 CHAPTER XVIII. THE BEAUTIFUL GOOL. We Winnie called in at the club, while the President was still under the cloud of depression, and Lily had to force herself to look cheerful lest Miss Nimrod should mistake the melancholy engendered by so many revelations of the seamy side of life, for loss of faith in the club or its prospects. Avid of experience as was the introspective little girl, she felt almost faded for the present. Miss Nimrod was astonished to hear of the number of rejections and to learn that she had whipped up the writers and the junior widows and her private friends to such little purpose. But in the end she agreed with Lily that, as no doubt somewhere or other in the wide universe ideal old maids were blooming and breathing, it would be folly to clog themselves up in advance with inferior specimens. The millionaire, who was pottering about in blue spectacles, strolled into the club while we Winnie was uttering magnificent rhapsodies about the pages the club would occupy in the histories of England. But this time Lily was determined the dignity of the by-laws should be maintained, and had her father shown out by Terpel the Magnificent. Miss Nimrod went too, and so Lord Silverdale had the pleasure of finding Lily alone. "'You ought to present me with a pair of white gloves,' he said gleefully. "'Why?' asked Lily. "'I haven't had a single candidate to try for days.' "'No,' said Lily, with a suspicion of weariness in her voice. They all broke down in the elementary stage.' Even as she spoke, Terpel the Magnificent ushered in Miss Margaret Lynn Bridge. Lord Silverdale, doubly vexed at having been a little too previous in the counting of his chickens, took up his hat to go, but Lily murmured, "'Please amuse yourself in the library for a quarter of an hour, as I may want you to do the trying at once.' "'How do you expect me to amuse myself in the library?' he grumbled. "'You don't keep one of my books.'" Miss Margaret Lynn Bridge's story was simple, almost commonplace. "'I had spent Christmas with a married sister in Plymouth,' she said, and was returning to London by the express on the first of January. My prospects for the new year were bright, or seemed so to my then unsophisticated eyes. I was engaged to be married to Richard Westbourne, a good and good-looking young man, not devoid of pecuniary attractions. My brother, with whom I lived and on whom I was dependent, was a struggling young firework manufacturer, and would, I knew, be glad to see me married, even if it cost him a portion of his stock to express his joy. The little seaside holiday had made me look my prettiest, and when my brother-in-law saw me into a first-class carriage, and left me with a fraternally legal kiss, I rather pitied him for having to go back to my sister. There was only one other person in the carriage beside myself, a stern old gentleman who sat crumpled up in the opposite corner and read a paper steadily. The train flew along the White Frosty landscape at express rates, but the old gentleman never looked up from his paper. The temperature was chill, and I coughed. The old gentleman events no symptom of sympathy. I rolled up my veil, the better to see the curmudgeon, and smiled to think what a fool he was, but he betrayed no sign of sharing my amusement. At last, as he was turning his page, I said in my most dulcet tones, oh, pray excuse my appropriating the entire foot warmer, I don't know why there is only one, but I will share it with you with pleasure. Thank you, he said gruffly, I'm not cold. Oh, aren't you, I murmured inwardly, adding aloud with a severe wintery tone, gentlemen of your age usually are. Yes, but I'm not a gentleman of my age, he growled, mistaking the imbecile statement for repartee. I beg your pardon, said I, I was judging by appearances. Is that the Saturday slasher you have there? He shook himself impatiently. No, it is not. I beg your pardon, said I, I was again judging by appearances. May I ask what it is? Three penny bits, he jerked back. What's that? I asked. I know, broken bits. This is a superior edition of broken bits at the price indicated by the title. It contains the same matter, but is issued at a price adapted to the means of the moneyed and intellectual classes. No self-respecting person can be seen reading penny-weeklies. It throws doubt not only on his income, but on his own. Not only on his income, but on his mental calibre. The idea of this first-class edition, so to speak, should make the fortune of the proprietor and deservedly so. Of course the thousand-pound railway assurance scheme is likewise troubled, though this part of the paper does not attract me personally, for my next of kin is a hypocritical young rogue. But imagine the horror of being found dead with a penny weekly in one's pocket. You can't even explain it away. He had hardly finished the sentence before a terrible shock, as of a ton of dynamite exploding under the foot warmer, lifted me into the air. The carriage collapsed like matchwood, and I had the feeling of being thrown into the next world. For a moment I recovered a gleam of consciousness, just enough to show me I was lying dying amid the debris, and that my companion lay, already dead, in a fragment of the compartment, three penny bits clutched in his lifeless hand. With a last fond touch I smoothed my hair, which had got rather ruffled in the catastrophe, and extracting with infinite agony a puff from my pocket I dabbed it spasmodically over my face. I dared not consult my hand-mirror. I was afraid it would reveal a distorted countenance and unnecessarily sad in my last moments. Whatever my appearance I had done my best for it, and I wanted to die with the consciousness of duty fulfilled. Murmuring a prayer that those who found my body would not imitate me in judging by appearances, if they should prove discreditable after all, I closed my eyes upon the world in which I had been so young and happy. My whole life passed in review before me, all my dearly loved bonnets, my entire wardrobe from infancy upwards. Now I was an innocent child with a white sash and pink ribbons, straying amid the sunny meadows and plucking the daisies to adorn my hats, a nun, a merry maiden sporting amid the jock and schoolboys, and receiving tribute in toffee, then again a sedate virgin in original gowns and tailor-made jackets. Suddenly a strange idea jostled through the throng of bittersweet memories, three penny bits. The old gentleman's next of kin would come in for three thousand pounds. I should die and leave nothing to my relatives but regrets. My generous brother would be forever inconsolable now, and my funeral might be mean and unworthy. And yet, if the old misogynist had only been courteous enough to lend me the paper, seeing I had nothing to read, it might have been found on my body. De mortuus nil nissy bonum. Why reveal his breach of etiquette to the world? Why should I not enable him to achieve posthumous politeness? Besides, his heir was a hypocritical rogue, and it were a crime against society to place so large a sum at his disposal. Overwhelmed as I was by the agonies of death, I steeled myself to this last duty. I wriggled painfully towards the corpse, and, stretching out my neatly gloved fingers, with a last mighty effort, I pulled the paper cautiously from the dead hand which lay heavy upon it. Then I clasped it passionately to my heart and died. Died? echoed Lily excitedly. Well, lost consciousness, you are particular to a shade. Myself I see no difference between a fainting fit and death, except that one attack of the latter is fatal. As to that, answered Lily, I consider we die every night and dream we are alive. To fall asleep is to die painlessly. It is perhaps a pity we are resurrected to tea and toast and toilette. However, I am glad you did not really die. I feared I was in for a tale of reincarnation, or spooks, or hypnotism, or telepathy, or astral bodies. One hears so many marvelous stories, now we have left off believing in miracles. Really, man's credulity is the perpetual miracle. I have not left off believing in miracles, replied Miss Lindbridge seriously. How could I? Was I not saved by one? A very gallant miracle, too, for it took no trouble to save my crusty old fellow-traveller while it left me without a scratch. I am afraid I should not have been grateful for salvation without good looks. To face life without a pretty face were worse than death. You agree with me? Not entirely. There are higher things in life than beautiful faces, said Lily gravely. Certainly, beautiful bonnets, said the candidate with laughing levity, and lower things, beautiful boots. But you would not seriously argue that there is anything else so indispensable to a woman as beauty, or that to live plain is worth the trouble of living? Why not? Plain living and high thinking, murmured Lily. All nonsense! We needn't pretend. We aren't with men. You would talk differently if you were born ugly. Goodness gracious! Don't we know that a girl may have a whole cemetery of virtues, and no man will look at her if she is devoid of charms of face or purrs? It's all nonsense what Ruskin says about a well-bred modest girl being necessarily beautiful. It is only a pleasing fiction that morality is invaluable to the complexion. Of course, if Ruskin's girl chose to dress with care, she could express her goodness less plainly. But as a rule, goodness and doubtiness are synonymous. I think the function of a woman is to look well, and our severest reprobation should be extended to those conscienceless creatures who allow themselves to be seen in the company of gentlemen in frumpish attire. It is a breach of etiquette towards the other sex. A woman must do credit to the man who stakes his reputation for good taste by being seen in her society. She must achieve beauty for his sake, and should no more leave her boudoir without it than if she were an actress leaving her dressing-room. That the man expects the woman to make his friends envy him as true, answered Lily, and I have myself expressed this in yonder epigram. It is man who is vain of woman's dress. But were we created merely to gratify man's vanity? Is not that a place in nature to be vain of? We are certainly not proud of him. Think of the average husband over whom the woman has to shed the halo of her beauty. It is like poetry and prose bound together. It is because I intend to be permanently beautiful that I have come to cast in my lot with the old maid's club. Your rules ordain it so, and rightly. The club must be beautiful certainly, but merely to escape being twitted with ugliness by the shallow. For the rest it should disdain beauty. However, pre-continue your story. It left off at a most interesting point. You lost consciousness. Yes, but as my chivalrous miracle had saved me from damage, I was found unconsciously beautiful, which I have always heard is the most graceful way of wearing your beauty. I soon came to myself with the aid of a dark-eyed doctor, and I then learned that the old gentleman had been too weak to sustain the shock, and that his poor old pulse had ceased to beat. My rescuers had not disturbed three penny bits from its position twixed my hand and heart in case I should die and need it. So when the line was cleared and I was sent on to London after a pleasant lunch with the dark-eyed doctor, I had the journal to read, after all, despite the discourtesy of the deceased. When I arrived at Paddington I found Richard Westborn walking the platform like Hamlet's ghost, white and trembling. He was scanning the carriages feverishly as the train glided in with its habitual nonchalance. My darling! he cried when he caught sight of my dainty hat with its sweet trimmings. Thank heaven! he twisted the door violently open and kissed me before the crowd. Fortunately I had my lovely spotted veil all down, so he only pressed the tool to my lips. What is the matter? I asked ingenuously. The accident! he gasped. Weren't you in the accident? Of course I was, but I was not very much crumpled. If I had sat in the other corner I should have been killed. My heroine! he cried. How brave of you! He made as if he would rumple my hair, but I drew back. Were you waiting for me? I asked. Of course, hours and hours. Oh, the agony of it! See, here is the evening paper. It gives you as dead. Where? I cried nervously. His trembling forefinger pointed to the place. A beautiful young lady was also extricated in an unconscious condition from this carriage. Isn't it wonderful the news should be in London before me? I murmured. But I suppose they will have names and fuller particulars in a later edition. Of course, but fancy my having to be in London unable to get to you for love or money. Yes, it was very hard for me to be there all alone, I murmured. But please run and see after my luggage. There are three portmanteaus, and a little black one, and three bonnet boxes, and two parasols, and call a handsome, oh, and a brown paper parcel, and a long narrow cardboard box. And get me the latest editions of the evening papers. And please see that the driver isn't drunk, and don't take a knock-knead horse or one that paws the ground. You know those handsome doors fly open and shoot you out like rubbish. I do so hate them. And oh, Richard, don't forget those novels from Moody's. They're done up with a strap. Three bonnet boxes, remember, and all the evening papers, mind. When we were bowling homewards, he kept expressing his joy by word and deed, so that I was unable to read my papers. At last annoyed, I said. You wouldn't be so glad if you knew that my resurrection cost three thousand pounds. How do you mean? Why, if I had died, somebody would have had three thousand pounds. This number of three penny bits would have been found on my body, and would have entitled my air to that amount of assurance money. I'd need not tell you who my air is, nor to whom I had left my little all. I looked into his face, and from the tenderness that overflowed it, I saw he fancied himself the favoured mortal. There is no end to the conceit of young men. A sensible fellow would have known at once that my brother was the only person reasonably entitled to my scanty belongings. However, there is no good done by disturbing a lover's complacency. I do not want your money, he answered, again passionately pressing my tool veil to my lips. I infinitely prefer your life. What a bloodthirsty highwayman! I shall steal another kiss I would rather have you than all the gold in the world. Still, gold is the next best thing, I said, smiling at his affectionateness which my absence had evidently fostered. So, being on the point of death, as I thought, I resolved to make death worth dying, and leave a heap of gold to the man I loved, this number of three penny bits was not mine originally. When the crash occurred it was being read by the old gentleman in the opposite corner, but his next of kin is a hypocritical young scape grace, so he told me, and I thought it would be far nicer for my heir to come in for the money, so I took it from his body the very instant before I fainted dead away. My heroine! he cried again. So you thought of your Richard even at the point of death. What a sweet assurance of your love! Yes, an assurance of three thousand pounds, I answered, laughing merrily. And now, perhaps, you will let me read the details of the catastrophe. The reporters seem to know ever so much more about it than I do. It's getting dusk and I can hardly see. I wonder what was the name of the old grisly growler? Ah, here it is! The pocket-book contained letters addressed to Josiah Twadden, Esquire, and— Twadden, did you say? Gasped Richard, clutching the paper frantically. Yes, don't! You've torn it! Twadden! I can see it plainly. Does it give his address? Richard panted. Yes, I said, surprised. I was just going on to read that. Four Bucklesbury buildings. Great heavens! he cried. What is it? Why are you so pale and agitated? Was he anything to you? I guess it, by my prophetic soul, your uncle. Yes, he answered bitterly, my uncle, my mother's brother, wretched woman, what have you done? My heart was beating painfully and I felt hot all over, but outwardly I froze. You know what I have done, I said, icily. Yes, robbed me of three thousand pounds, he cried. How dare you say that, I answered indignantly. Why, it was for you I meant them. The statement was not perhaps strictly accurate, but my indignation was sufficiently righteous to cover a whole pack of lies. Your intentions may have been strictly honourable, he retorted, but your behaviour was abominable. Great heavens, do you know that you could be prosecuted? Nonsense, I said stoutly, though my heart misgave me. What for? What for, you, a plunderer of the dead, a harpy, a ghoul, ask what for? But the thing was of no value, I urged. Of no intrinsic value perhaps, but of immense value under the peculiar circumstances. Why, if anyone chose to initiate a prosecution, you could be sent to jail as a common thief. Pardon me, I said hotly. You forget you are speaking to a lady. As such I can never be more than a kleptomaniac. You might make me suffer from hysteria yesterday, but the worst that could befall me now would be a most interesting advertisement. Prosecute me, and you will create for me an army of friends all over the world. If it is thus that lovers behave, it is better to have friends. I shall be glad of the exchange. You know that I could not prosecute you, he answered more gently. After your language to me, you are capable of anything. Your uncle called you a rogue with his dying breath, and statements made with that are generally voracious. Prosecute me, if you will. I have done you out of three thousand pounds, and I am glad of it. Only one favor I will ask of you, for the sake of our old relations, give me fair warning. That you may flee the country? Know that I may get a new collection of photographs. You will submit to being taken by the police? Yes, after I have been taken by the photographer. But look at the position you will be in. I shall be in six different positions, one for each of the chief illustrated papers. Your flippancy is ill-timed, Margaret, said Richard sternly. Flippant, good heavens, do you know me so little as to consider me capable of flippancy? Richard, this is the last straw. You have called me a thief, you have threatened to place me in the felon's dock, and I have answered you with soft words. But no man shall call me flippant and continue to be engaged to me. But Maggie, darling, his tone was changing. He saw he had gone too far. Consider, it is not only that I am the loser by your indiscretion, your generous indiscretion. My indiscreet generosity, I corrected. He accepted my indiscreet generosity and went on. Can not you see that, as my future wife, you will also suffer? But surely you will come in for something under your uncle's will all the same, I reminded him. Not a stiver. He never made a will. He never saved any money. He was the most selfish brute that ever breathed. All the money he couldn't spend on himself he gave away in charity, so as to get the kudos during his lifetime, pretending that there was no merit in post-mortem philanthropy, and now all the good he might have done by his death you have cancelled. I sat mute, my complexion altered for the worse by pangs of compunction. But I can make amends, I murmured at last. How! he asked eagerly. I can tell the truth, at least partially. I can make an affidavit that three penny bits belonged to my fellow passenger, that he lent it me just before the accident, or that, seeing he was dead, I took it to hand over to his relatives. For a moment his face brightened up, then it grew dark as suddenly as if it had been lit by electricity. They will not believe you, he said. Even if you were a stranger, the paper would contest my claim. But considering your relation to me, considering that the money would fall to you as much as to me, no common-sense jury would credit your evidence. Well, then, we must break off our engagement. What would be the good of that? They would ferret out our past relations, would suspect their resumption immediately after the verdict. Well, then, we must break off our engagement. I repeated decisively. I could never marry a prosecutor in posse, a man whose heart was smoldering a petty sense of pecuniary injury. If you married me, I should cease to be a prosecutor in posse, he said soothingly. As the law stands, a husband cannot give evidence against his wife in criminal cases. Oh, well, then you'd become a persecutor in Essie! I retorted. You'd always have something to throw in my teeth, and for my part I could never forgive you the wrong I have done you. We could not possibly live together. My demeanor was so chilling, my tone so resolute, that Richard was panic-stricken. He vowed protested, stormed, entreated, but nothing could move me. A kindly accident has shown me your soul, I answered, and the sight is not encouraging. Fortunately I have seen it in time. You remember when you took me to see the doll's house, you said that Nora was quite right in all she did. I daresay it was because the actress was so charming, but let that pass. And yet what are you but another helmer? Just see how exact is the parallel between our story and Ibsen's. Nora, in all innocence, forged her husband's name in order to get the money to restore him to health. I, in all innocence, steal a three-penny paper in order to leave you three thousand pounds by my death. When things turn out wrong, you turn around on me just as Helmer turned around on Nora, forgetting for whose sake the deed was done. If Nora was justified in leaving her husband, how much more justified must I be in leaving my betrothed? The cases are not quite on all fours, interrupted the President, who had pricked up her ears at the mention of the woman's poet. You must not forget that you did not really sin for his sake but for your brothers. That is an irrelevant detail, replied the beautiful ghoul. He thought I did, which comes to the same thing. My telling him I did only increases the resemblance between me and Nora. She was an awful fibber, if you remember. Richard, of course, disclaimed the likeness to Helmer, though in doing so he was more like him than ever. But I would give him no word of hope. We could never be happy together, I said. Our union would never be real. There would always be the three thousand pounds between us. Well, that would be fifteen hundred each. He answered with ghastly jocularity. This ill-timed flippancy ends all, I said solemnly. Henceforth, Mr. Westbourne, we must be strangers. He sat like one turned to stone. Not till the cab arrived at my brother's house did he speak again. Then he said in low tones, Maggie, can I never become anything to you but a stranger? The greatest miracle of all would have to happen then, Richard. I quoted coldly. Then, rejecting his proffered assistance, I alighted from the vehicle, passed majestically across the threshold, and mounted the stairs with stately step, not a sign, not the slightest tremor of a muscle, betraying what I felt. Only when I was safe in my own little room, with its lavender scented sheets and its thousand childish associations, did my pent-up emotions overpower me. I threw myself upon my little white bed in a paroxysm of laughter. I had come out of a disagreeable situation agreeably, leaving Dick in the wrong, and I felt sure I could whistle him back as easily as the handsome. And what became of Richard? asked Lily. I left him to settle with the cab man. I have never seen him since. Lily gave a little shudder. You speak as if the cab man had settled with him. But are you sure you are willing to renounce all mankind, because you find one man unsatisfactory? All! I was very young when I got engaged. I did not want to be a burden on my brother. But now his firework factory is a brilliant success. He lives in a golden reign. Having only myself to please now, I don't see why I should have to please a husband. The more I think of marriage, the less I think of it. I have not kept my eyes open for nothing. I am sure it wouldn't suit me. Husbands are anything but the creatures a young girl's romantic fancy pictures. They have a way of disarranging the most careful toilettes. They ruffle your hair and your temper. They disorder the furniture, and put their feet on the mantelpiece. They scratch the fenders, read books, and stretch themselves on the most valuable sofas. If they help in the household, they only make more work. The trail of tobacco is over all you prize. All day long the smoke gets into your eyes. Filthy pipes clog your cabinets. Your window curtains reek of stale cigars. You have bartered your liberty for a mess of cigar ash. There is an odor of bar saloons about the house, and boon companions come to welter in whiskey and water. Their talk is of science and art and politics, and it makes them guffaw noisily and dig one another in the ribs. There is not a man in the world to whom I would trust my sensitive fragility. They are all coarse, clumsy creatures with a coat of morals that they don't profess, and a creed of chivalry that they never practice. Falsehood abides permanently in their mouth like artificial teeth, and corruption lurks beneath the whited sepulchres of their shirt fronts. They adore us in secret and deride us when they are together. They feign a contempt for us which we feel for them. These sentiments reinstated Miss Lindbridge in the good opinion of the President, conscious here too for of a jarring chord. She ordered in some refreshments to get an opportunity of whispering to turpel the magnificent that the honorary trier might return. Oh, by the way, said Miss Lindbridge, I hunted out that copy of three penny bits before coming out. I've kept it in a drawer as a curiosity. Here it is! Lily took the paper and examined it anxiously. What's that? You reading three penny bits? said Silverdale coming in. It is only an old number, said Lily, whereby hangs a tale. Miss Lindbridge was in a railway accident with it. Miss Lindbridge, Lord Silverdale. The honorary trier bowed. Oh, what a pity it is an old number, he said. Miss Lindbridge might have had a claim for damages. How very unglant, said Lily, Miss Lindbridge would have had no claim unless she had been killed. Besides, added Miss Lindbridge, laughing at Lily's bull. It wasn't an old number then, the accident happened on New Year's Day. Even then it would have been too old, answered Silverdale, for it is dated December 2nd, and the assurance policy is only valid during the week of issue. What is that? gasped Miss Lindbridge, her face was passing through a variety of shades. Yes, said Lily, here is the condition in print. You don't seem to have noticed it was a back number. But of course I don't wonder at that. There's no topical interest, whatever. One week's very much like another. You see, here is even, specimen copy, marked on the outside sheet. Richard's uncle must have had it given to him in the street. The miracle! exclaimed Miss Lindbridge in exultant tones, and repossessing herself of the paper she darted from the club. End of CHAPTER XIII Lord Silverdale had gone, and there was now no need for Lily to preserve the factitious cheerfulness with which she had listened to his usual poem, while her thoughts were full of other and even more depressing things. Margaret Lindbridge's miracle had almost undermined the President's faith in the steadfastness of her sex. She turned mentally to the yet unaccepted Wee Winnie for consolation, condemning her own half-hearted attitude towards that sturdy soul, and almost persuading herself that salvation lay in spats. At any rate, long skirts seemed the last thing in the world to find true women in. But Providence had not exhausted its miracles, and Lily was not to spend a miserable afternoon. The miracle was speeding along towards her on the top of an omnibus, a miracle of beauty and smartness. On reaching the vicinity of the Old Maids Club, the miracle, which was of course of the female gender, tapped the driver amicably upon the hat with her parasol, and said, Stop please! The petite creature was the spirit of self-help itself, and scorned the aid of the gentleman in front of her, preferring to knock off his hat and crush the drivers, so long as the independence of womanhood was maintained. But she maintained it charmingly and without malice, and gave the conductor a sweet smile in addition to his fare as she tripped away to the Old Maids Club. Lily was fascinated the instant Terpel the Magnificent announced Miss Wilkins in suave tones. The mere advent of a candidate raised her spirits, and she found herself chatting freely with her visitor even before she had put her through the catechism. But the catechism came at last. Why do I want to join you? asked the miracle. Because I am disgusted with my lover, because I am a femme incomprise. Oh, don't stare at me as if I were a medley of magrims and fashionable ailments. I'm the very opposite of that. Mine is a buoyant, breezy, healthy nature, straightforward and simple. That's why I complain of being misunderstood. My lover is a poet, and the misunderstanding I have to endure at his hands is something appalling. Every man is a bit of a poet where woman is concerned, and so every woman is more or less misunderstood. But when you are unfortunate enough to excite the affection of a real whole poet, well that way madness lies. Your words are twisted into meanings you never intended, your motives are misconstrued, and your simplest actions are distorted. Silver plume, for it is the well-known author of poems of compassion that I have had the misfortune to captivate, never calls without laying a sonnet next day, in which remarks that must be most misleading to those who do not know me occur with painful frequency. His allowance is two kisses per day, one of salutation, one of farewell. We have only been actually engaged two months, yet I have counted up 239 distinct and separate kisses in the voluminous sonnet series, which he has devoted to our engagement, and what is worse he describes himself as depositing them, where at thy flower-mouth exiguous the purple passion mantles to the brim. It sounds as if I was bereuged like a dowager. Purple passion indeed! I let him kiss me because he appears to like it, and because there seems something wrong about it. But as for really carrying a pin one way or another, well you, Miss Dalsamer, know how much there is in that. This sonnet series promises to be endless. The course of our acquaintance ship is depicted in its most minute phases with the most elaborate inaccuracy. If I smile, if I say, how do you do? If I put my hand to my forehead, if I look into the fire, down go fourteen lines giving a whole world of significance to my meanest actions, and making himalayas out of the most microscopic molehills. I am credited with thoughts I never dreamed of, and sentiments I never felt, till I ask myself whether any other woman was ever so cruelly misunderstood as I. I grow afraid to do or say anything, lest I bring upon my head a new sonnet. But even so I cannot help looking something or the other, and when I come to read the sonnet I find it is always the other. Once I refused to see him for a whole week, but that only resulted in seven sonnets of absence, imaginatively depicting what I was saying and doing each day, and containing a detailed analysis of his own sensations, as well as reminiscences of past happy hours together. Most of them I had no recollection of, and the only one I could at all share was that of a morning we spent on the Ramsgate cliffs, where Silver Plume put his handkerchief over his face and fell asleep. In the last line of the sonnet it came out, there mid the poppies of the planosphere I swooned for very joy and weary head. But I know it by the poppies. Then, dear Miss Dalsimer, you should see the things he calls me. Loves gonfalon and lodestar and what not. Very often I can't even find them in the dictionary, and it makes me uneasy. Heaven knows what he may be saying about me. When he talks of, the rack of unevasive lunar things, I do not so much complain, because it's their concern if they are libeled. It is different within comprehensible remarks flung unmistakably at my own head, such as, O chariost of curridid tidies! It sounds like a reproach, and I should like to know what I have done to deserve it. And then his general remarks are so monotonously unintelligible. One of his longest poetical epistles, which is burnt into my memory, because I had to pay tuppence for extra postage, began with this lament. O sweet are roses in the summertime, and Indian niads weary walruses, and yet to-morrow never comes to-day. I cannot see any way out of it all except by breaking off our engagement. When we were first engaged, I don't deny I rather liked being written about in lovely sounding lines, but it is a sweet one is soon surfeted with, and Silver Plume has raved about me to that extent, that he has made me look ridiculous in the eyes of all my friends. If he had been moderate they would have been envious. Now they laugh when they read of my wonderful charms, of my lithe snake's mouth, and my face which shames the sun, and my epsychodionic eyes, whatever that may be, and my we-waste that holds the cosmos in its span, and say he's poking fun at me. But Silver Plume is quite serious, I am sure of that, and it is the worst feature of the case. He carries on just the same in conversation with the most improper allusions to heathen goddesses, and seems really to believe that I am absorbed in the sunset when I am thinking what to wear tomorrow. Just to give you an idea of how he misinterprets my silence, let me read to you one of his sonets called Moonshine. Walking a space betwixt the double knot, the what is bound to be, and the what has been, how sweet with thee beneath the moonlit treen, a woman's soul immaculately wrought, to sit and catch a harmony uncaught within a world that mocks with margarine, in chasen silence mystic episcine, exchanging incommunicable thought. Diana death may doom and time may toss, and sundry other kindred things occur, but hell itself can never turn to loss, though mephestopheles his stumps should stir. That day, when introduced at Charing Cross, I smiled and doffed my silken cylinder. Another distressing feature about Silver Plume, indeed I think about all men, is their continuous capacity for love-making. You know, my dear Miss Dalsimer, with us it is a matter of times and seasons. We are creatures of strange and subtle susceptibilities. Sometimes we are in the mood for love and ready to respond to all shades of sentimentality, but at other moments, and these the majority, men's amorous advances jar horribly. Men do not know this. Ever ready to make love themselves, they think all moments are the same to us as to them, and of all men, poets are the most prepared to make love at a moment's notice, so that Silver Plume himself is almost more trying than his verses. But after all, you need not read them, observed Lily. They please him, and they do not hurt you, and you have always the consolation of remembering it is not you he loves, but the paragon he has evolved from his inner consciousness, even taking into account his perennial affectionateness, your reason for refusing him seems scarcely strong enough. Ah, wait a moment, you have not heard the worst. I might perhaps have tolerated his metrical misinterpretations. Indeed, on my sending him a vigorous protest against the inaccuracies of his last collection, they came out so much more glaringly when brought altogether from the various scattered publications to which Silver Plume originally contributed them, he sent me back a semi-apologetic explanation thus conceived, to Cecilia. You know, of course, my name is Diana, but that is his way. To his not alone thy sweet eyes gleam, nor sunny glances, for which I weave so oft a dream of dainty fancies. To his not alone thy witching play of grace fantastic that makes me chant so oft allay encomiastic. Both editors and thee I see, thy face their purses. I offer heart and soul to thee, to them my verses. I was partially mollified by this, for if his poems were not merely complementary, and he really got paid for them, one might put up with inspiring them. We were reconciled, and he took me to a reception at the house of a wealthy friend of his, a fellow member of the Sonateer's Society. It was here that I saw a sight that froze my young blood, and warned me upon the edge of what a precipice I was standing. When we got into the drawing-room, the first thing we saw was an awful apparition in a corner, a hideous, unkempt, unwashed man in a dressing gown and slippers, with his eyes rolling wildly and his lips moving rhythmically. It was the host. Don't speak to him, whispered the hostess. He doesn't see us. He has been like that all day. He came down to look to the decorations this morning, when the idea took him, and he has been glued to the spot ever since. He has forgotten all about the reception. He doesn't know where here, and I thought it best not to disturb him till he is safely delivered of the Sonate. You are quite right, everybody said, in sympathetic, awestruck tones, and left a magic circle round the poet in labor. But I felt a shutter run through my whole being. Goodness gracious silver plume, I said. Is this the way you poets go on? No, no, Diana, he assured me. It is all Tommy Rott. I quote silver plume's words. The beggar is just bringing out a new volume, and although his wife has always distributed the most lavish hospitality to the critics, he has never been able to get himself taken seriously as a poet. There will be lots of critics here to-night, and he is playing his last card. If he is not a genius now he never will be. Oh, of course, I replied skeptically, too of a trade. I made him take me away, and that was the end of our engagement. Even as it was, silver plume's neglect of his appearance had been a constant thorn in my side. And if this was so before marriage, what could I hope for after? It was all very well for him to say his friend was only shamming, but even so, how did I know he would not be reduced to that sort of thing himself when his popularity faded and younger rivals came along? Lily, who seemed to have some ariere pensée, entered into an animated defense of the poet, but Miss Wilkins stood her ground and refused to withdraw her candidature. I don't want you to withdraw your candidature, said Lily frankly. I shall be charmed to entertain it. I am only arguing upon the general question. And indeed Lily was enraptured with Miss Wilkins. It was the attraction of opposites, a matter of fact woman, who could reject a poet's love, appealed to her with irresistible frequency. Miss Wilkins stayed on to tea, by which time she had become Diana, and they gossiped on all sorts of subjects, and Lily gave her the outlines of the queerest stories of past candidates, and in the Old Maid's Club that afternoon all went merry as a marriage bell. Well, good-bye, Lily, said Diana at last. Good-bye, Diana, returned Lily. Now I understand you, I hope you won't consider yourself a femme-incombe-prize any longer. It is only the men I complained of, dear. But we must ever remain incomprizes by man, said Lily, femme-incombe-prize, why it is the badge of all our sex. Yes, answered Diana, a woman letting down her back hair is tragic to a man. To us she only recalls bedroom gossip. Good-bye. And nodding brightly the brisk little creature sallied into the street and captured a passing bus. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Of the Old Maid's Club by Israel's Angle This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20 The Inaugural Soiree Oh, Lord Silverdale! cried Lily exultantly when he made his usual visit the next afternoon. At last I have an unexceptional candidate. We shall get underway at last. I am so pleased because Papa keeps bothering about that Inaugural Soiree. You know he is staying in town expressly for it. But what is the matter? You don't seem to be glad at my news. I'm afraid you will be grieved at mine, he replied gravely. Look at this in today's moon. Sobered by his manner she took the paper. Then her face grew white. She read, in large capitals, The Old Maid's Club interview with the President Sensational Stories of Skittish Spinsters Wee Winnie and Lily Dalsamer I called at the Old Maid's Club yesterday, writes a moon woman, to get some wrinkles which ought to be abundant in such a club, though they are not. Miss Dalsamer, the well-known authoress, is one of the loveliest and jolliest girls of the day. Of course I went as a candidate, with a trumped-up story about my unhappy past, which Miss Dalsamer will, I am sure, forgive me, in view of the fact that it was the only way of making her talk freely for the benefit of my readers. Lily's eye glanced rapidly down the collection of distortions, then she dropped the moon. This is outrageous, she said. I can never forgive her. Why is this the candidate you were telling me about? asked Silverdale in deeper concern. I'm afraid it is, said Lily, almost weeping. I took to her so. We talked ever so long. Even Wee Winnie did not possess the material for all these inaccuracies. What is this woman's name? Wilkins, I already called her Diana. Diana? cried Silverdale. Wilkins? Great heavens, can it be? What is the matter? It must be. Wilkins has married his Diana. It was Mrs. Diana Wilkins who called upon you, not Miss at all. What are you talking about? Who are these people? Don't you remember Wilkins, the moon man that I was up in a balloon with? He was in a frightful quandary then about his approaching marriage. He did not know what to do. It tortured him to hear anyone ask a question because he was always interviewing people, and he got to hate the very sound of an interrogation. I told you about it at the time, don't you remember? And he knew that marriage would bring into his life a person who would be sure to ask him questions after business hours. I was very sorry for the man and tried to think of a way out, but in vain, and I even promised him to bring the old maid's club under the notice of his Diana. Now it seems he has hit on the brilliant solution of making her into a lady interviewer, so that her nerves too shall be hypersensitive to interrogatives, and husband and wife shall sit at home in a balsamic restfulness permeated by none but categorical propositions. Ah, me, well, I envy them. You envy them? said Lily. Why not? They are well matched. But you are as happy as Wilkins, surely? Query, it takes two to find happiness. What nonsense! said Lily. She had been already so upset by the treachery and loss of the misunderstood Diana that she felt ready to break down and shed hot tears over these heretical sentiments of Silverdale's. He had been so good, so patient. Why should he show the cloven hoof just to-day? Miss Dolly Vane, announced Turple the Magnificent. A strange apparition presented itself, an ancient lady quaintly attired. Her dress fell in voluminous folds, the curious full skirt was bordered with velvet, and there were huge lace frills on the elbow sleeves. Her hair was smoothed over her ears, and she wore a leg-horn hat. There were the remains of beauty on her withered face, but her eyes were wild and wandering. She curtsied to the couple with old-fashioned grace, and took the chair which Lord Silverdale handed her. Lily looked at her inquiringly. Have I the pleasure of speaking to Miss Dalsimer? said the old lady. Her tones were cracked and quavering. I am Miss Dalsimer, replied Lily. What can I do for you? Ah, yes, I have been reading about you in the moon today. Wee Winnie and Lily Dalsimer. Wee Winnie. It reminds me of myself. They call me Little Dolly, you know. She simpered in a ghastly manner. Lily's face was growing pale. She could not speak. Yes, yes, of course, said Silverdale smiling. They call you Little Dolly. Little Dolly! she repeated to herself, mumbling and chuckling. Little Dolly! So you have been reading about Miss Dalsimer, said Silverdale pleasantly. Yes, yes, said the old lady, looking up with a start. Little Lily Dalsimer found dress of the Old Maid's Club. That's the thing for me, I thought to myself. That'll punish Philip. That'll punish him for being away so long. When he comes home and finds Little Dolly as an old maid, won't he be sorry, poor Philip? But I can't help it. I said I should punish him, and I will. All the blood had left Lily's cheek. She trembled and caught hold of Lord Silverdale's arm. I shan't have you now, Philip, the creaking tones of the old lady continued after a pause. The rules will not allow it. Will they, Miss Dalsimer? It is not enough that I am young and beautiful. I must reject somebody, and I have nobody else to reject but you, Philip. You are the only man I have ever loved. Oh, my Philip, my poor Philip! She began to wring her hands. Lily pressed closer to Lord Silverdale, and her grasp on his arm tightened. Very well, we will put your name on the books at once, said the honorary trier in bluff, hearty tones. Little Dolly looked up, smiling. Then I am an old maid! She cried ecstatically. Already! Little Dolly, an old maid! Already! She went off into a burst of uncanny laughter. Lord Silverdale felt Lily shuddering violently. He disengaged himself from her grasp and placed her on the sofa, then offering his arm to Miss Dolly Vane, who accepted it with a charming smile and a curtsy to Miss Dalsimer. He led her from the apartment. When he returned, Lily was weeping half hysterically on the sofa. My darling, he whispered, calm yourself. He laid his hand tenderly on her hair, presently the sobs seized. Oh, Lord Silverdale! she said in a shaken voice, how good you are, poor old lady, poor old lady! Do not distress yourself. I have taken care. She shall get home safely. Little Dolly! how tragic it was! whispered Lily. Yes, it was tragic. Probably it is not now so sad to her as it is to us, but it is tragic enough, heaven knows. Lily! He trembled as he addressed her thus for the first time. I am not sorry this has happened. The time has come to put an end to all this make-believe. This old maid's club of yours is a hollow mockery. You are playing around the fringes of tragedy. It is like warming your hands at a house on fire, wherein wretched beings are shrieking for help. You are young and rich and beautiful. Heaven pity the women who have none of these charms. Life is a cruel tragedy for many. Never crueler than when its remorseless laws condemn gentle loving women to a crabbed and solitary old age. To some all the smiles of fortune, the homage of all mankind. To others all the frowns of fate and universal neglect, aggravated by contumely. You have felt this, I know, and it is as a protest that you conceived your club. Still can it ever be a serious success? I love you, Lily, and you have known it all along. If I have entered into the joke, believe me, I have sometimes taken it as seriously as you. Come, say you love me too, and let us end the tragic comedy. Lily was obstinately silent for a moment. Then she dried her eyes, and with a one little smile said, in tones which she vainly strove to render those of the usual formula, What poem have you brought me to-day? Today I have brought no poem, but I have lived one, said Lord Silverdale, taking her soft, unresisting hand. But, like Lady Clara Verveire, you put strange memories in my head, and I will tell you some verses I made in the country in my callow youth when the world was new. Pastoral, a rich-toned landscape touched with darkling gold of misty, throbbing cornfields and with haze of softly tinted hills and dreaming wold, lies warm with raiment of soft summer rays, and in the magic air there lives a free and subtle feeling of the distant sea. The perfect day slips softly to its end, the sunset paints the tender evening sky, the shadows shroud the hills with gray and lend a softened touch of ancient mystery, and ere the silent change of heaven's light I feel the coming glory of the night. Oh, for the sweet and sacred earnest gaze of eyes divine with strange and yearning tears, to feel with me the beauty of our days, the glorious sadness of our mortal years, the noble misery of the spirit's strife, the joy and splendor of the body's life. Lily's hand pressed her lovers with involuntary tenderness, but she had turned her face away. Presently she murmured, But think what you are asking me to do! How can I, the president of the Old Maids' Club, be the first requerient? But you are also the last to leave the ship, he replied, smiling. Besides, you are not legally elected. You never came before the honorary trier. You were never a member at all, so have nothing to undo. If you had stood your trial fairly, I should have plucked you, my Lily, plucked you, and warned you nearest my heart. It is I who have a position to resign, the honorary triership, and I resign it instant-er, a nice trying time I have had, to be sure. Now, now, I set my face against punning, said Lily, showing it now, for the smiles had come to hide the tears. Pardon, rainbow, he answered. Why do you call me rainbow? Because you look it, he said, because your face is made of sunshine and tears. Go and look in the glass. Also because, well, wait, and I will fashion my other reason into rhyme and send it to you on our wedding morn. Poetry made while you wait, said Lily, laughing. The laugh froze suddenly on her lips, and a look of horror over-swept her face. What is it, dearest? cried her lover, in alarm. We winny! How can we face we winny? There is no need to break the truth to her. We can simply get rid of her by telling her she has never been elected and never will be. Why? said Lily, with a comic mouet. That would be harder to tell her than the truth, but we must first of all tell father. I am afraid he will be dreadfully disappointed at missing that inaugural soiree after all. You know he has been staying in town expressly for it. We have some bad quarters of an hour before us. They sought the millionaire in his sanctum, but found him not. They inquired of Terpel the Magnificent, and learned that he was in the garden. As they turned away, the lovers both simultaneously remarked something peculiar about the face of Terpel the Magnificent. Moved by a common impulse, they turned back and gazed at it. For some seconds they could not at all grasp the change that had come over it, but at last, and almost at the same instant, they realized what was the matter. Terpel the Magnificent was smiling. Filled with strange apprehensions, Silverdale and Lily hurried into the garden, where their vague alarm was exchanged for definite consternation. The millionaire was pacing the gravel paths in the society of a strange and beautiful lady. On closer inspection, the lady turned out to be only too familiar. Why, it's we Winnie masquerading as a woman! exclaimed Lord Silverdale. And so it proved, Nellie Nimrod in all the flush of her womanly beauty, her manish attire discarded. Why, what is this, Father? murmured Lily. My child, said the millionaire solemnly, as you have resolved to be an old maid, I—I—well, I thought it only my duty to marry. Even the poorest millionaire cannot shirk the responsibilities of wealth. But Father, said Lily, in dismay, I have changed my mind. I am going to marry Lord Silverdale. Bless ye, my children, said the millionaire. You are a woman, Lily, and it is a woman's privilege to change her mind. But I am a man and have no such privilege. I must marry all the same. But Miss Nimrod has changed her mind, too, said Lily, quite losing her temper, and she is not a woman. Gently, gently, said the millionaire, respect your stepmother to be if you have no respect for my future wife. Lily, said Miss Nimrod, appealingly, do not misjudge me, I have not changed my mind. But you said you could never marry on the ground that while you would only marry an unconventional man, an unconventional man wouldn't want to marry you. Well, your father is the man I sought. He didn't want to marry me, she explained frankly. Oh! said Lily, taken utterly aback and regarding her father commiseratingly. It is true, he said, laughing uneasily. I fell in love with Wee Winnie, but now Nelly says she wants to settle down. You ought to be grateful to me, Lily, added Nelly, for it was solely in the interest of the old maid's club that I consented to marry your father. He was always a danger to the club. At any moment he might have put forth autocratic authority and wound it up. So I thought that by marrying him I should be able to influence him in its favour. No doubt you will make him see the desirability of women remaining old maid's, retorted Lily, unappeased. Come, come, Lily, be sensible, said the millionaire. Nelly shall give Lily a good dinner at the junior widows, one of those charming dinners you and I have had there. And Lily, please send out the cards for the inaugural soiree. I am not going to be done out of that, and nothing can now be gained by delay. But, sir, how can we inaugurate a club which has never had any members? said Silverdale. But what does that matter? Aren't there plenty of candidates without them? Besides, nobody will know. Each of the candidates will think the others are the members. Tell you what, boy, they shall all dance at Lily's wedding, and will make that the inaugural soiree. But that would be to publish my failure to the world, remonstrated Lily. Nonsense, dear, it'll be published without that. Trust the moon. Isn't it better to take the bull by the horns? Well, yes, perhaps you're right, said Lily, hesitating. But I hope the world will understand that it is only desperation at the collapse of the old maid's club that has driven me to commit matrimony. She went back to the club to write out the cards. What do you think of my stepmother? She inquired pathetically of the ex-honorary trier. What do I think? said Lord Silverdale seriously. I think she is the punishment of providence for your interference with its designs. The explanatory poem duly came to hand on Lily's wedding mourn. It was written on vellum in the bridegroom's best hand, and ran. Rainbow. Ah, why I call you rainbow, sweet? The shadows for your eyes retreat. The ground grows light beneath your feet. You smile in your superior way. A rainbow has no feet, you say? Nay, be not so precise to-day. Created but to soothe and bless, you followed logic to excess, repressing thoughts of tenderness. My life was chilled and won and hoary. You came, the bow of ancient story, to kiss the greyness into glory. And now, as rainbow fair to see, a promise sweet you are to me, of sorrow never more to be. Besides the friends of the happy pair, nearly all the candidates were present at the inaugural soiree of the Old Maids Club. Not quite all, because Lily, who was rapidly growing conventional, did not care to have Clarinda Bell even accompanied by her mother, or by her brother, the man in the ironed mask. Nor did she invite the twins, nor the escalatory Alice. But she conquered her prejudices in other instances, and Frank Maddox, the art critic, came under the convoy of the composer, Paul Horace, and Miss Mary Frisco was brought by Bertie Smythe. The Writers Club also sent Ella Lyne Rand, and an account of the proceedings appeared in the first number of the chair-up. The Princess was brought by Miss Primpole, and Captain Athelstan and Lord Arthur came together in unimpaired friendship. Eustasia Pallas and her husband, Percy Swinshell Spat, both their faces full of the peace that passeth understanding, got a night off for the occasion, and came in a handsome paid for out of the week's beer-money. Terpel the Magnificent, who had seen them at home in the Servants' Hall, was outraged in his deepest instincts and multiplied occasions for offering them refreshments merely for the pleasure of snorting in their proximity. The great flat-pick, Frank Gray, accompanied by his newly-won bride, Cecilia, made the evening memorable by the presence of the English Shakespeare. Guy fledgely brought Miss Sibyl Hotspur, and his father, the Baronette, was under the care of Miss Jack. The Lady from Boston wired congratulations on the success of the club from Yokohama with her she had gone to pick up lacquer work. Poor Miss Summerson, the lovely May and the victim of the Valentine, were a triad that was much admired. Miss Fanny Radowsky, whose Oriental loveliness excited much attention, came with Martin. Winifred Woodpecker was accompanied by her mother, the resemblance between the two being generally remarked, and Miss Margaret Lindbridge seemed to afford Richard Westbourne copious opportunities for jealousy. Even Wilkins was there with his Diana, in an unprofessional capacity, Lily having relented towards her interviewer on learning that she had been really engaged to Silver Plume once, and that she had not entirely drawn on the stories of journalistic fancy. Silver Plume himself was there, unconscious to what he owed the invitation, and paying marked attention to the unattached beauties. Miss Nimrod prominated the rooms on the arm of the millionaire. She had improved vastly since she had become effeminate, and Lily felt she could put up with her now that she would not have to live with her. Even Silverdale's aunt, Lady Goodie Goodie Two Shoes, could find no fault with Nellie now. It was a brilliant scene. The apartments of the Old Maids Club had been artistically decked with the most gorgeous flowers that the millionaire could afford, and the epigrams had been carefully removed so as to leave the rooms free for dancing. As Lily's father gazed around, he felt that not many millionaires could secure such a galaxy of beauty as circled in the giddy dance in his gilded saloon. It was, indeed, an unexampled gathering of pretty girls, this inaugural soiree of the Old Maids Club, and the millionaire's shirt front heaved with pride and pleasure, and the letter-day cupid that still hung on the wall seemed to take heart of grace again. You got my verses this morning, Rainbow Mine? said Silverdale when the carriage drove off and the honeymoon began. It was almost the first moment that they had had together the whole day. Yes, said Lily softly, and I wanted to tell you there are two lines which are truer than you meant. I am indeed a poet, then. Which are they? Lily blushed sweetly. Presently she murmured. You followed logic to excess, repressing thoughts of tenderness. How did you know that? She asked, her brown eyes looking ingenuously into his. Love's divination, I suppose. My father didn't tell you? Tell me what? About my discovery in the Algebra of Love? Algebra of Love? No, of course he didn't. I don't suppose he ever really understood it, said Lily with a pathetic smile. I think I ought to tell you now what it is that made me so, so you understand. She put her little warm hand lightly into his and nestled against his shoulder, as if to make amends. After a delicious silence, for Lord Silverdale betrayed no signs of impatience, Lily confessed all. So you see, I have loved you all along. She concluded, only I did not dare hope that the chance would come to pass, against which the odds were five thousand nine hundred ninety nine. But great heavens! cried Lord Silverdale, do you mean to say this is why you were so cold to me, all those long weary months? It is the only reason, faltered Lily, but would you have had me defy the probabilities? No, no, of course not. I wouldn't dream of such a thing. But you have miscalculated them. Miscalculated them? Lily began to tremble violently. Yes, there is a fallacy in your ratiosination. A fallacy? she whispered hoarsely. Yes, you have calculated on the theory that the probabilities are independent, whereas they are interdependent. In the Algebra of Love, this is the typical class of probabilities. The two events, your falling in love with me, my falling in love with you, are related. They are not absolutely isolated phenomena, as you have superficially assumed. It is our common qualities which make us gravitate together. And what makes me love you is the same thing that makes you love me. Thus the odds against our loving each other are immensely less than you have ciphered out. Lily had fallen back, huddled up, in her corner of the carriage, her face covered with her hands. Forgive me, said Lord Silverdale penitently. I had no right to correct your mathematics on your wedding day. Say two and two are six, and I will make it so. Two and two are not six, and you know it, said Lily firmly, raising her wet face. It is I who will have to ask forgiveness for being so cruel to you. But if I have sinned, I have sinned in ignorance. You will believe that, dearest? I believe anything that comes from my rainbow's lips, said Lord Silverdale. Why, they are quite white. Let me kiss them rosy again. Like a naughty child that has been chastened by affliction, she held up her face obediently to meet his. The lips were already blushing. But confess, she said, while an arch indefinable light came into the brown eyes, confess we have had a most original courtship.