A TRAGIC DENOUEMENT

Lydia could not disembarrass herself of the feeling of guilt with which she awoke after her interview with IrÉnÉ. She went to the temple for help and knelt before the story of Demeter's sorrows, which was told in sweeping frescoes on its walls. Chance so happened that she found herself before that part of the story which described the goddess forgetting her own sorrow in her devotion to the sick child of the woodman in his hut. The artist, in the reaction from the Greek method of treating this story which marked the narrative of Ovid as contrasted with that of Homer, had dwelt upon the humble conditions of the poor hut in which the light of Demeter's golden hair shone like a beneficent aureole; and the nascent maternal instinct in Lydia vibrated to the beauty of Demeter's task. Was she to renounce this highest standard of maternity? What though she did love Chairo, was it not this very love which the goddess bade her renounce? And was not the greater the love the nobler the sacrifice?

She returned to the cloister weary with the struggle and strove to forget it by devoting herself to the duties of the hospital. As she cared for a sick child there, the fresco in the temple before which she had that morning kneeled came back to her, and in the memory of that hour and in the love that went out to the child she was nursing she found consolation.

But perhaps she was most influenced by a certain capacity for passive resistance in her, which unconsciously set her upon opposing the inclination to yield, whether to her love for Chairo or to the pleading of the priest. She could refuse to yield to both more easily than decide to yield to either. And so, many days passed in the valley of indecision before she was lifted out of it by an unexpected event.

A novice came to her one morning and bade her go to IrÉnÉ, who had asked for her. She had not seen IrÉnÉ since the day they had spoken in the cloister and she had wondered; but something in her had secretly been satisfied. IrÉnÉ would have challenged her to decide, and this was just what she was not prepared to do.

As she followed the novice to IrÉnÉ's rooms the novice had told her that IrÉnÉ was very ill and had moaned all night, begging for Lydia. Inquiry elicited that IrÉnÉ was threatened and perhaps was actually suffering from congestion of the brain, and that she had been confined to her rooms ever since she had ministered with Lydia in the temple. When Lydia approached IrÉnÉ's rooms a nurse stopped her by saying that IrÉnÉ had just fallen into a sleep—the first for a fortnight—and must not be awakened. So Lydia remained in the sitting room, peeping occasionally through the curtain that separated it from the room in which IrÉnÉ slept. For many hours IrÉnÉ remained motionless, but at last as Lydia stood holding aside the curtain, IrÉnÉ opened her eyes; her face was flushed; she sprang up in her bed, leaning on one hand, and glared at Lydia with eyes that lacked discourse of reason. Then, suddenly, she seemed to recognize her and a shriek rent the room and sent Lydia staggering back against the nurse who stood behind her. Putting both her hands over her eyes and ears Lydia dropped the curtain between herself and the raving IrÉnÉ; but no hand could keep her from hearing the words that came through the curtain and pierced her brain:

"Go away! Go away!" shrieked IrÉnÉ. "You have taken him from me! Stolen him!"

IrÉnÉ's shriek sounded to Lydia like the crack of doom. Then came the words, "Stolen him," in the voice of the accusing angel—and as if it were in answer to her own shrinking gesture of protest behind the curtain, she heard IrÉnÉ shriekingly repeat: "Stolen, yes, stolen!"

The nurse put Lydia into a chair and went to IrÉnÉ; she found her risen from the bed, and, shrouded in her curtain of blue-black hair, with lunatic eyes, she was advancing slowly to the room where Lydia sat. When IrÉnÉ saw the nurse she said, in low grave accents, "Not you—not you!" and then with menacing significance added, almost in a whisper, "The other!"

The nurse tried to stop her and urge her back to her bed, but IrÉnÉ swept her away with a single movement of her arm, and moved to the curtain which separated her from Lydia. But Lydia had by this time recovered control of herself; she knew that a maniac was approaching and she arose to await her. IrÉnÉ pushed aside the curtain and confronted Lydia standing in the middle of the room, motionless and rigid as though changed to stone.

"Don't stand there, brazen-faced!" shrieked IrÉnÉ. "Kneel—I say, kneel!"

But Lydia stood her ground unflinchingly.

Then IrÉnÉ burst into a furious laugh: "Great mother," she began mockingly, and Lydia had to stand and listen while the maniac, with lurid eyes and frantic gesture, recited the most sacred of the prayers to Demeter—the prayer in which daily the vestal repeats her vows; but as the prayer came to a close the light went out of IrÉnÉ's eyes, the fury out of her gesture; she slowly bent down upon her knees, and the last words of the prayer were, in a voice sinking to a whisper, addressed to Lydia as though she had been the goddess herself.

When IrÉnÉ's voice died away it seemed as though the paroxysm was over; she remained kneeling, with her head bowed upon her breast.

Then Lydia thought to lift her up, and bent down to her. IrÉnÉ looked up suddenly and shrieked as she recognized Lydia; she frantically waved her hands before her face as though to rid her eyes of the spectacle, and Lydia resumed her erect posture again.

By this time the nurse had returned to the room and tried to lead IrÉnÉ away. At first she succeeded, but suddenly IrÉnÉ swept her away, and confronted Lydia again:

"It hurts here," she said, clutching at her heart. "You'll know," she added, and laughed harshly. "You'll know!" she repeated, and throwing up her hands she clutched the air; then in an agony of paroxysm she whispered again in a faltering voice, "You'll know"—and suddenly sank a huddled heap upon the floor.

Lydia and the nurse ran to her and lifted her back upon the bed, and from that moment Lydia did not leave her side. For many days life hovered on the edge of IrÉnÉ's lips, sometimes appearing to take flight altogether, and again returning to reanimate the clay. And Lydia with anguish in her heart bent over her night and day.

At last a crisis came and IrÉnÉ fell into a profound and restful sleep; the fever left her, and the pulse slowly recovered regularity and strength; she seemed to recognize no one, and it was expected that for some weeks she would probably remain unaware of those around her. Lydia was advised to absent herself, lest to IrÉnÉ, on recovering her reason, the shock of seeing Lydia prove dangerous; and so, one evening as the sun set, her strength shattered, she returned to her own rooms.

It happened that the following day was the ninth of the Eleusinian festival, on which, if at all, those to whom the mission had been tendered might accept or renounce it. Strange to say, with her waning strength ebbed also the power of passive resistance which had kept Lydia from decision; she surrendered not to the exercise of a controlling will but to the suggesting influence of IrÉnÉ's anguish; and on the next day in the temple, to the rage of some and to the deep concern of all, in the procession she wore the yellow veil which announced her as a bride of Demeter.