, we know all the time where our usual self awaits us ; but for the little time when we “rave on the heights ” how far away the dusty levels seem!

It was just such an evening as that last one when they had walked together across these very fields. The reddish golden haze of an early autumn sunset seemed to float tangibly in the air ; the pungent, sunburnt odor of September woods and fields came on every breeze to his nostrils. An almost summer-like warmth was taking on enough of evening chill to be pleasantly suggestive of fire, — of that first country fire, built of blazing brush and chips in a great open fireplace. Meanwhile “ the fire that frost engenders” burned redly amid the sumac bushes and the brambles, flashed flamelike from the golden-rod through purpling misty grasses. Small wild things of the waste rustled and scurried and whirred alongside his path or across it, — and Mary Arden’s feet seemed to keep time with his as they had done ten years before. Her flower-like girlface seemed to flit again beside him. Little curves of her cheek and throat, little motions of her figure, came back and thrilled his very heartstrings. For once, at least, the want of her took utter possession of him. Suppose that he had lost her forever! The terror of danger almost escaped, the burden of a weight almost, not quite, lifted, was in the thought. He could not bear it. At any rate he was going now like a man to ask her to be his wife.

The old house at whose threshold they had parted long ago was still standing, to the distant eye unchanged. There was still about it, there under its scraggy trees, the old impression of waste-encircled dreariness. His eyes were bent upon it, when he came suddenly on the person he had come to see.

In a shallow depression of the slightly undulating field stood an ancient gnarled cherry tree. At the foot of this tree which had thus far screened her from him, and close to the path, Mary Arden was sitting.

He remembered in after days with curious distinctness the lie of that little hollow, — the half-decayed tree overhead, the somewhat barren minuteness of the growths underfoot. It seemed to him not only the scene of this present crisis, but of one in some long-past existence. On the side next the house was a thicket of wild plum bushes. Against its dull red-brown leaves, above the carpet of gray moss, scarlet-sprinkled as with elfin blood, the whiteness of her face and dress stood out in vivid contrast. The only touch of color about her was a crimson scarf which had slipped unheeded from her shoulders. Her bare head was bent over a book in her lap. Her profile was toward him, still beautiful, though sharper than of old, and with a certain clear-cut inflexibility about it. Herrounded cheek looked singularly firm, smooth, and clearly pale. All this he noted in that first instant. As he stopped short and indeed recoiled in startled uncertainty, she turned her head, perceived him, and as their eyes met, smiled. It came over him then, with sudden hopeless clearness, that any other greeting would have meant better for him.

III.

“ I wonder if I may tell you all about it?”

Her brow was slightly knitted as she spoke. A strange look had come into her eyes. It was more of pain than pleasure, though partaking of both, but on her lips that smile still lingered. He was sitting not far off, his back against the tree, his hands clasped about his knees. His heavy eyes were bent upon her. His face looked hard and old. Though the last ten years had dealt kindly with her, they had been hard on him at best. There were deep lines on his forehead, around his mouth ; his hair was touched with gray. Her brow and her cheeks were waxen smooth, the clear-cut firmness of maturity. This and her healthy pallor were the most striking physical changes which he saw in her. When it came to the look in the eyes that now met his, ah ! here was a different matter. There was no resistance there, no resentment, — nothing could have been more simply straightforward. But from the very first he had read therein his fate. Even while speaking the words that he had come to speak he wondered at himself for doing so. What was the use of it ? — what possible use ? She had answered as he had expected. But even before that No was spoken his disappointment seemed old. He looked at her dully as she spoke. Even her words, her tone, roused no particular curiosity ; but —

“ Tell me all you choose,” he said.

She drew a long soft breath and pulled her crimson scarf over her shoulders. The air had waxed more chilly.

“ I never meant to tell any one, — and least of all you,” she said, “ but then you know I never thought of your coming this way.”

There was perfect truth in her eyes, her voice. He winced a little, but said nothing. She went on : —

“Now I think I should like to tell it just once, just to see how it sounds in words. I suppose, after all, you are the right one to tell it to, — and it seems a pity to miss the chance.”

The coolness of her point of view struck him as somehow professional. To tell the story, and to its most fitting listener, seemed with her the important thing.

“ I appreciate the importance of my position,” he said. “ You will find me an attentive listener.”

She looked around her, then back at him with that same little air of artistic satisfaction.

“ It seems such a suitable place to tell it — here,” she said. “ This is where I used to come to think it over. This is where my leading idea,” she smiled again, “ first came to me. Is n’t it queer that things should happen so ? ”

Brandon Messenger moistened his lips. “ Very queer,” he said.

She went on : “ Don’t think I want to hurt you,” said she. “ If I do, it will be because I can’t help it. It may hurt you a little, — and yet I think you will find the story interesting.”

“ Never mind hurting me,” said the man.

She gave another look around. “ It was the only place, — the only quiet place within my reach. You know how it was then indoors, — at least when they were home ! I get a little tired of it now, I mean of the quiet, — but I think I should have gone crazy without it then. I was very unhappy that first year. Now, I ’m coming to the part that may hurt. If it does I am very sorry. It is no use pretending that I did not care for you, or suffer when you went away. I knew that you knew I cared. I knew you cared for me, too, — in your way. How the knowledge came to me I can’t explain, but I knew, — and it did not make things easier. I think I was dazed at first. You see I didn’t quite know — understand why you had left me that way.”

She looked at him, as one who apologizes for long-past stupidity. He said never a word.

“ I was very humble in those days,” she said, “ and I really loved you very, very much. I wouldn’t have minded a long engagement, — ten, twenty, thirty years. It would have made no difference. If you had told me you cared for me even without saying a word about any engagement at all I would have been satisfied. If you had kissed me good-by I should not have minded. It would have been better than nothing. Think of such trusting innocence ! ” She laughed ripplingly. “ And how I thank you now for not taking advantage of it! Don’t look so sorry, please ; it is all over now. And even at the first, when I did n’t understand, I somehow thought you were right.”

She paused again as if expecting him to speak. He still said nothing. She went on: —

“ It might have done me some good to get angry with you, — but I could n’t. I felt that you were right. If you had been different of course it would have been — like a miracle, I suppose. But miracles are things that do not happen. If we ever think they may have done so once, we have to come back to this, — they don’t now. I did not blame you. It did not seem your fault that Fate was so against us. There was nothing even then to turn my heartache into any other feeling. I don’t like to think now of the long, long days and nights. But don’t look so, please, for I can’t go on if you do. If I dwell on this at all, it is only because it is necessary to round out the story.”

She was frowning now as if irritated. She had half risen from the mossy stone which was her seat. He made a downward gesture of his hand. As she seated herself again, and settled her skirts, it was with that little professional air. Then she drew another long breath.

“ I am now sorry for that girl,” she said, " as if she had been somebody who died or went away. You must listen to me now just as if she had done so. I am not going to dwell upon her misery. We don’t tell things that way now. It is not the best art. But one must be allowed a brief touch here and there to illustrate one’s main point. As my main point is to show how she escaped, you must know somehow what she escaped from. It was only natural, you know, that I should want to ease myself. After all self-preservation is the first law. I wanted to get over that, — I wanted to be happy in some of a woman’s little ways. It seemed so unreasonably cruel that you should spoil everything. Of course I wanted to forget you, — but I knew it was no use. We never forget what we try to forget. But it came to me one day, in this very place, that there was a way of thinking that would set you apart from me forever.”

He was staring at her dully. She nodded and went on : —

“To make you dead would not do at all. You seemed to belong to me forever then, —and I wanted to be free from you. It did no good to play you had forgotten me. Somehow I felt sure you would never do that. But to have you go on so, alone and still caring, was simply more than I could bear. There was no way for me but to think of you as belonging to somebody else.”

He saw again that he was expected to make a comment. “ I am much obliged on her account,” he said. It was with a little note of pride that she continued :

“ I was always clever at making believe. I could always see plainly what I thought or read about. I suppose there are few who have such a gift for it. It was a side of me that I never showed to you. I suppose I felt you could not share it. If I had married you I would have wanted to share your life. As it was, there was only my own to fall back on. I used to sit here and call her up, — I mean the girl yon would marry some day. She did not come exactly out of my dream-world, but out of the world of future probabilities. Well, at first it was hard, but after a while I saw her plainly, as plainly as I see you now. To be sure the face was at first a little misty, but even that cleared after a while. From the first I knew what she would be. She was in all respects the sort of girl you would like for a wife, after your success should be won and the fancy for my unsuitable self faded somewhat away. You see I did not know — how should I ? — that you would come back. It was simple probability that I built on. After all, I think I was right generous to you. She was young, a good deal younger than I. Even now she would be just a nice age for you. She was pretty, too, delicate, and graceful. She was accomplished and stylish. She was fastidious, as became one used all her life to the refinements that go along with wealth. She knew nothing of poverty with its humiliations, —nothing of any sort of misery. She was an excellent connection, her people all that is desirable. She was altogether the sort of girl that you, or any successful man, would be proud of.”

He winced again as he heard this. But she was not looking at him. Her gaze was bent beyond, across the now twilight waste. She seemed to see things that he could not see. A faint flush had crept into her cheeks. The pleasure of telling the story was evidently warming her, thrilling through her veins.

“ I was with her when you first met her. I was with her afterwards, — all through the courtship. Even when you asked her to be your wife, I was there and heard. You were not an ardent lover. You did not care for her as you had cared for me. But you liked and admired her. You tried to think yourself in love. It was so desirable that you should be. On the whole you succeeded. She thought it was all right and gave you her whole heart in return. Good fortune had not spoiled her. She was warm-hearted and true. I — I went on making friends with her. It was not always easy. Sometimes it was very hard. You see she was so happy, so triumphant. It made my lot seem hard, — but I said we must be friends. I must get used to seeing you two together. I kept on — I got used to it. By the time you were married I found that I could stand by and watch it almost cheerfully.”

A curious smile had been creeping over her listener’s face. As she paused he said, “ I am glad to have afforded you at least that much pleasure in life. Did you leave us at the steps of the altar ? ”

She flashed a quick glance at him. “ Oh no ! ” she cried. “ Do you suppose I could do that ? Why, I had to keep on. It was the only chance for me. And the pain it had been at first (I won’t pretend it did not hurt) — the pain at last was nearly gone. There was hardly one little bit of jealousy left. You see I don’t pretend I was not jealous ! But as she grew more and more real to me I found that I cared less and less for you. We can get used to anything, you know. I had simply got used to thinking of you that way. You were hers. It was not you I wanted any more. It was she I wanted to care for me. And she did. When you were harsh with her (as you were sometimes) it was to me she turned for help and comfort. When you were kind to her I stood by and saw your kindness — your caresses without a pang. Then I felt that I was cured. Do you know that the best thing for a burn is to hold it to the fire ? It is a harsh remedy. It hurts, — but it heals. I had been hurt, — but I was healed. For ten years I have been her friend ; for ten years she has stood between me and the thought of you.”

The peculiar humor of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. He gave a strangled laugh. A ghost of hope had come back to him.

“And do you think,” he said, speaking, however, with a stoutness he was far from feeling, — “ do you think that I — or any sane man — will give you up for such a fancy freak as this ? It is too absurd to be combated. A good laugh is the best argument against such stuff. Whatever in the past may have stood between us, there is nothing now. In my way I have been true to you. So long as you care for no other man ” —

She rose suddenly to her feet, interrupting him as she did so with a quick, half-angry gesture.

“ You do not understand,” she said. “ That has nothing to do with it. There can never be, in the sense you mean, another man for me. But that makes no difference in my feeling for her or what she has been to me.”

She began, as she spoke, to pace slowly to and fro, drawing the red scarf around her. Though no longer in such marked contrast to her cheeks, it showed against her dress like blood on snow. Her voice took on a new quality.

“ She was the first,” she said, “ but she was not the last. There were others. They came after a while, and seemed to stand around me. They too seemed to live and move and have a being. There were things for me to think of, — stories for me to tell. Have you ever read any of them, I wonder ? They have never had my name to them, but I have thought sometimes you might chance to read what I have written. You would not, I think, care much for it, — but there are some who do.” Her flush deepened here and she smiled archly. “ There are readers and editors, and publishers and cheques. I have found my vocation, Brandon Messenger. And I think it was your wife who first taught me that it was not to be your wife.”

Brandon Messenger rose too, with another would-be laugh. “ Does n’t it strike you,” he asked with affected lightness, “ that this is a little bit hard on me ? Am I to be forever cut off from the substance by this shadow that you have raised ? If I never find this person and marry some one else would I be guilty of bigamy ? I surely have a right to know.”

“ If you ever marry,” she replied, “ it will be such a woman as I have described.”

A feeling that her words were true came over him. But he made another effort at lightness.

“ Suppose,” he said, with a shrug, “ I never marry at all! What then ? ”

She turned on him passionately.

“ And do you think,” she cried, “ that that would make any difference in the way I think of Her ? Would you belong any less to her ? Do you think that after all I owe to her, I should let you come between us now ? It was she, not you, who saved me from worse than death, who taught me my one gift and power. It is she, not you, who has been for years my best and dearest friend. We have walked and sat together in these very fields. She has kept me company indoors. I have taught her many things that only women know. She has helped me with my own poor make-believes. I can see her when I will, — see her now over yonder, ready to come nearer when you are gone. You belong to her, not to me. If I take you now I must give her up, and with her the rest of my world must go, — my own world in which you have no share. I was left out of yours, remember, years ago. You must do the best you can without me now.”

She was catching up her skirts as for the walk back. He was looking fixedly at her ; before his eyes, however, not so much her face as a vision of the world they might have shared. Noting her motions, he asked, “ Shall I go with you ? ” She shook her head.

“ Not unless you choose. It is not necessary.”

“ I suppose you have better company.”

She smiled. “ Seriously, I am not afraid,” she said. “ Neither am I ever lonely, now.”

The last word had its sting. “ You know,” said he, “ I think you are crazy ! ”

She laughed outright.

“ There are some other people who do, I believe. But it makes very little difference. I believe the most suspicious fact is that I live alone, but you know I have Aunt Sally.”

“ Yes, she at least is flesh and blood. Well, if you should ever need the help of another living creature, let roe know ! ”

She held out her hand quite frankly. “ Thank you,” she said, “ but I think we shall get along. I am self-supporting now, you know. Let me know if you ever need my help. People often wonder, I think, what I live upon. She has taught me a way to live.”

The underlying comedy of it all was beginning to overpower him. He could have shouted with wild laughter. As he let go her hand he asked one more question.

“ Will you make it into a story ? ”

She shook her head.

“Never again.”

Then he turned away. The last yellow streak had faded from the horizon. The twilight haze was thick all around. Overhead the first stars were peeping out, — far, far away, and cold. A killdeer was sounding its wild note in the distance. Some frogs were croaking in a bit of marsh near the path. Brandon Messenger straightened himself with a good long breath. He bethought himself of his mother. She would be glad to see him, and she at least was not a fanciful woman. He walked swiftly on, only pausing once to look back. Halfway between their meeting - place and the house he saw a gleam of white. It seemed to flit rapidly on, away toward a single lighted window dimly visible. He was glad of that one ray for her sake. As his glance in withdrawing came back to the solitary tree, it seemed to him that there lingered beneath it, gray and wraithlike, another shape. Was it only the effect of starlight on a licliened treetrunk, or was it the form of that other woman who so strangely stood between them ?

I have said more than once that he was not imaginative, but for the moment he could have sworn that a light, soft laugh rang out, that a hand was waved. It was as one who leaves the land of dreams that he turned for the last time on his heel.

Alice M. Ewell.