Measure for Measure; iv.—4.

Ninitta's illness proved after all very slight. So slight, indeed, that Dr. Ashton, calling in on his way to dine with the Fentons Thursday evening, found her gone. She had insisted upon returning to her attic, although Helen had not allowed her to depart without promising not to abscond a second time.

Ninitta was grateful to Mrs. Greyson with all the ardor of her passionate southern heart. She did not, it is true, understand the relations between Herman and Helen, but even her jealousy was lost in the gratitude she felt for the beautiful woman who had cared for her, and it is not unlikely saved her from a dangerous illness. It did not seem possible to the undisciplined Italian, versed only in crude, simple emotions, that a woman who was her rival could treat her with tenderness. She accepted Helen's kindness as indisputable proof that the latter did not love the sculptor, a conclusion which the premises scarcely warranted. She volunteered to pose again, and Mrs. Greyson, thinking it well to keep the girl under her influence, and desiring a return to at least the semblance of the peaceful existence preceding the stormy episode just ended, eagerly accepted this offer, only stipulating that the model should undertake nothing until she was really well able.

"I shall come back to supper," Dr. Ashton said, as he left his wife. "I have half a mind not to go to Fenton's; only it amuses me to watch the fellow's degeneration."

"It never amuses me to watch any degradation," she returned gravely. "How do you know he is degenerating? If you mean by following his wife, why, they may be right after all, and what we call superstition the veriest truth."

"Of course," answered he. "I never pretended to administer the exclusive mysteries of truth; but it is always a degradation to yield to personal influence at the expense of conviction. Arthur is as much of a heathen to-day as he ever was, only he is too fond of comfort to have the courage of his opinions."

Helen sighed.

"Truth to me," she said thoughtfully, "is whatever one sincerely believes; I cannot conceive of any other standard. One man's truth is often another's falsehood."

"You are as dull as a preface to-night, Helen; what carking care is gnawing at your vitals?"

"Nothing in particular. A certain melancholy is befitting a widow, you know, and that's what I am supposed to be."

"On the contrary there is a certain vivacity about the word widow to my mind."

"Your experience has been wider than mine. I am aware that I am too much given to vast moral reflections, but you provoke them."

"I am sorry to provoke you," he said gayly. "Forgive me before supper time; who knows what rich experiences I may have between now and then. Good-by."

As he walked toward his appointment, could Dr. Ashton's vision have reached to the house whither he was going, he would have seen Arthur Fenton and his wife sitting together before an open fire awaiting their guest. The artist was showing Edith a portfolio of sketches by foreign painters, which he had brought from his studio.

"What a strange uncanny thing this is," he remarked, holding one up. "It is just like Frontier; I never saw any thing more characteristic. I wonder you got so few of his tricks, Edith, while you studied with him."

"He always repelled me. I was afraid of him. Where did you get this sketch?"

"Dr. Ashton gave it to me."

"Dr. Ashton!"

"Yes; when he was in Paris, both he and his wife were intimate with
Frontier. Or at least Will was."

"Oh, Arthur!"

She leaned forward in her chair, her always pale face assuming a new pallor. Laying her hand upon her husband's, she asked in a quick, excited manner:

"Do you know how Frontier died?"

"I know he died suddenly; now you speak of it, I have an idea it was a case of felo de se. You know I was in Munich at the time."

"Arthur," Edith said earnestly, "I have never told even you; but I saw Frontier die. I had a pass-key to his studio, and his private rooms were just behind it. That night I went in on my way from dinner—Uncle Peter and I had been dining together, and I left him at the door with the carriage—after a study I'd forgotten. We were going to Rome the next morning, and I didn't want to leave it. The picture was at the further end of the studio, and as I went down the room I heard voices and saw that Frontier's door was open. He sat at a table with a tiny wine-glass in his hand. A man who stood back to me said, just as I came within hearing: 'It is none of my affair, and I shall not interfere; but you'll allow me to advise you not to be rash.' I could not hear Frontier's answer, partly because I paid no attention, of course never suspecting the truth. But as I went towards my easel, Frontier, hearing the noise, I suppose, and afraid of being interrupted, caught up the glass and drank what was in it. The other man sprang forward just in time to catch him as he fell back, and it suddenly came over me that he was taking poison. I cried out and ran into the room, but it seemed only an instant before it vas all over. Oh, it was terrible, Arthur, terrible!"

She covered her agitated face with her hands, as if to shut out the vision which rose before her. Her husband sat in silent astonishment, a conviction growing in his mind of whom the other witness of Frontier's death must have been.

"Arthur," Edith broke out suddenly, "that man was no better than a murderer. He let Frontier kill himself. When I cried out, 'Oh, why didn't you stop him!' he said as coolly as if I had asked the most trivial question, 'Why should I? What right had I to interfere?' It was terrible! He seemed to me a perfect fiend!"

"It was—who was it?" demanded her husband, a name almost escaping him in his excitement.

"It was Dr. Ashton; the man who is coming to sit down at your table to-night. Arthur, I cannot meet him! I knew when he came to our reception that I had seen him before, but I could not tell where. There is his ring now. Let me get by you!"

"But where are you going?" Fenton asked in amazement.

"To my room. Any where to get out of his way."

"But what shall I tell him?"

"The truth; that I will not sit down to eat with a murderer."

She vanished from the room, leaving her husband alone. Dr. Ashton's step was already upon the stair, and however keenly Mrs. Fenton might feel the wickedness of the Doctor in not preventing Frontier's self-destruction, the action was too strictly in accord with Arthur's own views to allow of his condemning it. His friend found him in a state of confusion which instantly connected itself in the guest's mind with the non-appearance of Edith, an impression which was strengthened by the lameness of the excuses tendered for her absence. Dr. Ashton not unnaturally concluded that he had just escaped stumbling upon a family quarrel. He accepted whatever his host chose to say, and the two proceeded rather gloomily to dinner.

In Arthur's mind there sprang an irritation against both his wife and his friend. His instincts were all protective, that term including comfort as well as self-preservation. He was intensely annoyed at his wife's attitude, and began to vent his spleen in cynical speeches, which since his marriage had been rare with him.

"Christian grace," he declared, "is exactly like milk; excellent and nourishing while it is fresh, but hard to get pure, and even then sure to sour."

"Say something more original if you are cross, Arthur," observed his friend good humoredly. "What is the matter? Is it a new rug or a Japanese bronze you are dying for?"

"Hang rugs and bronzes," retorted Arthur, with a vicious determination to be ill-natured. "If I can get the necessities of life, I am lucky."

"Nonsense," was the reply. "It isn't that. The lack of the necessities of life makes a man sad; it is the lack of luxuries that makes him cynical."

Dr. Ashton was perfectly right in his inward comment that Fenton was secretly regretting his marriage. This was the thought that filled Arthur's mind. It was true he had had no absolute disagreement with his wife, although it is not impossible that it might have come to this, had a delay in the guest's arrival allowed time. But it filled the husband with an unreasoning rage that Edith presumed to establish so strict a code of morals. He felt that her position as his wife demanded more conformity to his standards. Why need she trouble herself about that which did not concern her, and sit in such lofty judgment upon the morals of her neighbors? Did she propose keeping Dr. Ashton's conscience as well as her own—and his? Certainly those whom the husband found worthy his friendship it ill became the wife to stigmatize and avoid. He sat moodily tearing his fish in pieces instead of eating; for the moment wholly forgetting his duty as host.

"If you'll pardon my mentioning it," Dr. Ashton said at length, "you are about as cheerful company as a death's head. You are so melancholy that I am tempted to fling in your face one of my old epigrams; that love is a gay young bachelor who can never be persuaded to marry and settle down."

The other laughed and made an effort to shake off his gloom; but with so little success that his guest resolved to escape at the earliest moment possible. Something in Fenton's forced talk, however, attracted Dr. Ashton's attention.

"My wife was a pupil of Frontier."

The simple phrase, which had escaped Arthur's lips because it had been in his mind not to allude to this fact, might have gone unnoticed had not the speaker himself so strongly felt the shock of disclosure as to show sudden confusion. The whole matter was at once clear to Dr. Ashton, who having recognized Edith at the reception, had been prepared for identification in his own turn.

"So that," he observed calmly, "is the reason Mrs. Fenton does not dine with us to-night. I knew she was sure to recognize me sooner or later; but as I had no motive for concealing this matter, on the other hand I had no reason for recalling so unpleasant a circumstance to her mind."

There was a pause of a moment, and then the Doctor continued:

"I think Frontier was rather foolish. I told him so. A charming little Hungarian girl of whom he was fond, had left him to follow the fortunes of a Polish Count, or something of the sort. I do not see why a man should kill himself for so trifling a thing as a woman; but if he chose to, I am not one of those officious persons who feel justified in interfering with any private act they don't happen to approve. I certainly should resent such impertinent intrusion into my own affairs."

"And I," assented Arthur doggedly; "but my wife——"

"Certainly; I understand. Mrs. Fenton says hard things of me because I would not rob poor Frontier of what little comfort he could get from dying. Very well; I will not offend her by my presence. Only she is setting herself a hard task in attempting to treat people according to their conservatism. In these days the sheep and goats have come to be so much alike in appearance, that I scarcely see how a mere mortal is to distinguish between them. My own case I settle for her by avoiding her house."

"But this is my house," protested Arthur, intensely chagrined.

"No," his guest replied, still smiling and moving toward the door. "It is the nest you have built for your love and your—regeneration! Good night."