A LIBEL

As Lydia hurried back to the cloister she had a humiliated sense of having been in contact with something foul. Indignant at the trap which had been laid for her, sore at the struggle neither to listen nor to doubt, one thought only occupied her: to get back to the cloister and wash her mind and body clean of the whole concern.

She had not been allowed to respond to Neaera's invitation without a long discussion with IrÉnÉ and the Mother Superior. The compact upon which she had come to New York was that she was not to meet Chairo there; to insure this, it had been the unexpressed understanding that she would not leave the cloister until Chairo's case was judged—or at least not leave it without the permission of the Demetrian authorities. So when Neaera's message was received, Lydia at once showed it to IrÉnÉ.

Neaera's rÔle in the whole matter was such an important one, and so much depended on what it could be proved to have been, that the Mother Superior judged it worth the risk to allow Lydia to visit Neaera. When, therefore, Lydia returned to the cloister, IrÉnÉ at once questioned her as to the result of the interview.

But Lydia was not prepared to lay bare even to IrÉnÉ all she had suffered at Masters's rooms. It was already pitiful enough that her love for Chairo had become a subject for public discussion, and, indeed, a matter of political concern. This last agony she would keep to herself; she felt unable to talk about it to others, so she answered IrÉnÉ imploringly:

"Do not ask me. Nothing has come of it which can be of the slightest importance to the cult or to any one. Neaera is a worse woman than I thought."

IrÉnÉ hesitated. She did not wish to intrude on Lydia, and yet she knew the Mother Superior would not be satisfied with this answer. But there was no reason for forcing an answer from Lydia at once, so she accompanied her to her room.

"I want a bath," said Lydia. "I feel contaminated."

"Physically contaminated?" asked IrÉnÉ, smiling.

"The mere presence of that woman is a physical contamination," answered Lydia.

"Well, let us go down and take a plunge together," answered IrÉnÉ, laughing.

"Will you?" asked Lydia. "And then we can go to the temple afterwards. That will be the best of all."

The two women stepped down to the swimming bath and donned their swimming dress.

Lydia stood on the plunging board, and as she raised her beautiful arms above her head and straightened herself for the plunge, she said:

"Ah! IrÉnÉ, if life were all as simple and as wholesome and as delightful as this!"

Reinvigorated by the fresh salt plunge, they resumed their draperies and walked slowly to the temple. The service was coming to an end and they knelt to hear the closing chorus of the Choephoroi. The words came with refreshing distinctness to Lydia, and the hopefulness of them filled her heart with strength. They told of the beauty of women, of their devotion. Beauty was a snare, but it was also a sanctuary. For the goddess gave beauty to the good and to the evil alike—so had the Fates decreed. And the evil would use it to the undoing of man, but the good to the building of him up. And the goddess loved good and hated evil.

Then came the prayer of the women; they prayed to Demeter to give them charm to delight and courage to renounce, that love and moderation bring in the end happiness and peace.

And the priest lifted his hand in benediction:

"Go forth, for the goddess hath blessed you, and hath bidden you take heed that, pitiless though be Anagke, even her empire may at last be broken by the fruit of your womb."

The congregation knelt at these words and remained kneeling while the choir marched out singing a recessional, solemn and strong. Then came the novices, the Demetrians, and, last of all, the high priest bearing the sacred emblem.

When Lydia and IrÉnÉ left the temple and followed the arcade to the cloister, all doubts and fears seemed to have fallen from Lydia, as scales from eyes blinded by cataract.

"How beautiful the cult of Demeter is!" exclaimed Lydia, "and how strengthening."

IrÉnÉ passed her arm round Lydia's waist. "You know now," she said, "how easy my sacrifice has become! Oh, we have to pass through the fire, but once the ordeal is over, happiness comes unbidden and unexpected. Come to my boy—my boys, I should say. I left them at work and I shall probably find them at play; but they are truthful and innocent. Their innocence is a daily delight to me."

And the two women returned to their duties. Lydia forgot that she had heard Neaera whispering to Chairo. She had taken in a draught of strength, and she needed it, for another trial was at hand.

Lydia was allowed to sleep that night the sleep of the innocent, but the next morning while she was engaged in the hospital ward, IrÉnÉ came to her with an expression of agitation on her face that was unusual. She carried in her hand a newspaper, which Lydia was not slow in recognizing, and asked Lydia when she would be through her work, as she had an important word to say to her.

Lydia promised to hurry and be back in her room within ten minutes. IrÉnÉ said she would go at once to her room and wait there. The moment IrÉnÉ left the room the probable contents of the newspaper flashed upon her, and she saw the folly of her reticence. She was putting the last bandage about the leg of a child when suddenly, at the thought of the false construction that might be placed upon her silence, a weakness came over her that made it almost impossible for her to finish her task.

"What is the matter, Aunt Lydia?" asked the child; "you look pale."

Lydia collected herself. "Nothing," she said, "I shall be all right presently." She passed her unoccupied hand over her eyes and was able to resume and complete her work.

When she had sewn up the bandage she put back the small wounded limb into the bed, tucked in the sheets, and, preoccupied as she was with her new concern, was moving away without giving the child the customary kiss.

"Aunt Lydia!" cried out the child, holding out its little hands.

"Darling," answered Lydia, and as the soft arms closed around her neck and she felt innocent lips upon her cheek, tears gushed from her eyes, of which—relief though they gave her—she was nevertheless ashamed.

The child looked wonderingly at her, and she said:

"It is nothing at all, and Aunt Lydia is very grateful for a sweet little kiss."

The child patted her cheek with a dimpled hand as she bent over him, and Lydia left, wondering how often she would have to be reminded that happiness did not depend only upon the satisfaction of our own desires. She had left the temple full of this thought, and yet a suspected attack, directed by a newspaper against her own particular designs, had in a moment blackened her entire horizon. When she reached her room and found IrÉnÉ there she was once more calm and strong.

She found IrÉnÉ sitting down, with the newspaper open on her knees. It was published by a few devotees in vindication of the cult, although lacking its support. The cult had, indeed, often tried to suppress its publication but had not succeeded. It had been able only to compel the publishers to change its name, for it had been published at first under the title "The Demetrian." The cult had pointed out that this title gave the impression that it was an authorized organ, whereas it was not only unauthorized but published in a spirit opposite to that taught by the cult. So the name had been changed to "Sacrifice," this word having been selected in opposition to the word "Liberty"—the title of its rival.

In the issue of that morning was the following paragraph:

"We are incensed to learn that although Chairo was given his liberty on the express understanding that he was not to use it in order to consummate his outrage on Lydia, and although Lydia was allowed to come to New York only on the condition that she was to remain confined to the cloister and not to see Chairo, these two, who have already scandalized the cult and the whole community beyond endurance, managed yesterday to meet clandestinely at the rooms of Masters, between ten and eleven in the morning. Masters is not in New York, so he cannot be held responsible for this assignation; and Masters being out of town it is hardly necessary to point out that on this occasion the guilty couple were quite alone."

Lydia thought when she entered her room that she was braced to endure anything, but when she came to the closing words of the paragraph the blood rushed to her face. She managed, however, to avoid further expression of her indignation.

"It is false, of course?" said IrÉnÉ.

"No," answered Lydia, and with burning cheeks she turned her tired eyes on IrÉnÉ. "It is not false—and it is not true."

"What do you mean?" asked IrÉnÉ anxiously.

"Chairo was there."

"And you saw him?"

IrÉnÉ was bending over her breathlessly.

A fearful agitation tormented Lydia. Must she indeed renew the anguish of that hour—nay, treble it, by laying it bare to all the world? She could have told it to IrÉnÉ, but to tell it to her as a vindication of herself would involve the telling of it to the Mother Superior and to the rest. And who would believe that she had not seen or spoken to Chairo, that far from seeing him, she had crouched in an adjoining room with her fingers at her ears in agony lest she should hear and lest she should not hear?

She remained silent, with her head bowed over the offending sheet.

"You must tell me," IrÉnÉ pleaded; "I need not tell it to any one—at least I think I need not," added she, hesitating, "but I know you have done no wrong; you must clear yourself, Lydia; for the love of the goddess, tell me."

"For the love of the goddess," repeated Lydia slowly; she paused a moment, and then, mistress of herself again, she said:

"I neither saw Chairo nor spoke to him. You will believe this, but who else will?"

"Your word is enough for me," answered IrÉnÉ, "and I shall make it enough for them all."

The women arose and embraced each other, then Lydia said:

"Too much has been already said about the most secret as well as the most sacred matters of a woman's life. It belongs to us women to preserve the dignity that we derive from Demeter, and that we owe her. I shall say no more on this matter. Am I not right?"