THIS IS NOT A BOON.
Othello; iii.—3.

"'I strew these opiate flowers
On thy restless pillow;'"

Hummed Grant Herman to himself, taking his lonely way down the dim and dingy streets leading to the wharves where he had his abode:

"'I strew these opiate flowers—'

Oh, what a woman she is! She might be Brunhilde, or she might be Burd
Helen;

'I strew these—'

I wonder what she had to say to Fenton that she made him stay. Confound that fellow! I'm not more than half sure that I'm fond of him; though I can't bring myself fairly and squarely to dislike him. But I wish he didn't know Mrs. Greyson quite so well; he's going to be married, too. I wonder how he came to know her, any how. It is strange she doesn't wear black if she is a widow. I'd like to learn something more definite about her, but Fenton's the only one who would be likely to know, and I certainly will not ask him. I suppose he is there yet, lounging in some sort of an outlandish shape."

Arthur was indeed still in Helen's parlor, and in as crooked an attitude as a man ever compassed. He had so managed to dispose of himself over three chairs as to give the general effect of having been suddenly arrested in the midst of an acrobatic feat of unusual difficulty, and with a cigar in his long, nervous fingers, was watching Mrs. Greyson, who occupied herself in tidying the room a little.

"We have been too good friends," she said, "to say good-by in public.
The old days have been pleasant, and it is hard to give them up."

"You have insisted upon it that they are gone forever," he returned, "until I almost begin to believe you. But it is no matter. Che sarÀ sarÀ."

"Yes; che sarÀ sarÀ," she echoed. "But now are you willing to do me a favor? I haven't asked many of you."

"You certainly deserve that I should say yes without a quibble," replied Fenton, "but your air is so serious that I do not dare run the risk; so I will merely answer,—I would like to do you a favor if I may."

She came and sat down near him, a beautiful woman, flushed and tender. It arose perhaps from the delicate sensitiveness of both that they had always instinctively avoided those chance contacts which between lovers become so significant, confining themselves to rare hand-shakes at meeting and parting; and it may be that their very scrupulousness in this matter proves how near they had been to more emotional relations than those of simple friendship. Now when Helen laid her hand upon her friend's arm it marked an earnestness which showed how much she felt what she was about to say.

"I want you to give me something that Will gave you the other day."

Fenton's first feeling was one of annoyance, but this was quickly replaced by a desire to fathom the motives which prompted her request.

"How did you know of it?" he asked.

"By divination," she answered, with a faint smile. "Will you give it to me?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I ask you."

"To go back to that, then, why do you ask me?"

"Because I cannot bear to think of your going to be married with that in your possession. Because it is cruel for you so to wrong Miss Caldwell as to marry her while you find it possible to think it may lead you to—to use that. How can you do it! You know I've no sympathy with those who call it cowardly to take one's life. I think we've a right to do that sometimes, perhaps. But it is cowardly to many a woman with the deliberate idea of escaping her if you are not happy; of deserting her after you have inextricably involved her life in yours. You've no right to do that if you mean to make it a tragedy."

"She is involved in my life already," he returned gravely; "and it is a tragedy. But I am not so wholly selfish as you assume. Honestly, Helen, it is for her sake as much, at least, as my own that I wanted that vial. It is all like a scene in The City of Dreadful Night. I cannot be sure that I may not have to kill myself for her happiness. Heaven knows I have not found myself so good company as to have very strong reasons to suppose that any body else will."

"No," Helen said. "That is sophistry. I am a woman and I have been a wife. I know what I say. You have no right to marry any woman and allow the existence of such a possibility. It may not be logic, but it is true."

"But she will not know."

"She may not know, but she will feel. You are too finely strung not to discover to a delicate ear any discord, no matter how hard you try to conceal it; and the ear of a woman who loves is sensitive to the slightest changes. No, Arthur, if you have any love for her, any friendship for me, any respect for yourself, give me that vial."

He made no answer to her appeal for a moment, although she clasped his arm more tightly and looked beseechingly into his face. It was one of those moments when he gave way to his best impulses; when he indulged in the pleasure of letting his higher nature vibrate in response to appeals addressed to it, and for the instant tasted the intoxicating pleasure of conscious virtue. He turned to scrutinize her more closely.

"But what would you do with it, Helen?"

She started a little. She had not been without a half-formed thought that she should be glad to have the deadly gift with its power of swift oblivion in her possession, although until now she had scarcely been conscious of it. But she saw that some suspicion of this was present in Arthur's mind, and must be allayed before she could hope to accomplish her purpose.

"You are wrong," she said quickly. "It is for your own sake that I want you to give it up. I will do whatever you like with it. I pledge you my word that I will never use it myself."

He still made no movement to surrender the vial, but she held out her hand.

"Come," she pleaded. "I appeal to your best self. For the sake of your mother, Arthur,—you have told me you could refuse her nothing she asked, and she would surely ask this if she were alive and knew. Give it to me."

He slowly drew from some inner pocket the little morocco case and held it in both hands looking at it.

"It is a comfort to me," he said. "It means an end of every thing. It means annihilation; it means getting rid of this nightmare of existence. I can remember when I dreaded the idea of annihilation, but I have come to feel that it is the only good to be desired. To be done with every thing and to forget every thing! Don't you see, Helen; I should never be satisfied with any thing short of omnipotence and omniscience, and annihilation is the only refuge for a nature like that. I want to be everything; to feel the joy of the conqueror and yet not miss the keen, fine pang of the conquered—Lowell says it somewhere; to be

'Both maiden and lover'—

I forget it—'bee and clover, you know; to be the 'red slayer' and 'the slain' both. Do you wonder I want to keep this?"

A feeling of helplessness and hopelessness came over Helen. Only half consciously she spoke a thought aloud:

"You are half mad from introspection."

He turned upon her a quizzical smile.

"I dare say," said he. "It isn't a comfortable process either. If a man has lived twenty-five years, Helen, and has not so entangled his life in a web of circumstances that no power will ever be able to extricate it, he may consider his first quarter century of existence a success."

He spoke with a bitter good humor not uncommon with him, and he believed himself sincere. He even mentally applauded himself for the justness of the sentiment, and was not untouched with pity for a being in whom such sadness was possible. It may have been this secret complacency that Helen detected in his face and fancied it a sign of relenting. She put out her hand and took hold of the morocco case. Arthur did not release his hold, yet neither did his grasp tighten, and she drew the dangerous gift out of his fingers.

She sprang up and locked it away in a cabinet.

"There!" she exclaimed, standing before him in a sudden revulsion of feeling, her face flushed and her eyes shining. "Now I will tell you what I think of you. I think you mean to be good to others, but—"

"You always think better of me than I deserve," he interrupted; "at least you treat me better."

"That does not necessarily indicate any leniency of judgment," retorted Helen. "I think you are self-centered, and morbid; and if marriage doesn't reform you, I give you up, for nothing will. Suffering is only an effect, the cause is sensibility; and you keep yourself abnormally sensitive by having yourself always upon the vivisection table."

She turned and walked away from him. Her emotion was getting beyond her control. Her friendships were keen with the intensity of her passionate nature; she had not passed through this struggle lightly, and perhaps the victory unnerved her more than defeat would have done. On his part he endeavored to turn every thing off as usual with a jest.

"Have I told you Bently's latest?" he began. "He—"

"It is of no use," she said, returning to him, tears overflowing her eyes. "You cannot help my making a spectacle of myself; and you had better go. Oh, Arthur, I hope so much for you; I do so hope for happiness coming to you out of this marriage; but I shall be so lonely."

Her voice broke despite her effort. She came nearer, she hesitated an instant; then she bent over and kissed his forehead. A hot tear splashed upon his hand.

"There," she said. "Good night, and good-by. When you come back you will see what a fine steady old lady I have become."

He got on to his feet, confused, troubled, pitying her profoundly and commiserating himself upon the awkwardness of the situation. He tried to frame some sentence which might bridge the distance that seemed suddenly to have opened between them. Like a farewell, a renunciation or a dedication, that kiss impressed upon him a certain remoteness new and oppressive.

"Bah!" he broke off. "I can say nothing, Helen. I have thus far served in an already sufficiently unhappy world only to make people more miserable still. I'm not worth a faintest regret. Good-night. If I can ever serve you—Good-by!"