The next morning Adriana called on her mother-in-law. In her wedding Bible, Peter had written the words of the pious Raguel—“Honor thy father and thy mother-in-law, which are now thy parents; that I may hear a good report of thee”—and she had conscientiously tried to fulfil this domestic law. But Harry’s marriage had never been quite forgiven by his parents, and in some way both of them had convinced themselves that Harry was not to blame for it. Adriana had cast some spell over him—or won some advantage—or Miss Alida, to further her own plans, had used some underhand influence which they felt it as hard to understand as to forgive. But Mrs. Filmer was much too polite and conventional to permit the public to share her dissatisfaction. However cold and formal she was to Adriana, she talked of her daughter-in-law to her acquaintances as “a most suitable person for her son’s wife.”

“The match is the realization of my husband’s desire to unite the two branches of the family and consolidate its wealth,” she said to every one. And in her heart she did acknowledge not only this advantage, but also the many virtues and charms of Adriana; for it was not her reason that was disappointed; it was her maternal jealousy that was offended.

On this morning she was unusually pleasant to Adriana. She had not seen her for some months; she had brought her some handsome souvenirs, and been 268 soothed by her satisfaction and gratitude; and she was very desirous to make peace between Adriana and Rose, and so induce Adriana to give Rose the benefit of her influence and countenance in society. The visit was, therefore, so confidential and affectionate that Adriana, in a moment of unguarded emotion, resolved to tell Mrs. Filmer about the change in Harry. Naturally she thought it would delight his mother; and she considered the momentary reluctance that assailed her as a selfish feeling.

“Mother,” she said, “I have something very good to tell you about Harry.”

“What is it? Gracious knows, I ought to hear something pleasant about Harry; for Rose’s affairs are enough to break my heart.” Her tone was querulous, rather than interested, and Adriana wished she had not spoken. A sudden fear that she was violating a sacred confidence troubled her, for where there is no sympathy, spiritual confidences are violated and wronged by being shared. It was, however, too late to be silent, but she involuntarily chose the person most removed for the opening of the conversation.

“Do you remember Cora Mitchin?”

“I remember nothing about such people.”

“Unfortunately, Harry knew her, and I have——”

“Adriana, let me tell you one thing, a wise woman does not trouble herself about her husband’s private friends. Harry is kind to you. He keeps his home handsomely. He is seen at your side both in church and society, and it is quite possible to ask too much from a good husband. Harry is young yet—too young to have so many obligations and cares as he has.”

“I think you mistake me, mother. Have I made a complaint of Harry? Not one. I was only going to 269 tell you that the girl I spoke of has been genuinely reformed and has joined the Salvation Army.”

“I cannot believe in such reformations. I thought it was of Harry you had good news to tell.”

“The girl came to see me at our house, and as Harry came in while she was present, she told him about her conversation; and the circumstances have had a great influence upon him. I do not think Harry will err in that respect again.” But Adriana spoke coldly, and felt unable to enter into details; Mrs. Filmer’s face was so unresponsive and even angry.

“The girl came to your house! What an impertinence! And you received her and allowed her to talk about her—conversion! I am simply amazed at you, Adriana! And you think Harry will err no more? You poor deluded woman! The girl was probably hunting Harry up. I have no doubt she considers her visit to you a most excellent joke. Did you see no look of understanding between Harry and this converted young woman?”

“I left them alone to converse.”

“Excuse me, Adriana, but I cannot comprehend such romantic puddling folly—such quixotic generosity! It was wrong, both for Harry and for yourself.”

“I am sure it was not wrong, mother. I know that Harry was greatly moved by the girl’s experience. I can trust Harry for the future. With God’s help he is going to be a very different man. He told me so this morning. I believed him. And I did hope you would be glad to hear it.”

“Of course I am glad. If he keeps his intentions it will be a good thing—but men never do.”

“If they trust to themselves, they fail, of course; but Harry knows better than that.”

“I only hope he will not grow too good. One saint in the family is sufficient;” and with a smile which did not quite take away the sting of the mock compliment, Mrs. Filmer put Adriana—who had risen—back into her chair, saying:

“You must not go yet, Adriana. I want to consult you about Rose. Her affairs seem to be in a very bad way. We will waive all discussion of the causes for this condition at present, and just consider what is best to be done.”

“Antony will return for one word of contrition.”

“But if Rose will not say that word?”

“She ought to say it.”

“Never mind the ‘ought.’ We have to work with events as they are. Now, she is too much alone. I am afraid of solitude for her. She will be in danger of flying for comfort or oblivion, where it is destruction to go. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. But ‘yes’ does not mend matters. She says she has not been out of her house for a month. That will not do. She must have the world round her. She must go to church. To go to church regularly will keep the world her friend; and I will see that she performs that duty. Can you not help me in other matters?”

“Rose has not spoken to me since—the day that her baby died. I do not think she will speak to me. I will do anything I can. What do you propose?”

“I want her to open her house—to give a few quiet receptions or dinners—such events as are quite proper in her circumstances. Of course I shall be with her, and if you could get Miss Alida Van Hoosen to come to her initial dinner, it would give the stamp necessary 271 for their respectability. Of course, you and Harry will be there.”

“Mother, I do not believe Rose will ask us; but if she does, we will overlook the past.”

“For heaven’s sake, do not talk about ‘overlooking’ things. Take up life where it was pleasantly dropped, and bury the interval. Will you get Miss Alida’s promise to endorse Rose?”

“I will ask for it. She is a very determined woman, and Rose has been obtrusively rude to her.”

“None of you seems to have understood Rose, or to have remembered how broken-hearted she was about baby’s death. Something may be excused on that account, I think. Will you go now and see Miss Alida? I should like to know who I can depend upon.”

Then Adriana went. The duty set her was not a pleasant one, especially as Mrs. Filmer was certain she ought to succeed in it. At this crisis she found it easy to recollect the tie of blood, and to expect from Miss Van Hoosen as a right what Adriana was doubtful of obtaining even as a favor.

She found Miss Alida in, but dressed ready for her drive, and in a radiantly good-natured mood. So Adriana, hoping everything from a woman so cheerful and affectionate, said at once:

“Cousin Alida, just give me five minutes, will you?”

“Ten, twenty, sixty, my dear, if you want them.”

“I have just left Mrs. Filmer.”

“Has she made you feel like a flayed woman in a furze bush?”

“She was very nice to me. She is wretched about Rose.”

“I should think she ought to be.”

“I can see that she fears Rose is——”

“Drinking too much. Don’t mince the words, Yanna. They are ugly enough to make one hate the sin they describe.”

“Her mother thinks she is too solitary. She is going to make her go to church, and she hopes that you will stand by her in society.”

“I will do nothing of the kind.”

“Dear cousin, if she has a quiet little dinner party, and her mother and Harry and I are present, I am sure you will also go.”

“No! I shall not!”

“She is such a foolish, spoiled woman; it is not worth your while remembering her rudeness to you.”

“I care nothing about her rudeness to me. It is her treatment of Antony I resent. I shall not countenance her in any way until she confesses her sin to her husband, and he forgives her. If Antony can forgive her, I suppose I may try and endure her.”

“Dear cousin——”

“Nonsense, Yanna! You know me well enough to understand that having made up my mind on this subject, I shall not unmake it for any other terms but the ones I have accepted as reasonable and right. Confession, my dear, and then forgiveness. Everything must be done in its proper order. Do you not find me in a remarkably happy temper? Do you not want to know the reason? Harry has been here this morning, and he has told me a very wonderful story. I don’t know when I have been so pleased. I have been saying to myself ever since that there is no change in Our Redeemer. The world outgrows its creeds, but it is still blessedly true that they who ‘seek for Him with all their heart find Him.’ My dear, I feel to-day that there is a God. I always know it, but to-day I feel it. 273 That is the reason I am so happy. I like that woman Hannah Young. I am going this day to the Salvation Army Headquarters to find her. The devil gave her the means to make her mother and sisters happy; and I intend to show her that God can do more, and better, than the devil.”

“Have you no pity for Rose?”

“Not for Rose proud and wicked and unrepentant. When Rose is sorry for her sins, when God forgives her, I shall have no right to be angry. And what do you ask me to do? The worst possible thing for a woman like Rose—surround her with circumstances that enable her to forget what she ought not to forget for one moment. I—will—not—do—it!”

This disappointment did not, however, deter Mrs. Filmer from carrying out her plan; and invitations were duly sent to such of Rose’s old friends as it was supposed would give prestige and dignity to the occasion of her first dinner. Miss Alida sent a curt refusal; and all of the people whose presence was most desired did likewise, with varying politeness. Some “regretted very much,” and others simply “regretted.” Some had “previous engagements,” others did not lay this flattering excuse to the wound of their declining; but the fine dinner was, after all, prepared for guests who had been asked as “secondaries,” and whose absence would not have been regretted. In some way—probably through the kitchen door—the true story of Antony’s absence had been blown about by every wind of gossip; and Rose’s dinners, however she might regard them, were not important affairs to a class of people to whom dinners meant lofty and irreproachable social intercourse.

Mrs. Filmer was greatly humiliated by this failure, 274 but not inclined to abandon her plan; and Rose pretended to be well pleased that she had been “cut by such a dreary crowd of purple and fine linen Pharisees. However,” she said, “as I have opened my house, I intend to fill it. Young men and young women who want to dance will go anywhere, if there is a good floor, with good music and plenty of wines and ices. If I cannot be exclusive, I can at least be popular. If you do not like my company, mamma, you need not endorse it. I shall take no offence at your scruples. As for Harry and his excellent wife, I never will pretend to be glad to see them any more as long as I live. When society declines to accept Mrs. Antony Van Hoosen, you cannot make it accept her, mamma.”

“I am sure, Rose, there are plenty of people in the best society who have been talked about in far worse fashion than you have.”

“That is true enough; but society, now and then, gets very moral and thinks it necessary to have a scapegoat whom it can punish for all the rest. At present it is laying its sins on my head, and driving me out to the wilderness; though it has plenty inside its high fence just as bad as I am, mamma.” Then she was suddenly quiet, as if remembering. “Mamma, when I was in London I saw a picture of myself.” Mrs. Filmer looked at her curiously and inquiringly, and she went on, with a kind of desperate indignation:

“It was in a gallery. It was called The Sacrificial Goat. The poor tormented creature was plodding with weary feet through the quaking wilderness, under the crimson rocks of Edom, and by the shores of the Dead Sea. I could not keep away from that picture. I felt as if I could do anything to give the fainting animal a drink of cold water. No one feels that about me”—and 275 she flung herself among the satin cushions of her sofa and began to sob like a lost child.

“Oh, Rose! Rose! How can you say so? What would I not do to make you happy?”

“Leave me alone, dear mamma. Do not be miserable about me. I am not worth worrying over; and I do not care the snap of my fingers for your society! Only, do not tell papa anything against his little Rose. He will never find out I am sorrowful and despised unless you say it in his very ears.”

“Rose, go and speak to your father. He is a wise man; and he has a heart, my child.”

“Yes, as good a heart as can possibly be made out of brains. But I do not want to trouble papa; and I do want him to believe I am all that is lovely and admirable. You never told him about Duval, did you?”

“No. Why should I?”

“And what have you said about Antony?”

“What you told me to say—that gold had been found on his place, and he had to look after things. It quite pleased him.”

“Will Harry say anything—wrong?”

“Nothing at all. I have spoken to Harry.”

“Poor dear papa!”

“Oh, Rose! My Rose!”

“And poor dear mamma, too!”

“If you would only write one word to Antony.”

“I will not.”

This conversation indicated the way Rose was going to take, and she made haste to carry out her determination. There is always a brilliant riffraff of good society who are eager for pleasure—so called—and ambitious to achieve the trumpery distinction of ‘smartness’—dissipated, devilish men, and rapid, 276 realistic women; and with this class Rose found it easy to fill her fine rooms. It was to outward appearance a highly desirable set, gorgeously dressed, and having all the insignia of the uppermost class. There was no sign of anything but the most exact virtue at the dinner-table, and the earlier dances were beautiful and proper; but as the evenings wore on, and the wines and ices began to influence conduct, the tone fell lower; men and women talked louder, and danced more recklessly; and at the last hour it was necessary to be a little blind and a little deaf.

But it is the eternal law, that where sin is, sorrow shall answer it; and in all this tumult and riot of feasting and dancing, Rose was sad and disconsolate. It was not alone that she was aware of her distinct loss of social estimation—aware that old friends shirked speaking to her if they could; and that even her mother lost patience with her vagaries and imprudences—it was not even the total silence of her husband, and the appalling sense of loneliness that chilled her whole life—there was a want greater than these, for it is not by bread alone we live; there is a certain approval of conscience necessary even to our physical existence, and without its all-pervading cement, this wondrous union of self is not held healthily together. Rose had not this blessed approval; and the flatteries of the crowd she feasted did not make up for the sweet content that follows duty accomplished and love fulfilled.

She had taken into her confidence a young girl called Ida Stirling. She was exceedingly pretty and witty and sympathetic, and quite inclined to share in all the mitigations of Rose’s private hours. They had luxurious little meals together, and they told each other their secrets as they ate and drank. In this way 277 Rose betrayed herself; she gave to a stranger a confidence she had not given as fully to her mother, and put her heart into her hands, either to comfort or to despise. For a little while, the two women were inseparable; and on Rose’s side, at least, there was nothing hidden from her companion.

All January and February passed in this constant succession of public and private entertaining; and the “affairs” began to pall, even upon those who had nothing to do but enjoy them. The Van Hoosen household grew notorious for its extravagance and its disorder, and an indefinable aura of contempt and indifference began to pervade those who came together in Rose’s fine reception rooms. They no longer respected their hostess, they were often barely civil to her; and yet they were only fulfilling that condition Rose herself had anticipated—allowing her to find them a good floor, good music, and wines and ices for their refreshment. During February she suspected this feeling, but Ida Stirling, with many assurances, had pacified her doubts. A little later, however, she realized her position thoroughly; and she smarted under the sense of the contemptuous acceptance of her hospitality.

“I shall put a stop to the whole thing,” she said to herself, one morning in March. “I shall not stay in New York until Easter. I shall ask Ida to go with me to Europe, and we will travel quietly with a maid and a courier.” She permitted this idea to take possession of her until she suddenly remembered that even Ida had not appeared to be as fond of her society as she used to be. With a profusion of apologies and regrets, she had refused several invitations to shop and drive, and stay all night with her friend. Perhaps she would 278 not go to Europe. In such case, Rose resolved to travel with her maid only.

Absorbed in this new idea, she went out one day to attend to some shopping necessary for her plan. It was a lovely afternoon, full of sunshine, and a soft, fresh breeze. The windows were gay with spring fashions and preparations for Easter, and Broadway was crowded with well-dressed men and women, happy in the airs of spring, and in the sense of their own beauty or elegance. When she came out of Tiffany’s, the temptation to join in this pleasant promenade was so great that she sent her carriage forward to Vantine’s, and resolved to walk the intermediate distance. The sense of resurrection and restoration was so uplifting, the cheerfulness, the smiles, the noise of traffic and the murmur of humanity were altogether so restorative to her jaded heart that Rose felt a thrill of genuine natural happiness. She thought of the fresh sea and the queer, splendid old towns beyond it, and she hoped Ida would be willing to start by the first possible steamer.

To such thoughts she stepped brightly forward, her garments fluttering in the wind, and a large bunch of daffodils in her hands. As she approached Seventeenth Street, she felt a sudden impulse to answer an unknown gaze; and she let her eyes wander among the advancing crowd. In an instant they fell upon Ida Stirling and Mr. Duval. They were walking together, and their air was that of lovers; and Rose felt that they were talking about her. For a moment she was stunned; her soul was really knocked down, and her body felt unable to lift it. The next moment she stumbled on, with flaming cheeks, and ears so painfully alert that they heard every tone of the mocking 279 little laugh which saluted her in the passing. Ida was looking into Duval’s face, and affected not to see Rose; but Duval stared insolently at her, without a token of recognition. She had herself, in the momentary pause, made a faint inquisitive smile, a slight movement that she could not restrain, but which she instantly felt to be the most shameful wrong to herself. It was answered—if at all—by that mockery of a laugh which entered her ears like the point of a sword and reached her heart through them.

Blindly, breathing in short gasps, she reached her carriage; and with a great effort gave the order “home.” She was distracted. Her anger burned inward, set her blood on fire, and shook her like an earthquake. Her lover and her friend, both false! All her confidences betrayed! Her poor heart laid bare for their scorn and mirth! It was impossible to endure so abominable a wrong. She was struck dumb with it. She knew no words to express her distress. She could not rest a moment, sleep fled from her; her inner self was in a chaos of indescribable suffering.

In the morning she was physically ill; a great nausea, a burning fever, and a pain in every limb subdued her. All night her soul had seemed a substance made of fire; in the morning, it was dulled and numbed by her bodily agony; for pain is indeed perfect misery, and the very worst of mortal evils. Mrs. Filmer and a doctor were sent for; and Rose lay nearly two weeks, stunned and suffering from the soul-blow she had received. Much of the time she was hardly conscious of the present, moaning and fretful when awake, and when asleep lost in the unutterable desolation of dreams, full of portentous shapes and awful 280 suggestions. Her life had lost its balance, and she had lost her foothold on it in consequence.

“Am I very ill, mamma?” she asked mournfully, one midnight.

“Not very, my dear Rose. You are beginning to get better. The doctor thinks you have had a severe mental shock. What was it? Antony?”

“No; not Antony. Antony is not brutal. Am I strong enough to talk, mamma?”

“It may do you good to talk—to tell me what made you ill.”

“I met Ida Stirling and Mr. Duval walking together. They laughed in my face as they passed me. And I had told Ida everything—everything!”

“Do you mean about Antony?”

“Yes; and about that dreadful day when you all thought I intended to go to Cuba.”

“Rose, I never have understood that affair.”

“And yet, without understanding it, every one, even you, thought the very worst of me.”

“Then why did you not explain?”

“I don’t know. I was too angry. I felt wicked enough to let you all think whatever you chose. And then baby was dead, and Antony treated me as if I were her murderer.”

“You did not intend, however, to go to Cuba?”

“No more than you intended to go.”

“What took you to the steamer then?”

“Mr. Duval had some letters—foolish, imprudent letters—and I was miserable about them; because whenever I did not meet him, or send him money, he threatened to show them to Antony. He promised, as he was going to Cuba, to give them to me for $500. I had only three days to procure the money, and I did 281 not succeed in getting it until noon of the last day. Then I went to the Astor House, where Mr. Duval was waiting for me, and because I wanted to keep him in a good temper, I took lunch with him. He said he would give me the letters after lunch. I did not take but two glasses of wine, yet they made me feel strange, and when I was told that his luggage had all gone to the steamer, and that I must go there for the letters, I could not help crying. When Adriana spoke to me, I was begging for my letters, and he was urging me to go to Cuba with him. He wanted my money, mamma, and I knew it. He was cruel to me, and I had become afraid of him. While he was talking, I was listening for the bell to warn people ashore, and I should have fled at the first sound.”

“He might have prevented you, Rose. My dear, what danger you were in!”

“I thought of that. There were several passengers on deck, and the captain was not far away. I would have thrown myself into the water rather than have gone to Cuba with Mr. Duval.”

“Did you get the letters?”

“No. Yanna came interfering, and then Antony. I let them think what they liked. Duval said I intended to go with him. It was a lie, and he knew it; but Yanna and Antony seemed to enjoy believing it, and so I let them think me as wicked and cruel as they desired. Not one of you took the trouble to ask me a question.”

“We feared to wound your feelings, Rose, by alluding to what could not be undone. And you were fretting so about your child.”

“Not one of you noticed that I had taken no clothing, none of my jewelry, not a single article necessary 282 for comfort. Was it likely I would leave all my dresses and jewels behind me? If Mr. Duval thought I was going with him, was it likely he would have suffered me to forget them?”

“Why did you not tell me all this before, Rose?”

“I do not know ‘why,’ mamma. I enjoyed seeing Antony miserable. I enjoyed humbling Yanna’s pride. I used to laugh at the thought of Harry and her talking over my misconduct. A spirit I could not control took possession of me. I did not want to do wrong, but I liked people to think I did wrong. I suppose you cannot understand me, mamma?”

“Yes, I understand, Rose.”

“When I was quite alone, I used to cry bitterly about the sin of it; but all the same, as soon as Antony, or you, or Yanna, or any one that knew about Duval, came into my sight, I tried to shock them again.”

“You will do so no more, Rose?”

“The desire has gone from me. I do not even fear Mr. Duval now. He can send all the letters he has to Antony, if he wishes. I am naturally a coward, and cowardice made me sin many a time. If I had only been brave enough to tell Antony what the villain made me suffer, I need not have endured it. Antony is generosity. Duval is cruelty.”

This explanation gave Mrs. Filmer great relief, and doubtless it tended to Rose’s quick recovery. She no longer bore her burden alone, and her mother’s sympathy, like the pity of the Merciful One, was without reproach. But it was now that Rose began to realize for the first time that love teaches as the demon of Socrates taught—by the penalties exacted for errors. For every hour of her life she felt the loss of her husband’s 283 protecting care. Her sickness had compelled her to leave everything to servants; and the house was abandoned to their theft and riot. Waste, destruction, quarreling all day, and eating and drinking most of the night, were the household ordering. She found it difficult to get for her own wants the least attention; and the light, nourishing food she craved was prepared, if at all, in the most careless manner. Her orders were quarreled over, disputed, or neglected; and withal she had the knowledge that she must, for the time being, endure the shameful tyranny. But, oh, how every small wrong made her remember the almost omniscient love of her husband, and the involuntary and constant cry of her heart was, “If Antony were only here!”

Her loneliness, too, was great; she was unaccustomed to solitude, and she was too weak to bear the physical fatigue of much reading. So the hours and the days of her convalescence went very drearily onward. She could not look backward without weeping, and there was no hope in the future. Alas! alas! our worst wounds are those inflicted by our own hands; and Rose, musing mournfully on her sofa, knew well that no one had injured her half so cruelly as she had injured herself. With how many tears her poor eyes did penance! But they were a precious rain upon her parched soul; it was softened by them, and though she had as yet no clear conception of her relationship to God, as a wandering daughter, far from His presence—but never beyond His love—she had many moments of tender, vague mystery, in which, weeping and sorrowful, she was brought very close to Him. For it is often in the dry time, and the barren time, that God reaches out His hand, and puts into the heart the 284 hopeful resolve, “I will arise and go to my Father!” In some sense this was the cry that broke passionately from Rose’s lips on one night which had ended a day full to the brim of those small, shameful household annoyances, through which servants torture those whom they can torture.

“I will arise and go to my husband!” That was the first step on the right road, and the resolve sprang suddenly from a heart broken and wounded, and hungry and thirsty for help and sympathy.

“In Antony’s heart there is love and to spare,” she cried. “He would not suffer me to be tormented and neglected. He would put his strong arms round me, and the very south wind he would not let blow too rudely on my face. Oh, Antony! Antony! If you only knew how I long for you! How sorry I am for all the cruel words I said! How sorry I was even while saying them! I will go to Antony. I will tell him that I cannot forgive myself until he forgives me. I will tell him how truly I love him; how lonely and tired and sick and poor and wretched I am. He will forgive me. He will love me again. I shall begin to go now—at this very moment.”

She rose up with the words, and felt the strength of her resolve. She looked at her watch. It was not quite nine o’clock. She rang the bell and ordered her carriage. The man hesitated, but finally obeyed the order. She was driven directly to her father’s house. Mrs. Filmer had gone out with Harry and Adriana, but Mr. Filmer was in his study. He was amazed and terrified, when he saw Rose enter.

“My dear Rose! what are you doing here?” he cried. “You are ill, Rose.”

“Ill or well, father, I want you. Oh, I need you so 285 much!” and she covered her face with her hands, and wept with all her heart. “I have been ill, but you have never been to see me, father—did you not know how ill I was? Do you not care for me?” she sobbed.

Mr. Filmer pulled a chair to his side. “Come here, my girl,” he answered, “for I cannot come to you. Look at my bandaged foot, Rose. I have not stepped on it for a month.”

“Oh, father! I am so sorry for you—and for myself.”

“I fell, my dear—fell down those spiral stairs in the library, and sprained myself very badly. Did you imagine I had forgotten?”

“Mamma never told me—yes, I believe she did tell me—but I thought it was only a little hurt. I have been so selfishly miserable. And, oh, father! it is such a disappointment to me. I wanted you to take me to Antony.”

“That is folly, my child. Your husband is about his business. He will come home as soon as he can leave it; and you are not fit to travel.”

Then Rose remembered that her father had but a partial knowledge of the truth regarding her real position, and she hesitated. Lame and unable to help her, why should she make him unhappy? So she only said: “There is something a little wrong between Antony and me, and I want to talk to him. Letters always make trouble. I thought perhaps you might go with me; but you are lame—and busy, too, I see.”

“Unfortunately, I am lame at present; but if you are in any trouble, Rose, I am not busy. What is this to you?” he asked, lifting some manuscript and tossing it scornfully aside. “It is only my amusement; you are my heart, my honor, my duty! I would burn every 286 page of my book if by so doing I could bring you happiness, my child.”

“There is nothing to call for such a sacrifice, papa,” she said, while the grateful tears sprang to her eyes; “but somehow, I do not seem to have any friends but you and mamma; none, at least, from whom I can expect help.”

“In trouble, Rose, you may always go to God and to your father and mother for help. From them you cannot expect too much; and from men and women in general you cannot expect too little. Your mother will be home soon, so remain here to-night, and have a talk with her about this notion of going west to Antony. She will tell you that it is very foolish.”

“If I stay I must send home the carriage, and then no one knows what may happen if the house is without any one even to give an alarm. But I am glad to have seen you, papa. And it was good to hear you say you would burn your book for my sake. I feel ever so much better for having heard you say such splendid words.”

So Rose went home, without having made any advance towards her intention; but she was strengthened and comforted by her father’s love and trust.

And she said to herself, “Perhaps I had better not be rash. I will be still, and think over things.” Yet she was sensible of a singular impatience of delay. “Delay might mean so much. Her evil genius might have foreseen her effort, and resolved thus to defeat it. Harry might go with her. She might go by herself. Had she not contemplated a journey to Europe alone?” Until long after midnight she sat considering the details of her journey—the dress she ought to wear—the words she ought to say—and, alas! the possibilities of disappointment.

“No! there must be no delay,” she whispered, as at last, weary with thought, she laid her head on her pillow. “I will go to-morrow, or, at any rate, on the day following.” And with this determination, she fell asleep.

Just in the gray light before the dawning, she leaped from her bed like one pursued. She was drenched in the sweat of terror; the very sheets which had wrapped her were wet with the unhappy dew. To the window she ran, and threw it open, and leaned far out, and looked up and down the dim, silent street, sighing heavily, and wringing her hands like a child in terror, lost and perplexed. It was strange to see her walk round the room, touch the chairs, the ornaments, lift her garments, and finally go to the mirror and peer into it at her own white face.

A few hours later she was in Woodsome, talking to Peter Van Hoosen. Memories and fears that she could not endure were pressing her so sorely that she must needs tell them, and there seemed to be no one at once so strong and so sympathetic as Antony’s father. He was listening to her story with an almost incredulous silence, as with tears and shame-dyed cheeks, she confessed her many sins and contradictions against her husband. Peter sat with eyes cast down, but ever and anon he lifted his searching gaze to the penitent’s face; and anger and pity strove for the mastery.

“I think I was possessed of a devil,” she said, and she looked hopelessly at Peter, with the self-accusation.

“You were possessed of yourself, Rose Van Hoosen; and there is no greater mystery than to be possessed of self.”

“I know. I never cared for Antony’s happiness. It was always what I wanted, and what I thought. That is the reason I must go and tell him how sorry I am.”

“You must go further and higher than Antony. You must feel as David felt when he cried out to God, ‘Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned; and done this evil in Thy sight.’ It is not Antony, but God, you will have to answer. You have lived as the fool lives. You have not remembered that every day is bringing you closer to that Great Day when this heaven and earth shall pass away like a burning scroll. Then Rose, you yourself will have to tell what you have done with the love and the time and the money that have been loaned you. If God sent you away from His presence forever, how could you bear it?”

An awful fear came into her eyes; she was white as death, and she trembled visibly.

“I have been where God is not,” she said, in a whisper full of horror. “I was there this morning. I was not dreaming. I was there. I was in the Land of Evil Spirits.”

Peter bent forward, and took her hand between his hands, and said:

“Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”

“There was no God in that Land of the Shadow of Hell. It was desolation unutterable, and the light of it was darkness. I saw nothing but bare black mountains, and dead pits of black water, and wretched huts, wherein the evil ones crouched and crawled. There was a dreadful smell everywhere, I could not escape from it; and it was worse than all the other horrors. And I knew that it came from dead and dying souls and putrid sins and I tried to hide in caves, or climb 289 the dark mountains, but I could not get beyond its sickening influence. I can not understand. Can you?”

“I think so, Rose. No sense we have is more closely connected with the sphere of the soul than the sense of smell. If it is a direct avenue for the soul’s approach to God, may it not lead also the other way? It is certain that because of its far-reaching power over the deep things, and the hidden things of the heart, the Bible is full of images appealing to this very sense. I can understand why the Land of the Evil Ones has the odor of death unto death.”

“I tried in vain to flee from it, for I could not move fast. Some Power seemed to be dragging me slowly down; a Power like a huge loadstone, patient, because it was sure of me, and therefore able to wait. I knew prayer could help me; but I could not pray. Suddenly I saw an angel, very tired, and scarce moving her wings in the black air. I knew it was my Guardian Angel. Her eyes were full of pity, and she seemed so loth to leave me. Then in an awful terror I stretched out my hands, and called to her; and so calling, I came back to myself. And I flew to my window and looked out, and I touched all the things in my room, for I wanted to be sure that I was still alive; and as I dressed I said continually, ‘Thank God! thank God!’ I must go to Antony and tell him how sorry I am; then perhaps God will forgive me. Will you go with me to Antony?”

“I will.”

“Can you start to-morrow?”

“To-day, if you wish. We can reach New York by three o’clock, and leave by to-night’s train for the west. I will see your father and mother, and do all 290 that is necessary about your property, while you pack such clothing as you require. Now shall Betta bring you a cup of tea, for you look weary to death?”

“I have had nothing to eat to-day.”

“Do you know where Antony is?”

“My lawyer knows—somewhere in Arizona, I think.”

“No, he is nearer Denver. He went to Denver a month ago, about the sale of some mining property, and in his last letter he told me he had bought a shooting lodge south of Denver, from an English gentleman who was returning to England, and that he intended to spend the summer there. Through his agent in Denver we can find out the precise location.” Then he spoke hopefully to her of God’s love, and of her husband’s love, but she was exceedingly depressed and sorrowful; and though she drank her tea, she made it bitter with tears. For she could not rid herself of that vision of her angel, hovering so tired and hopeless, on the verge of a limit beyond her holy care.

“Oh, father!” she cried, “if I could only once more know that my head was covered with her white wings! If the dear and great angel would only let me feel her guarding me—me, out of all the world! I used to know something about my Guardian Angel, but I had forgotten it for many years, until this very moment. Just as I spoke to you, the last lines flashed into my mind, as if all their letters were made of light. Listen:

So, with many tears and sad reflections, she drank a little tea; and then Peter induced her to sleep an hour, because the journey would be long and hard for 291 her. But every mile of it was a tonic, and when she reached the high tableland of Colorado, the color came back to her cheeks, and she was able to eat and sleep, and in some ways enjoy the travel. Peter watched over her with a father’s care; nay, it was more like a mother’s never-wearying anxiety for her welfare and happiness; and when Denver was reached, both were full of hope, and cheerful in their hope. Here Peter would have delayed a few days; but Rose was eager to go forward, and the next morning they were on the Southern Line, and feeling that a few hours more would bring them face to face with Antony.

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the small station at which they were to alight, and Antony’s lodge was about half a mile up the mountain. Trees hid it from view, but the mailman walked with them to the timber, and showed Peter the trail through it, which would lead them directly to Mr. Van Hoosen’s door. During this walk Rose became very silent, and one not in sympathy with her would have thought her cross. But Peter knew that all the issues of her life had come to this one point; and he felt keenly for her. Rose looked frequently into his face, and she held his hand tightly; but she was really incapable of speech. Indeed, she was incapable of thought. All her nature was absorbed by feeling.

The walk was not a long one, for in about ten minutes they came in sight of a pretty log house, gabled and fancifully roofed, and of quite pretentious dimensions. Wide piazzas ran around its one story; and there were a few low, broad steps opposite the door. A man sat on them sewing a buckle on a leather strap, and he did not cease his employment or stand up as Peter and Rose reached him.

“Is Mr. Van Hoosen in?” asked Peter.

“Well, he is, and he isn’t, sir. He was here an hour ago; but he’s gone to ask a few trout to take supper with him. I’m Jim Laker. Sit down, both of you. Perhaps the lady would like to go inside.”

But Rose positively declined this offer, and the man brought her a rocking-chair and a glass of milk. Then Peter began to talk to Jim about the wild-flowers of the district, and Rose sat watching and waiting, and heart-sick with anxiety.

“Mr. Van Hoosen is longer than usual.” “I thought he’d be back an hour ago!” “’Pears like there must be something out of the ordinary!” Such were the explanations made every now and then, for the satisfaction of the visitors; and Rose had just begun to think Antony must have seen her, and slipped back to the woods, when a long, clear whistle was heard.

“That’s him! He’s coming down the mountain. I reckon he’ll find the door at the other side.” With these words the man lifted his mended strap, and walked through the house to its opposite door. Peter followed him.

“I am Mr. Van Hoosen’s father, Jim,” he said, and Jim answered with prompt good-nature, “I might have known. Your talk is just as likely.”

They met Antony as he entered the house, and their exclamations embraced each other:

“Antony, my son! God bless you.”

“Father! Why, father! This is a happy surprise!” and the young man put his hands on his father’s shoulders and kissed him.

“Is anything wrong, father?”

“Why not ask, is everything right? Right is as 293 likely as wrong, is it not? There is some one on the front gallery, waiting to see you. I am going to the stable to look at your stock.”

“Do. The horses are pretty good. I’ll come to you in a few minutes. Jim! Jim Laker! Here are the trout. Get us a good supper, as soon as you can.”

He was putting his rod and line in place, and hanging up his hat, as he spoke. Peter lingered, and looked at him wistfully; until Antony—running his fingers through his hair—turned to the front door; then he said:

“As I told you, Antony, there is some one waiting to see you. I would not forget that ‘His compassions fail not,’ and that ‘His mercy is from everlasting to everlasting.’”

The strange charge made Antony start, struck the blood into his face, and set his heart beating wildly. He walked quickly to the front of the house; and his eyes immediately fell on the slight, black-robed figure of his wife. Rose had heard his approaching footsteps, and had stood up to meet her fate. Her head was bare, her hands dropped, but her eyes gazed straight at him. And there was a look in them, and in the thin, pathetic face, that melted Antony’s heart to tears. He went towards her with open arms; but she lifted her hands, palms outward, and cried:

“Oh, Antony! Let me say I am sorry, before you forgive me. So sorry! so ashamed of the past! I have been nearly dead with shame and grief! Can you forgive me? Will it be right to forgive me?”

“My dear one, I have forgot it all.”

“No, no! You must first think of it all—think of everything I did wrong—of every scornful word and act, of every unkindness, of every time I made you 294 ashamed of me. Is it right to forgive me? For I am not good, I am only trying to be good; and perhaps I shall fail very often. But God has spoken to me; and men and women have punished me on every hand; and I love you. Yes, I love you so much, Antony, that if you send me away I shall die of love and grief.”

“You love me?”

“Yes, I love you.”

“Then, my dear Rose, that is enough for all. We will bury every sad memory in love. Forgive all for love. Trust all to love.” So he gathered her to his heart, and kissed the tears off her eyes, and the love off her lips; and said to her with sweet solemnity:

“My darling Rose, this is our real marriage. Oh, my wife! My dear wife! My dear, dear, dear wife!”

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