Rose’s happiness was now running at full tide, and she was carried with it, amid the sympathies of those who loved her and the congratulations of all her acquaintances. Mr. Filmer abandoned his great book until after the marriage. Harry took pride in introducing his future brother-in-law to his best club acquaintances, and then was agreeably surprised to find Antony’s financial standing well known to the magnates of the money world. Mrs. Filmer spoke with well controlled elation of their satisfaction in the intended marriage, of the bridegroom’s fine character and great wealth, and of the old Dutch ancestry which he shared with Miss Alida and the eminent Van Hoosen family.

On Antony’s side, the marriage gave equal satisfaction. Peter had a pleasant memory of the bright girl; and Adriana thought far more of Rose’s good points than of her evil ones. With Miss Alida, she planned all kinds of sweet surprises for the bride elect; and busied herself continually concerning the details of the ceremony and the preparations for it. And without a word to each other on the subject, there appeared to be a tacit agreement among all who loved Rose that she was not to be left to herself; and that all temptation must be kept out of her path. This was an easy thing to do under the circumstances; there was so much shopping to attend to; and there were the wonderful 169 wedding and travelling costumes to prepare, and the dresses of the eight maids to be decided on, and all the exact paraphernalia of a fashionable wedding to accomplish. Rose was wanted everywhere. She had suddenly become the most important person in her little world. Her tastes and inclinations settled all disputed points; and perpetual offerings, of many kinds, were made to her.

Indeed, each day brought her some token of remembrance or congratulation from relatives and acquaintances; and Antony’s gifts realized all of even Rose’s exacting ideas concerning the proper evidences of love. Certainly, if jewels could typify affection, Antony’s must have been very great; for when at length the bridal satin and lace were assumed, her favorite gems fastened its veil, and glittered in her ears, and sparkled round her throat, and clasped her snowy belt. There was a crowded church to witness the wedding, and the atmosphere was sensitive with interest and pleasure, with the odors of flowers, and the bright reverberations of joyful music. Antony, also, on this occasion, was singularly handsome—as a man ought to be on his wedding day; he walked as if he were all spirit, and too happy for words. And yet many remarked his emphatic speech in the bridal ceremony; his serious assumption of all it demanded; and the proud tenderness with which at its close he turned to Rose and said, “My wife!”

So the affair was handsomely and happily over, and Peter Van Hoosen—who stood by his son’s side—admitted that it was “a very pretty spectacle.” And yet, even while it was in progress, his memory had gone back with a graver pleasure to his own marriage with Antony’s mother. He remembered her as 170 young and as fair as Adriana, standing in her gown of white muslin, with no ornaments but the white roses in her hair and the pretty Bible in her hand. Loving and proud as Antony was that day, he had been equally so; and the bare kirk, and the solemn charge of the minister, and the kindly smiles of the friends who stood by them, seemed even at this hour just the kind of marriage he would prefer, if he were a young man again with Antony’s mother beside him.

There was a grand wedding breakfast, at which Miss Alida took a prominent part; and then the young couple went off to sea together; and the company sighed and departed; and when the sun set, the bridal day was quite over. Mr. and Mrs. Filmer sat talking, a little sad, and yet gratefully satisfied. Harry was with Miss Alida and Adriana, and disposed to talk of his own marriage. Nobody wanted dinner; they had a cup of tea by the parlor fire, and as they were drinking it and talking over the events of the day, Professor Snowdon came in.

“Well, well!” he cried, rubbing his hands gleefully, “the great performance is over; and it is evident the modern bride and bridegroom profit by the old stage direction: ‘Flourish of trumpets! Alarum! Exeunt!’” Then he looked at Peter, who was Miss Alida’s guest for the night, and Adriana said: “This is my father, Professor.”

“I am glad to see you, sir. What were you talking of? Do not let me interrupt the conversation.”

“I was talking, as old men will talk, of their youth, and of my own marriage in the old Dutch kirk at Woodsome.”

“I thought so. I meet many old men, and all of them, no matter how successful their later years have 171 been, like best of all to talk of their life in childhood and early youth upon some farm; to recall the

or the

and when they do so, a different look comes into their faces, and their laugh grows young again—that is the strange thing. And I myself, I too, remember love in my sweet youth.”

“If any one has ever loved,” said Peter, “he cannot forget. Nothing goes to heaven but love.”

“Is it not heaven? We have a way of inferring that heaven is far off and walled in, but really all eternal things are so very near to us that a single step, a sudden ‘accident’ brings the disembodied spirit into an immediate recognition of them.”

“Then,” said Harry, clasping Adriana’s hand, “let us live now, for time is short.”

“No, sir,” answered the Professor, promptly, “man has forever.”

“If in spiritual things, we could only see with our eyes and hear with our ears!” said Miss Alida.

“And if so, madame, what grace would there be in believing?”

“Who does believe?” asked Harry. “The great German philosopher, Frederick Gotfield, says, all religions are alike dead, and there is no faith left in the heart of man; no, nor yet capacity for faith.”

“Well, Mr. Filmer, the disciple is not above his master. If you sit at the feet of Mr. Frederick 172 Gotfield, you cannot rise above his doubts and scoffing.”

“Harry does not sit at the feet of any such master, sir,” explained Adriana.

“I am glad of it; for Mr. Gotfield is not in search of salvation; his way leads—but we will not talk of him. Oh, for a generation perplexed with no vague fears, worn with no infinite yearnings, perfectly happy and healthy, and aiming at the noblest ends! How good it would be!”

“However,” said Harry, “whether we believe or not, we can love.”

“Then love wisely. I have read that St. Bernard thought that at the Last Day we shall not be asked what we have done, nor yet what we have believed, but what we have loved. That will indeed be a supreme test of character.”

Harry became very thoughtful, and clasped Adriana’s hand tighter; and just then Miss Alida’s lawyer called, and she was compelled to leave her company for a while. So the Professor and Peter began to talk of Free Will and Calvinism, and Harry and Adriana withdrew to the curtained window, where they sat in happy silence, listening to that speech which is heard with the heart, and yet dimly conscious of the argument in progress. This way and that way it veered, Peter holding grimly fast to his stern plan of sin and retribution; the Professor doubting, qualifying, extolling free grace, and averring he would “consider the burning of all Calvin’s books to be most justifiable Libricide”—making the statement, however, with such sweet, calm good nature, that it was impossible to be angry, even had Peter desired to be so. But Peter was far too firmly fixed on his foundation to feel anger; his opposition 173 took the form of a sublime confidence, and he closed the discussion with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm it was impossible not to respect.

“Say what you will about the deadness of our faith, Professor!” he cried, “there is life in the old kirk yet!”

He rose to his full stature with the words, his face kindling, and his head thrown back and upward with the aspiring assertion. Adriana felt the magnetism of his faith and stood up also, and the Professor answered, gently:

“Mr. Van Hoosen, I respect your sentiments with all my intellect and all my heart. One thing in your sturdy creed makes it omnipotent—the utter absence of such an enfeebling thought as that this life was meant to be a pleasure-house. How, indeed, could it fit into your creed? and yet, to make life happy, to have pleasure, is not this the question of existence to a majority?”

“Duty, not pleasure, was John Calvin’s central idea. We are to obey, not to grumble, or to desire. We are to receive all life’s ills as plain facts of discipline:

Then Miss Alida’s entrance broke up the conversation, and the Professor bade them “good-night.” And in some way he made them feel that he had received help and strength, and not merely pleasure, from the interview. The clasp of his hand went to the heart, and both in his eyes and in Peter’s eyes there was that singular 174 brilliance which is the result of seeing, as in a vision, things invisible.

Suddenly every one was weary. Harry went away with the Professor, promising to come early the following evening, which was to be the last of Adriana’s visit. The next day she would return to Woodsome with her father, and her trunks were already packed for the flitting. However, a week or two later Miss Alida was to follow her, and in the interval Adriana looked forward with some pleasure to a life of reflection and rest. She meant to cast up accounts with herself, and see whether she had been a loser, or a gainer, by the winter’s experience.

The next morning both the ladies were silent and weary, and not inclined to movement. They preferred to dawdle over their coffee, to wonder whether Rose was seasick, and to discuss the smaller details of the ceremony, that had been too insignificant for the first prime criticism. Then the newspaper accounts were to praise and to blame, and the morning passed in a languid after-taste of the previous day. In the afternoon the sun was bright and warm and New York in one of her most charming moods. “Let us have a last drive in the Park,” said Miss Alida, “for we shall have to content ourselves with woodland ways and dusty roads for the next few months. Put on your hat and your new suit. We may meet Harry, and if so, we can bring him back with us.”

Full of pleasant expectations, Adriana dressed herself in the sunshine, and came downstairs in an unusually merry mood. Miss Alida looked curiously at her. “How fond she is of Harry!” she thought, “and he is not worthy of her.” But worthy or unworthy, it was evident that Adriana was watching 175 for and expecting her lover. “It is so unreasonable of me,” she said to her cousin, “for I told Harry last night that I should not leave the house to-day. He wanted me to drive with him, and I said, ‘No.’ My last drive with him was so happy I feared to spoil its memory. One never knows what might occur to do so—a shower, a cold wind, a bit of temper, or a tight shoe, or something, anything, for which neither of us would be responsible.”

“To be sure!” answered Miss Alida, vaguely. She had a feeling that Adriana had a feeling, and that there was an unacknowledged presentiment between them. So they drove, and drove, and Adriana’s high spirits suddenly left her. Miss Alida also became quiet, and the hour grew monotonous and chilly and gray, and as the best carriages were leaving the drive she gave the order to return home.

They were nearing the Plaza when Miss Alida directed Adriana’s attention to an approaching carriage. It was in a glow of color, and as it drew nearer the colors became robes and wraps of gorgeous shades, and reclining among them was a certain well-known operatic divinity. Harry was with her. His eyes were looking into her eyes, and his whole being was absorbed in the intoxicating sensuous loveliness of his companion. He never saw Adriana. She looked directly at her recreant lover, and he never saw her. There was no need for words. The event was too positive and too flagrant to admit of doubt or palliation.

“To-morrow I shall go to Woodsome,” said Adriana, as they stood a moment in the hall; “to-night, dear cousin, make an excuse for me, if you please.”

But Miss Alida followed Adriana to her room and 176 answered: “Make an excuse for you! Nonsense! See Harry, and tell him what you saw. I hate those sulky quarrels where people ‘think it best to say nothing.’”

“How can I tell him?”

“The plainest way is the easiest way. Tell him you saw him driving in the Park, and ask him very sweetly whom he was driving with. If he tells a lie——”

“I will not tempt him to lie. What could he do else?”

“I would humble him to my very feet.”

“Then I might as well say, ‘Farewell forever,’ for a man at my feet could never be my lover and husband. Oh, cousin, I must say ‘farewell’ in any case. I am so wretched! so wretched!”

“Poor girl! I have always told you not to put your trust in a broken reed—alias man. You did so, and you have got a wound for your pains. But, Yanna, my dear, what is now the good of crying for the moon; that is, for a man who is not a broken reed? I advise you to see Harry.”

“I cannot. See him for me. Please.”

“What am I to say? You know how apt I am to speak the uppermost thought.”

“You will say nothing wrong. Do not tell father anything.”

“There I think you are wrong. Cousin Peter has intuitive wisdom—woman’s wisdom, as well as man’s craft.”

“However, say nothing to-night. Make some excuse for me; for I must be alone.”

So Miss Alida left the sorrowful girl; but as she disrobed herself, she muttered: “What a miracle of ill-luck! I thought something unpleasant would come of Yanna’s high spirits—the girl was what the Scotch call 177 fey. Harry Filmer is a born fool, and a cultivated fool, and a reckless fool, and every other kind of a fool! Indeed, he is not a fool, he is the fool of the universe. Everything in his hand, and he could not hold it! I will give him a lecture to-night—if he comes to-night, which I doubt. That siren has him in a net, he will go to the opera to see her dance; he will forget Yanna, and then, to-morrow, he will talk of a headache—or an important engagement—and Yanna will despise him far more than if he told the whole truth. To-morrow, of course, for I am sure he will not come to-night; and it is Yanna’s last night in the city, too. Men take the heart out of you if you mind their goings-on.”

Miss Alida was right. Harry did not call, and Peter sat and talked with Miss Alida, worrying a little all the time about his daughter’s sickness. And he was glad when Yanna sent to ask him if he could be ready for the early train; for Peter felt that the end of the visit had come, and that no pleasure could be obtained by drawing out what was already finished. So, while it was yet very early in the morning, Peter and Yanna went away; and Yanna was unavoidably sad, and yet, in the midst of her sadness, she was conscious of that strange gratification which we may call a sense of completeness. Even to the painful events of her visit, it gave her that bitter-sweetness that all experience when they watch a lover out of sight or the last red spark die out of the gray ashes that were once love letters. One chapter of life was finished. Yes, she told herself, quite finished in some respects. She had watched Harry leave her in a way that she felt must be final. And Antony and Rose had gone to their own life. When they returned, Antony would be 178 changed, and Rose would be changed, and she also would be changed. Nothing could ever again be just as it had been.

A few hours after Peter and his daughter had left the city, Miss Alida was sitting with an open book in her hand. Her life had not been without love and lovers, and she was remembering rather than reading when she saw Harry coming up the steps to the door. She knew that he expected to take lunch with Adriana and then go with her to the Railway Station; and she smiled faintly at the disappointment in store for him. As he came near the parlor door, she let her eyes fall upon the book, and she did not lift them until Harry said:

“Reading, Cousin Alida! Pray, what interests you so early in the day?”

“For my sins, I am reading a philosophical novel. Our very story-tellers are getting serious and instructive; and as I read for amusement, I shall turn to Talmage’s sermons.”

“Where is Yanna?”

“Yanna left for Woodsome early this morning. She is at home by this time.”

“That is too bad! She promised to let me go to the train with her.”

“She expected you last night.”

“I could not possibly come. I was ever so sorry.”

“Why could you not come?”

“I was engaged—unexpectedly—and I was not feeling right. You know very well there are things that a man must attend to, whether he wants to do so or not.”

“Harry Filmer! You are a worse moral coward than the first of your kind. You cannot even say: ‘The woman beguiled me.’ Generally speaking, a man in a 179 mess can get out of it by throwing the blame on the woman with him.”

“Oh, if it comes to that, I hope I am not cad enough to put my sin on any woman. How much do you know, Miss Van Hoosen? Who has been telling tales?”

“We were in the Park yesterday afternoon, and we met you driving with——”

“I know. Was Yanna with you?”

“Yanna was with me.”

“Confusion! What did she say?”

“Not much. She went home by the first train this morning.”

“She will never forgive me!”

“I should say, never.”

“I did not mean that. She will be angry, of course, but she will not be angry forever. I am awfully sorry to-day. But how can I tell her so? What would you do? Come now, cousin, you are a sensible woman, and you know men must have a little latitude—and really, I was caught so suddenly—and if you would listen, you would understand that there is some excuse for me.”

“None at all, sir! What is temptation for but to resist?”

“I thought I would just take a short drive, and be here to dinner, but I was not very well.”

“You mean that you dined and drank wine with Madame Z——, and that you could not come afterwards.”

“She would not let me leave her, and so——”

“I thought you would get as far as Adam before you were through with your apology. ‘She would not let me!’ Just so.”

“It is too bad to take me up so quickly, when I am distracted with shame and sorrow. What shall I do?”

“I would advise you to go to Woodsome and tell Yanna so. She may forgive you, but I doubt if she will ever love you again.”

“She cannot help loving me. And if she loves, she will forgive.”

“Do not be too sure of that. Yanna has the stubbornness of the Dutch moral character, and her conscience is strictly Calvinistic. She finds it very hard to forgive her own little peccadillos.”

“Are you also angry, cousin? You have seen life, and you ought to make allowances.”

“Right is right, Harry Filmer; and wrong is wrong, even to me; and I am angry and greatly disappointed with you. I have looked forward with so much pleasure to your marriage with Yanna, for you see, sir, it was to me not only a union of hearts and hands, but a union of lands. Yanna is to have all I possess, and if you inherit your father’s land, old Peter Van Hoosen’s estate will be nearly intact again. Now that simple, conscientious old Dutchman is my hero. His likeness hangs in my private sitting-room, and I have constantly promised him that I would try and put the land he loved all right before I joined him. You need not look at me, Harry, as if you thought I were crazy. I can tell you that there is a motive in working to please the dead, which working for the living has nothing to match. Anyway, they are not always overturning your best-laid plans.”

“I was only astonished, cousin.”

“Whenever I manage to buy back an acre, I feel it to be a joy beyond most earthly joys to stand before the mighty-looking old burgomaster and say: ‘Another 181 acre put right, Father Peter.’ And the canvas speaks to me, and I dream of the old man, and I know that he knows; and that is all about it! So then, you see, I am not the only one you have disappointed. I am sure your ancestor is thoroughly ashamed of you this day.”

Miss Alida spoke with a singular calm intensity, and Harry was affected by it. Some one tugged at his heart-strings whom he had never before thought of, and he said humbly: “I am sorry! I am very sorry! I will go and see Yanna to-day.”

“Not to-day. Wait a little. Write to her first. She must have time to understand herself. I expect my friend Selina Zabriski to-morrow, and after her arrival I shall not be long in the city. When I return to Woodsome, I will speak to Yanna for you. I do not say she ought to forgive you, but I will ask her to do so. And I do not thank you, Harry Filmer, for making me plead such a case. And you need not thank me, for I am afraid there is more expediency than sympathy in my offer.”

Fortunately, a man’s own soul is his best oracle, if he will but listen to it; and Harry’s inmost feeling was that he ought to go and see Yanna. He went by the first train, the next morning; and walking up to the Van Hoosen house, he came unexpectedly upon Peter, who was standing by a large oval bed of magnificent tulips.

“Sir,” said Harry, “I want to speak to you. I must tell you something at once, or perhaps I may not have the courage to tell you at all. I have offended Yanna; and she has a right to be very angry with me. I made an engagement to dine with her on the last evening she was in the city, and instead of keeping it 182 I went driving with another lady, and afterwards dined with her. I have no excuse to offer. I was simply met by a sudden temptation, and conquered by it. But I am sorry. I repent the folly most sincerely; and as far as I can promise for myself, I will never repeat it.”

Peter stood looking at the young man. He spoke with a nervous impetuosity, as if he feared he might not say all he wished unless he said it at once. His handsome face was flushed and serious, his voice full of feeling; and the hurry of his journey added to his general air of uncomfortable solicitude. There was something very attractive about the penitent youth; and such anger as Peter had felt melted under the warm, anxious gaze which accompanied his entreaty.

For even while Harry was saying: “I have no excuse to offer. I was met by a sudden temptation and was conquered by it,” the voice of the inner man was thus instructing Peter: “Brethren, if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual restore such an one in the spirit of meekness; considering thyself, lest thou also be tempted!”[1] So that, when Harry ceased speaking, Peter put out his hand to him and said:

“Let us walk down the avenue, Harry. It is evident that while you were going quietly on your way, thinking no evil, temptation, for which you were quite unprepared, presented itself, and before you knew, you were in the dust, fallen. Well, then, you were ‘overtaken in a fault,’ and the large charity of the Law of Christ tells me that in such case the sinner is to be forgiven. It tells me, also, to forgive in the spirit of meekness; for anger is sin, Harry, and sin cannot drive out sin. I like your confession of fault; it comes 183 from a desire to be true; and I do not think you will find Yanna more unforgiving than you deserve.”

“I will try not to err in the same way again, sir.”

“Do not; for just as a noble character is slowly elaborated by a constant repetition of virtuous acts, so a base character is the result of a perpetual repetition of unworthy ones. You cannot, therefore, afford to do things which compel you to say frequently: ‘I have sinned, and I am sorry.’”

“I trust that I know the value of a good character, sir.”

“Indeed, Harry, character pure and high is the best thing a man can have. To have got it is to have got all; to have missed it is to have missed all.”

“I had no pleasure in my fault. I should have been infinitely happier with Yanna.”

“Pleasure seekers are never pleasure finders. Pleasure seekers are always selfish; and self never yet sufficed for self. The essence of all sin is the making of self the centre, round which we would have everything revolve. To be delivered from this desire is the turning-point in moral progress and in spiritual renewal.”

“I will try and do my whole duty in the future. I will, sir!”

“Duty! that is the great law. But it must be an ever-present consciousness. It must lie close to all your thoughts. It must haunt your very being. And I can tell you, Harry, that your sensual nature will shrink from such company. But be not discouraged, for when duty has become an habitual law, then obedience to it will be a choice and a delight.”

“Will you say a word to Yanna for me, sir.”

“I will walk with you to the door. That will be 184 sufficient. Speak for yourself; you speak to a tender heart.”

So they walked together through the garden, Peter delaying a little at the various beds of spring blossoms, for he wished Adriana to see that he had quite forgiven Harry’s offence, and taken him into favor again. And such forgivenesses are better thus understood; nothing is gained by discussing faults which are admitted, and for which there is no apology but the pitiful one of an unconquerable temptation. Peter’s talk was of the flowers, and of the fine spring weather, but Harry was hardly conscious of what he said; for he felt that his future had been brought to the fine turning-point of a single word. Would Yanna speak it?

Peter led him into the parlor and called Yanna. Then he said something about the strawberry beds and left the lover to plead his own cause. There was a few minutes’ delay, which Harry employed in walking about the room; then the door opened, and was softly closed, and Yanna stood in his presence, pale as a lily, but lovelier in his sight than she had ever before been.

He held out his hands to her. His eager face was a prayer. And though she stood very still, her heart was stirring and throbbing and sweetly urging: “Forgive him! Forgive him!” Then her eyes filled with a soft, blue light; and a smile that you might have felt in the dark spread like sunshine over her white face—and her hand clasped his hands—she was within his arms—something wonderful and instantaneous took place—everything was confessed in a look, and forgiven in a kiss, and love was satisfied without a word.

And the bliss and the strength of the next two hours 185 convinced Harry that he could no longer bear to be separated from a woman so near to his best self, and so necessary to it. He prayed Yanna to marry him at once, that day—well then, that week—or, if not, then certainly that month—when Miss Alida came back to Woodsome, and not a day later. And just how it happened neither knew, but when Harry went back to New York it was with Yanna’s promise to make their wedding day at a very early date.

On the journey he naturally thought of his mother, and he resolved to face her anger at once. “The day has been fortunate; I will take all it can give me,” he said. And so, as soon as he reached his home, he inquired for Mrs. Filmer. She had been making calls all the afternoon, and the woman who can return from that social duty in a state of serenity has not yet been evolved from nineteenth century conditions. Mrs. Filmer was not only tired, she was cross. “I feel as if I had been turned into a pincushion,” she said. “All the afternoon the wind blew the dust into my face, and the women pricked me in every place they thought a pin-point could hurt. They have condoled with me about Rose’s marriage until I could scarcely keep the tears in my heart, and congratulated me on it until my face burned like a flame. I never before knew that words could be stillettos. But if you had only been with me, Harry, it would have been different. Where have you been all day? I called on Miss Van Hoosen, and she had not seen you.”

“I have been to Woodsome.”

“It was unnecessary. Your father was there two days ago. All is ready for us.”

“I went to see Yanna. I want to induce Yanna to marry me very soon—in fact, this month.”

“I must be going crazy. Another marriage this month! Another marriage into that Van Hoosen family! I will not hear of such a thing! I will not listen to you! It is outrageous!”

“I feel that Yanna is necessary to my best interests. She keeps me right. I am ashamed to say that I fell under the Z——’s spell again last Thursday. I lost money, too, after the opera, at cards; I lost far more than money—I lost my veracity, my honor, and my self-respect. Yanna only can keep me out of temptation.”

“It seems even she fails.”

“You ought to be glad, mother, that Yanna is willing to marry me, and help me to do what is right.”

“I am profoundly sorry and angry. Pray, where are you going to live? That woman shall not enter any house of which I am the mistress. I will have nothing to do with her—nor with you either.”

At this point Harry heard his father going through the hall. He called him into the room and re-stated his intentions.

“Well, Harry,” answered Mr. Filmer, “if you choose to make your mother ill and miserable, I cannot prevent you doing so. But it does occur to me that we have had quite a surfeit of the Van Hoosens lately.”

“You ought not to speak of Antony in that way, sir. You know the circumstances.”

“I think perhaps I do not know them. I think perhaps that your mother was right, and too much was made of the circumstances. However, I must say that I do not feel equal to another wedding. My work has been thrown back and out of order, and I did hope and look for a little peace and comfort now.”

His air was worried and yet decisive, and as he sat 187 down by Mrs. Filmer and began to talk of their removal to Woodsome, Harry perceived that his affairs had been dismissed. He rose, went to his room, dressed for the evening, and then went to call upon Miss Alida. Her friend Selina Zabriski had just returned, but she was weary and invisible, and so Harry had Miss Alida’s company without interruption. She wondered at his visit, but instantly connected it with Adriana. “Have you written to her?” she asked, with a knowing smile.

“I have been to see her. She is going to marry me as soon as you return to Woodsome.”

“I told you to write. Why did you not follow my advice?”

“I bettered it.”

“That is yet to be seen. Is Cousin Peter willing?”

“Yes. But my mother is very angry indeed, and greatly to my surprise, father is almost equally so.”

“Henry Filmer has only a certain amount of good sense; he used it up on his daughter’s affairs. Pray, what has Mrs. Filmer to say against your marriage?”

“She says I am her only son, and that it is very hard to have me taken away from her.”

“She took Henry Filmer, who was an only son, from his father and mother.”

“She does not like Yanna.”

“It is not she who has to marry Yanna.”

“She does not like the Van Hoosens.”

“The Van Hoosens live and flourish without her liking. Now, Harry, what do you wish me to do?”

“We wish you to be glad with us—to approve our marriage.”

“Your marriage suits me exactly. I am politely sorry it does not suit Mr. and Mrs. Filmer, but I like 188 it. The sooner it takes place, the better I shall like it. When is it to be?”

“This month.”

“Where?”

“In Woodsome. I was much pleased with the description Yanna’s father gave of his wedding in the old Dutch church there; and we have resolved to have the same kind of simple ceremony.”

“I am glad of that. I will stand by you. You are a couple of foolish young people; but your folly fits my wisdom, and so is warrantable. Where are you going to live?”

“We have not considered that question yet.”

“The sparrows and the tom-tits have more sense than you have. They do build a nest before they go to house-keeping.”

“We shall find a nest.”

“What faith! You will find a nest! Go, then, and buy the rings, and get your wedding suits, and speak to the Dominie, and look to Providence for a roof to cover you. You may say ‘good night’ now, Harry. Lovers never know the clock. They come too soon, and they go too late, and they talk about months when they mean ten or eleven days. Good night, sir!”

But as it is ordained that lovers, like other men, have only feet and hands, and not wings, Harry could not accomplish his marriage as soon as he desired. There was law, as well as love, to consult; there were also milliners and dressmakers to wait upon, and domestic and financial matters to consider; so that it was the middle of June before the wedding day arrived. It might have been still later, had not Miss Alida suddenly resolved to spend the summer in Europe. This resolve left her handsome house vacant, and she said 189 frankly to Harry that “it would be a great kindness to her if he would borrow it for his summer residence.” Nothing could have been more delightful, and it simplified other considerations at once, and gave to the bride and bridegroom an idyllic retreat for a long honeymoon.

“I said there would be a nest found for us!” cried Harry joyfully; and Miss Alida laughingly answered “that she had been driven from house and home, and sent to wander over the face of the earth, in order to find them a nest.” But, in reality, the arrangement was convenient and pleasant on both sides.

The wedding day was one of royal sunshine, and the little church was crowded with sympathetic neighbors and acquaintances. People generally forget to be envious and ill-natured at a wedding, for the very presence of visible love seems to hold in abeyance evil thoughts and feelings. So, when Adriana, in a brave white satin dress, slashed with sunshine, walked up the aisle on her father’s arm, and Harry followed with Miss Alida on his arm, there was a murmur of admiration and good will. The bride was so lovely and the bridegroom so handsome, and both were so radiantly happy, that every one present caught joy from them.

Through the open windows came the scent of lilacs and the twitter of birds, and the old pines, like mystical trees, waved to and fro in the open spaces. The breath and the hope of the morning hours were yet in the air; the minister’s smiling face and strong, cheerful words, went to the heart like wine; and an air of religious joy sanctified the rite. Blessed even to tears, the new husband and wife turned to each other, and then to the world, with hopes bright as the morning and purposes holy as their vows.

There was a large wedding breakfast at Miss Alida’s, and then she had but just time to catch the train which would serve her steamer; and after her departure, one by one the visitors went away; so that, before sunset, Harry and Adriana were alone in their new home. Only one thing had marred the pleasure of the day; Harry’s parents had refused to share it. Mr. Filmer had no special dislike to Adriana, but his wife had; and Mr. Filmer wisely considered that his summer’s comfort and peace probably depended on his apparent sympathy. And with his great book on hand, how could he face the prospect of a prolonged disagreement on a subject so much beyond his control?

So he was investigating the Plantagenet influence on the social life of England while his son was being married, and he quite forgot all about the circumstance. But Mrs. Filmer was fretting in every room of her fine house, and feeling the ceremony in every nerve of her body and pulse of her heart. Her restlessness indeed became so great that she drove through the village in the afternoon, determined to be very gracious to any one who could talk to her on the subject. She met no one who could do so; though, for some time, society in Woodsome divided itself very broadly into Mrs. Henry Filmer’s friends and Mrs. Harry Filmer’s friends.

Anyway, the Filmers, old and young, kept the village folk and the summer residents in delightful gossip and partisanship; for when a lady was tired of one side, or considered herself slighted by one side, she easily turned to the other; and thus, and so, the Filmer controversy lived on through the season. At the close of it, the old Filmers were in the ascendant. Mrs. Henry had given many fine entertainments, and people 191 liked them, for each fresh invitation contained the possibility of being a reconciliation party; and each failure of this hope renewed the life of the old grievance and the interesting discussion of it.

On the contrary, Harry and Adriana were provokingly satisfied with their own company. They were seen driving or riding together; and people caught glimpses of them strolling among the flowers and shrubs, or sitting together on the shady galleries; but they gave no balls, or lawn parties, or afternoon teas, and they did not seem to care whether friends called upon them or not. For new married couples have generally a contempt for the rest of the world, and to love and to be wise at the same time is a blessing rarely granted.

So the days danced away with down upon their feet, and there was no talk of anything between Harry and Adriana than their own great love and happiness—not at least for many weeks. But, as the dusty summer waned, they began to think of the future, and to plan for its necessities. In the winter they would certainly have to live in New York, and it seemed, therefore, best to make their home there. Harry was busy looking at houses for sale, and Adriana constantly going into the city to examine their advertised perfections. An element of unrest came into the beautiful summer nest, and something of that melancholy which haunts the birds just before their migration. The May of their lives was past. The time of labor and care was at hand. Even financially, Harry began to be aware that the love that had made him dream must now make him work.

So they watched eagerly for Miss Alida’s letters. Hitherto they had been full of traveller’s gossip and 192 complaints; but there had been no mention of her return, and so far they had not been sorry for the delay. But September brought a different feeling. Harry wanted to go to the city. His visits to it made him long for the financial fray, for society, for his old duties and amusements. He began to fret at his inaction, to be a trifle irritable with Miss Alida for her long visit, and at last to stop in the city for two and three days at a time.

“I wish Miss Alida would come home,” said Adriana to her father one morning. She had driven herself to the post-office, and called at Peter’s on her way back. “I wish she would come. We have had no letter from her for two weeks. I am uneasy about her—and about Harry.”

“Why are you uneasy about Harry?” asked Peter.

“He stays in the city too often. He says ‘business’ demands his presence. Father, I do not like it. I want to be in the city with him. I am sure I ought to be. Why does he stay there? He could come home if he wished to do so.”

Peter looked gravely into his daughter’s anxious face. He could see the unshed tears in her eyes. He had himself suffered from her mother’s over-love and jealous care, and he said earnestly:

“Yanna, my best loved one! Before all other advice about your husband, consider some words I am going to give you. I gave them to Gertrude and Augusta; when they first began to worry about this thing—a wife should have eyelids as well as eyes. Do not see too much. Do not hear too much. Do not feel too much. And be sure not to imagine too much. God made both men and women, and they are not alike. Remember that, dear girl—they are not alike.” He 193 clasped her hand, and she smiled through her tears, and with a brave little nod turned her horse’s head and drove slowly home.

When she reached the Van Hoosen place, she found that Miss Alida had returned. The old lady came to the door with a “Good morning, Mrs. Harry Filmer! Why was not Harry at the dock to meet me?”

“We did not know you were coming. Oh, I wish we had! We would have both been there.”

“I thought so, and as I hate a fuss, I just dropped home without a word. Do I look ten years older? I feel twenty. No place like home! your own home! I hope we shall all have our own homes in heaven—country ones, too. I should tire awfully of that great multitude on the golden streets. Oh, Yanna, how good it is to see you! Where is Harry?”

“In New York. He has to go there very often now. He says it is business.”

“It is business, undoubtedly. Here is the cup of chocolate I ordered. Sit down and talk to me, while I drink it. Then I will go to sleep, and you can take off your driving gear.”

But she found it impossible to sleep; she had so much to tell, and so much to show. And suddenly she raised herself from an open trunk, and holding out a case of Apostle spoons, said, “These are a present from Rose. When did you hear from her?”

“She has written very seldom to me lately. But I thought perhaps she had been influenced by her mother. That would be quite natural. Did you see her?”

“Yes.”

The reply had in it a touch of anger. Adriana looked up, but was silent.

“I saw her—in Edinburgh.”

“Is she happy?”

“I suppose she is happy in her way; for she indulges her every mood and temper to her heart’s desire.”

“How is Antony?”

“God alone knows. To speak plainly, Rose is enough to drive him to destruction of some kind or other. Her vagaries, her depressions, her frivolities, her adoration of him one day and her hatred of him the next day, are beyond my comprehension. She prides herself on doing outrageous, unconventional things, and poor Antony feels that he must stand by her in them. My heart ached for the man.”

“There is nothing really wrong, though?”

“Well, Yanna, there is always a dreadful debasement of nature, following violations of popular morality. Antony’s face of calm endurance made my heart ache. Its patience, and its unspoken misery, reminded me constantly of a picture by Carlo Dolci, called The Eternal Father.”

“How could any one dare to paint the face of God?”

“In this case the painter has been penetrated with an awful reverence. And, Yanna, what do you think his idea of the Divine Father was? A grand human face, full of human grief and loneliness and patience, the eyes sad beyond tears, as if there were an unutterable sorrow in the Eternal Heart.”

“How strange!”

“No. If God is Love, how can He be ineffably happy and glorious while his sons and daughters are wandering away from Him and the whole world is broken-hearted? It did me good, it comforted me, to think of a God who could suffer; and I am sure it had done Antony good, for it was he who told me, when I 195 was in Florence, to be sure and go to the Gallery and see the picture.”

“I hope Rose is not taking wine.”

“I saw nothing of the kind. But I suspect much from her variable temper—and other things.”

Then they were both silent. Miss Alida lifted some lace and went with it to a certain drawer; and Adriana looked at the silver Rose had sent her, and as she thoughtfully closed the case, she said to herself:

“I am glad Antony comprehended that picture; glad that he understands an Eternal Father who pities His children, because ‘He knows their frame, and remembers that they are dust.’”