A Woman's Reason: A Novel

Google

This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project

to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the

publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at |http: //books .google .com/I

HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY

n

By tht Samt Author,

A FEARFUL RESPONSIBILITY.

I vol. lamo. f 1.50.

" Ezquidte pieces of workmanshiix. reflecting the verv bri|dit-
ness auo clow of the atmoephere of Southero Kurope." — N«m
Orkmiu DttmacrtU.

In th« tamt vo im m u art imclwUd tht marvglloutfy kutm^rtus
amd aimmtmr titry, tniUled '* At tub Sign op thb Savacui/'
Md tk* kigkiyjimuhed study ^ Vtrntitm if/t, tutiUtd **To-

MBLU'S MaKBIAGB."

DR. BREEN'S PRACTICE.

I voL lamo. f 1.50.

" In hb most admirable maiAV — Christian Union.

** Surprising and felicitous audacity." — Christian Rsgisttr.

** Like ererything that comes from Mr. Howells, the story b
true to life, delicate, full of very fine touches, sweet-tempered,
and really representative of our time and our pec^le." — Boston
Adtfsrtisor.

A MODERN INSTANCE.

I vol. lama f 1.50.

** * A Modem Instance ' is a thoroughly interesting novel It
b one of those books fur which the stodi iihrase of laudation
is, that the reader cannot lay them down till he has finished
them.** — PaU Matt GaMotU (London).

" There has been no more rigidly artistic writing done in
America since Hawthorne's time" — Tho Critic {Nsw York),

JAMES R. OSGOOD A CO., B08ton.

A WOMAN'S SEASON

WILLIAM D. HOWELLS

-•, -_ <. ,^

BOSTON

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY

ISS]

Au\n^'2),^c3^

HARVARD

UNIVERSITY

LIBRARY

SEP 8 1941

Oopyrighl, 188$,
Bt Wiluam D. Howblls.

AU rights rutrvtd.

Cmbrfbft:

ruimo BT iOBH WILMR AND BOM,

unYBBsrar rasM.

^>.^;\
H

A WOMAN'S REASON

A WOMAN'S REASON.

TiiE (lay had been yeiy oppressiye, and at half-
past fivR in the afternoon, the hoat had scarcely
abated, to the perception of Mr. Joshua Harkness,
as he walked heavily tip the Park Street mall in
Boston (Common. When he came opposite the
Brewer Fountain, with its Four Seasons of severe
drouth, he stopped short, and stared at the bronze
group with its insufficient dribble, as if he had
never seen it before. Then he felt infirmly about
the ground with his stick, stepped aside, and sank
tremulously into one of the seats at the edge of the
path. The licnch was already partly occupied by a
young man and a young woman ; the young man
had his arm thrown along the back of the seat
behind the young woman ; their heads were each
tilted toward the other, and they were making
love almost as frankly in that public place as they
might in the seclusion of a crowded railway train.
They both glanced at the intruder, and exchange
smiles, apparently of pity for his indecency, and

2 A woman's reason.

then went on with their love-making, while Mr.
Harkness, unconacious of hia offence, atared eagerly
out over the Common, and from time to time made
geaturea or aignala with hia atick in that direction.
It waa that one day of the week when people are
not ahouted at by a multitude of surly aigu-boards
to keep off the grasa, and the turf waa everywhere
dotted with lolling and lounging groupa. Perhaps
to compensate for the absence of the sign-boards
(which would reappear over night like a giowth of
disagreeable fungi), thera was an unusual number of
policemen sauntering about^ and it was one of these
whom Mr. Harkness was trying to attract with his
cane. If any aaw him, none heeded, and he had to
wait till a policeman came down the mall in front of
him. Thia could not have been ao long a time aa it
seemed to Mr. Harkneas, who waa breathing thickly,
and now and then pressing his hand against his fore-
head, like one who tries to atay a reeling brain.

*' Pleaae call a carriage," he panted, as the officer
whom he had thrust in the side with his cane
stopped and looked down at him ; and then as the man
seemed to heaitate, he ailded : " My name is Hark-
ness ; I live at 9 Beacon Steps. I wish to go home
at once ; I 've been taken faint"

Beacon Steps is not Beacon Street, but it is of like
blameless social tradition, and the name, together
with a certain air of moneyed respectability in Mr.
Harkness, had its effect with the policeman.

"Sickl" he aaked. "Well, you are pale. You
just hold on, a minute. Heh, there 1 heh 1" he

A WOMAN'S REASON. 3

Bhonted to a passing hackman, who promptly
stopped, turned his horses, and drew up beside the
curb next the Common. " Now you take my arm,
Mr. Harkness, and 111 help you to the carriage."
He raised the gentleman to his benumbed feet, and
got him away through the gathering crowd ; when
he was gone, the crowd continued to hang about the
place where he had been sitting in such numbers,
that the young man first took his arm down from
the back of the seat, and the young woman tilted
her head away from his, and then they both, with
vexed and impatient looks, rose and walked away,
seeking some other spot for the renewal of their
courtship.

The ]>olicoman had not been able to refrain from
driving home with Mr. Harkness, whom he patro-
nised with a sort of municipal kindness, on the way;
and for whom, when he had got him in-doors, and
comfortably stretched upon a lounge in the library,
he wanted to go and call the doctor. But Mr.
Harkness refused, saying that he had had these
attacks before, and would soon be all right. He
thanked the ofliccr by name, after asking him for it,
and the officer went away, leaving Mr. Harkness to
the care of the cook who, in that midsummer time,
seemed to have sole charge of the house and its
master. Tlie policeman flipped the dust from the
breast and collar of his coat, in walking back to his
beat, with the right feeling of a man who would like
to bo better prepared if summoned a second time to
befriend a gentleman of Mr. Harkness's standing, and

4 ▲ woman's reason.

to meet in coming out of his house a young lady of
such beauty and elegance as he had just encountered.
This young lady, as he closed the door behind him,
had run up the steps with the loop of her train in
one hand — after the fashion of ten years ago, and in
the other a pretty travelling-bag, carried with the
fearlessness of a lady who knows that people are out
of town. She glanced a little wonderingly, a little
defiantly, at the policeman, who, seeing that she
must drop one or other of her burdens to ring, politely
rang for her.

^^ Thank youl" said the young lady, speaking a
little more wonderingly, a little more defiantly than
she had looked.

"Quite welcome. Miss," returned the policeman,
and touched his hat in going down the steps, while
the young lady turned and stared after him, leaning
a little over the top step on which she stood, with
her back to the door. She was very pretty indeed,
with blue eyes at once tender and honesty and the
fair hair, that goes with their beauty, hanging loosely
upon her forehead. Her cheeks, in their young
perfection of outline, had a flush beyond their usual
delicate colour ; the heat, and her eager dash up the
steps had suffused them with a dpwy bloom, that
seemed momently to deepen and soften. Her love-
liness was saved from the insipidity of faultless lines
by a little downward curve, a quirk, or icall it dimple,
at one comer of her mouth, whiph, esi>ecially in
repose, gave it a touch of hunujrous feeling and
formed its final charm : it seemed less a trsit of face

A WOMAN'S REASON. 5

than of character. That fine positive grace, which
is called style, and which is so eminently the gift
of exquisite nerves, had not cost her too much ; she
was slim, but not fragile, and her very motionless-
ness suggested a vivid bird-like mobility ; she stood,
as if she had alighted upon the edge of the step. At
tlie opening of the door behind her she turned alertly
from the perusal of the policeman's retreating back,
and sprang within.

" How d' do, Margaret t " She greeted the cook in
a voice whose bright kindness seemed the translation
of her girlish beauty into sound. ** Surprised to see
me f " She did not wait for the cook's answer, but
put down her bag, and began pulling off her gloves,
after shaking out her skirt, and giving that pene-
trating sidelong downward look at it, which women
always give their drapery at moments of arrival or
departure. She turned into the drawing-room from
the hall, and went up to the long, old-fashioned
mirror, and glanced at the face which it dimly
showed her in the close-shuttcred room. The face had
apparently not changed since she last saw it in that
mirror, and one might have fancied that the yoimg^
lady was somehow surprised at thia

" May I ask why policemen are coming and going
in and out of our house, Margaret t " she demanded of
the cook's image, which, further down in the mirror,
hesitated at the doorway.

" He come home with your father. Miss Helen,"
answered the cook, and as Helen turned round and
stared at her in the flesh, she continued : ** He had

6 A woman's reason.

one of his faint turns in the Common. He 's laying
down in the library now, Miss Helen."

"0, poor papa !" wailed the young lady, who knew
that in spite of the cook's pronoun, it could not be
the policeman who was then reposing from faintncss
in the library. She whirled away from the mirror,
and swooped tlirough the doorway into the hall, and
back into the room where her father lay. "The
heat has been too much for him," she moaned, in
mixed self-reproach and compassion, as she flew ;
and she dropped upon her knees beside him, and
fondly caressed his grey head, and cooed and
lamented over him, with the irreverent tenderness
he liked her to use with him. '* Poor old fellow,"
she murmured. " It 's too bad 1 You 're working
yourself to death, and I 'm going to stay with you
now, and put a stop to your being brought home by
policemen. Why, you ought to be ashamed, break-
ing down in this way, as soon as my back is turned 1
Has Margaret done everything for you 1 Wouldn't
you like a little light 1" She staited briskly to her
feet, flung up the long window, and raising and
lowering the shade fo got the right level for her
father's eyes, stood silhouetted against the green
space without : a grass plot between high brick walls,
on one of which clambered a grape-vine, and on the
other a wisteria, while a bed of bright-leafed plants
gave its colour in the centre of the yard. ^* There 1"
she said, with a glance at this succinct landscape.
"That's the prettiest bit of nature I've seen since I
left Boston." She came back and sat down on a low

A woman's reason. 7

chair beside her father, who smiled fondly upon her,
and took one of her hands to hold, while she pushed
hack his hair with the other.

"Arc you awfully glad to see mel"

"Awfully," said Mr. Harkness, falling in with her
mood, and brightening with the light and her pre-
sence " What brouglit you so suddenly t"

" Oh, that *8 a long story. Are you feeling better,
now!"

" Yes. I was merely faint. I shall be all right
by morning. I 've been a little worn out"

" Was it like the last time f " asked Helen.

" Yes," said her father.

"A little more like!"

" I don't think it was more severe," said Mr. Hark-
ness, thoughtfully.

"WTiat had you been doing? Honour bright,
now : was it accounts t"

" Yes, it was accounts, my dear."

"The same old wretches t"

" The same old ones ; some new ones, too. They 're
in hopeless confusion," sighed Mr. Harkness, who
seemed to age and sadden with the thought

" Well, now, I '11 tell you what, papa," said Helen,
sternly : " I want you to leave all accounts, old and
new, quite alone till the cold weather comes. Will
you promise!"

Harkness smiled, as wearily as he had sighed. He
knew that she was burlesquing somewhat her ignor-
ance of afTatrs ; and yet it was not much burlesqued,
after all ; for her life, like that of other American

8 A woman's reason.

girls of prosperous parentage, had been almost as
much set apart from the hard realities of bread-win-
ning as the life of a princess, as entirely dedicated to
society, to the studies that refine, and the accom-
plishments that grace society. The question of
money had hainlly entered into it Since she was u
little child, and used to climb upon her father's knee,
and ask him, in order to fix his status in her fairy
tales, whether he was rich or poor, she might be said
never to have fairly thought of that matter. Of
course, she understood that she was not so rich as
some girls, but she had never found that the differ-
ence was against her in society ; she could not help
perceiving that in regard to certain of them it was
in her favour, and that she might have patronised
them if she had liked, and that they were glad of
her friendship on any terms. Her father's great
losses had come when she was too young to see the
difference that they made in his way of living ; ever
since she could remember they had kept to the same
scale of simple ease in the house where she was born,
and she had known no wish that there had not been
money enough to gratify. Pleasures of every kind
had always come to her as freely and with as little
wonder on her part as if they had been, like her
youth, her bounding health, her beauty, the direct
gift of heaven. She kneW that the money came from
her father's business, but she had never really asked
herself how it was earned. It is doubtful if she
could have told what his business was ; it was the
India trade, whatever tliat was, and of late yeai-s he

A WOBIAN'S REASON. 9

had seomcd to bo more worried by it than he used to
be, and she had vaguely taken tliis ill, as an ungrateful
return on the part of business. Once he had gone
so far as to tell her that he had been hurt by the
Great Fire somewhat But the money for ail her
noccls and luxuries (she was not extravagant, and
really did not spend much upon herself) had come
as before, and walking through the burnt district,
and seeing how handsomely it had been rebuilt, she
had a comforting sense that its losses had all been
repaired.

" You look a little flushed and excited, my dear,"
said her father, in evasion of the commands laid
upon him, and he touched her fair cheek. He was
very fond of her beauty and of her style; in the
earlier days of her young ladyhood, he used to go
about with her a great deal, and was angry when he
thought she did not get all the notice she ought,
and a little jealous when she did.

" Yes, I am flushed and excited, papa,'' she owned,
throwing herself back in the low chair she had pulled
up to his sofa, and beginning to pluck nervously at
those little tufts of silk that roughened the cob-
webby fabric of the grey summer stuff she wore.
*' Don't you think," she asked, lifting her downcast
eyes, ''that coming home and finding you in this
state is enough to make me look flushed and ex-
cited 1"

"Not quite," said her father quietly. "It's not
a new thing."

Helen gave a sort of lamentable laugh. " I

10 ^ A woman's reason.

know I was humbugging, and I'm aa selfish as I
can be, to think more of myself even now than I do
of you. But, oh papa \ I'm so unhappy !" She
looked at him through a mist that gathered and fell
in silent drops from her eyes without clearing them,
so that she did not see him carry the hand she had
abandoned to his heart, and check a gasp. ''I
suppose we all have our accounts, one way or other,
and they get confused like yours. Mine with —
with — a certain person, had got so mixed up that
there was nothing for it but just to throw tliem
away."

« Do you mean that you have broken with him
finally, Helen 1 " asked her father gravely.

*' I don't know whether you call it finally,'* said
Helen, ** but I told him it was no use — not just in
those words— and that he ought to forgot mo; and
I was afraid I wasn't equal to it; and that I couldn't
see my way to it clearly; and unless I could see
my way clearly, I oughtn't to go on any longer.
I wrote to him last week, and I thought — I thought
that perhaps he wouldn't answer it; perhaps he
would come over to Rye Beach — he could easily
have run over from Portsmouth — to see me — about it.
But he didn't — ho didn't — he — wrote a very short
letter — . Oh, I didn't see liow he could write such a
letter; I tried to spare him in every way; and
yesterday he — he — s — s — sailed 1" Here the stonu
broke, and Helen bowed herself to the sobs with
which her slimness shook, like a tall flower beaten
in the wind. Then she suddenly stopped, and ran

A woman's reason. 1 1

her hand into her pocket, and pulled out her hand-
kerchief. She wiped away her tears, and waited for
her father to speak ; but he lay silent, and merely
regarded her pitifully. ''I couldn't bear it any
longer there with those geese of Merrills — I 'm sure
they were as kind as could be — and so I came homo
to burden and afllict you, papa. Don't you think
that was like me f '' She gave her lamentable laugh
again, sobbed, langlicd once more, dried the fresh
tears with her handkerchief, which she had mechani-
cally shaped into a rabbit, and sat plucking at her
dress as before. "What do people do, papa," she
asked presently, with a certain hoarseness in her
voice, "when they've thrown away their accounts t"

" I never heard of their doing it," my dear," said
her father.

" Well, but when they 've come to the very end of
everything, and there's nothing to go on with, and
they might as well stop?"

"Tlicy go into bankruptcy," answered the old
man, absently, as if the thought had often been in
his mind before.

" Well, that's what I 've gone into — bankruptcy,"
said Helen. " And what do they do after they 'vo
gone into bankruptcy 1"

" They begin the World again with nothing, if they
have the heart," replied Ifer father.

"lliat 's what I have to do then — bo^n the world
again with nothing ! There 1 my course is clear, and
I hope I like it, and I hope I 'm satisfied !"

W^ith these words of self-reproach, Helen again

12 ▲ woman's REASON.

broke down, and bowed herself over the ruin she
had made of her life.

*' I don't think you need despair/' said her father,
soothingly, yet with a sort of physical effort which
escaped her self-centred grief. ^'liobort is such a
good fellow that if you wrote to him — "

'* Why, papa ! Are you crazy 1" shouted the young
girL ** Write to him 1 He 's off for three years, and
I don't think he 'd come posting back from China, if
I did write to him. And how could I write to him,
even if ho were in the next room 1 "

'' It wouldn't be necessary, in that case," said her
father. " I 'm sorry he 's gone for so long," ho added,
rather absently.

** If he were ^ne for a day^ it couldn't make any
difference," cried Helen, inexorably. " I argued it all
out^ — and it 's a perfect chain of logic — before I wrote
to him. I looked at it in this way. I said to myself
that it was no use having the affair off and on, any
longer. It would be perfect misery to a person of
my temi)erament to be an officer's wife, and have my
husband with mo to-day and at the ends of the earth
to-morrow. Besides, his pay wouldn't supi>ort us.
You told me that yourself, papa."

<<Yes," said Mr. Harkness. <<But I thought
Kobert might leave the navy, lUN^-"

*' I never would have \6i hnn 1" Helen burst in.
" He would have been as unhappy as a fish out of
water, and I wouldn't have his wretchedness on my
conscience, and his idleness — you know how long that
splendid Captain Seymour was trying to get into

A woman's reason. 13

business in Boston, after he left the service : and
then he had to go to California before he could find
anything to do ; and do you suppose I was going to
have Robert mooning round in that way, for agesl"

" He might have gone into business with me for the
time being/' said Mr. Harkness, not very hopefully.

" Oh yes 1 you could have made a place for him,
I know ! And we should both have been a burden
to you, then. But I shouldn't have cared for all that
I would have met any fate with Robert, if I had
believed that I felt toward him just as I should. But,
don't you see, papa t If I had felt towards him in
that way, I never should have thought of any — any
— prudential considerations. That was what con-
vinced me, that was what I couldn't escape from,
turn which way I would. Tliat was the point I put
to Robert himself, and — and — oh, I don't see how
he could answer as ho did I I donH see how he could I"
Helen convulsively clutched something in the hand
which she had thrust into her pocket. " It isn't that
I care for myself; but oh, I am so sorry for him,
away off there all alone, feeling so hard and bitter
towards mo, and thinking me heartless, and I don't
know what all, — and hating me so.*'

**What did he say, Helen 1" asked her father,
tenderly. She sna^^hed her hand from her pocket
and laid a paper, crumpled, bewept, distained, in the
hand he stretched towards her, and then bowed her
face upon her kneea

Helen and her father were old confidants, and she
had not more reluctance in showing him this letter

14 A WOMAN'S REASON.

than most girls would have had in trusting such a
paper to their mother's eyes. Her own mother had
died long ago, and in the comradeship of her young
life her father had entered upon a second youth,
happier, or at least tranquiller, than the first. She
adored him and petted him, as a wife could not, and
this worship did not spoil him as it might if it
had been a conjugal devotion. They had always a
perfect understanding ; she had not withdrawn her
childish intimacy of thought and feeling from him
to give it to her mother, as she would have done if
her mother had lived ; he knew all her small heart
affairs without asking, more or less in a tacit way ;
and she had an abidingly grateful sense of his
wisdom in keeping her from follies which she could
see she had escaped through it. He had never
before so directly sought to know her trouble ; but
he had never before seen her in so much trouble ;
besides, he had always been Robert Fenton's friend
at court with Helen ; and he had quietly kept his
hopes of their future through rather a stormy and
uncertain present.

He liked Robert for the sake of Robert's father,
who had been captain and supercargo of one of
Harkness and Co.'s ships, and had gone down in her
on her home voyage when he was returning to be
junior partner in the house, Wter a prosperous
venture of his own in Wcuham ice. Ho left this
boy, and a young wife who died soon afterwards.
Then Mr. Harkness, who was the boy's guardian,
gave him and the small property that remained to

A woman's reason. 15

htm more than a guardian's care. He sent him to
school, but he made him at home in his own house
on all holidays and in vacation. These sojourns
and absences, beginning when Robert was ten years
old, and continuing through his school-boy age, had
renewed alternately his intimacy and strangeness
with Helen, and kept her a mystery and enchant-
ment which grew with his growth, while to her
consciousness he was simply Robert, a nice boy, who
was now at school, or now at home, and who was
often so shy that it was perfectly silly.. When he
was old enough to be placed in some career he was
allowed to choose Harvard and a profession after-
wards, or any more technical training that he liked
better. He chose neither: the sea called him, as
the old superstition is, and every nerve in his body
responded. He would have liked to go into the
trade in which his father had died, but here his
guardian overruled him. He know that the India
trade was dying out If Robert's soul was set u|)on
the sea, of which there seemed no doubt, it was
better that ho should go into the navy ; at Anna])olis
he would have a thorough schooling, which would
sland him in good stead, if future chance or choice
ever cast him ashore to live.

Helen was in the sophomore year of the class
with which she was dancing through Harvard when
Robert came home from his first cruise. She was
then a very great lady, and she patronised the mid-
shipman with killing kindness as a younger brother,
though he was in fact half a year her senior. He

16 ▲ WOMAN'S REASON.

now fell in love with her outright : very proud love,
very jealous, very impatient She could not under-
stand it She said to her father it was so queer.
She never thought of such a thing. Why, Robert!
It was absurd. Besides, he had such a funny name ;
Fentanf But a passion like his was not to be
quenched with reasons even so good as these. lie
went to sea again, bitterly, rapturously brooding
over her idea, and came home in the autumn after
Helen's class-day. All the fellows had scattered
now ; and she was left much younger and humbler
in her feelings, and not so great a lady for all her
triumphs. Two of her class had pro|>osed to her,
and lots had come near it ; but her heart had been
left untouched, and she perceived, or thought she
perceived, that these young gentlemen, who were
wise and mature enough for their age, though neither
Solomons nor Methuselahs, were all silly boys. lu
herself, on the contrary, the tumult of feeling with
which she had first entered the world had been
succeeded by a calm, which she might well have
mistaken for wisdom. She felt that she now knew
the world thoroughly, and while she was resolved
to judge it kindly, she was not going to bo dazadiul
by it any longer. She had become an observer of
human nature ; she analysed her feelings ; sometimes
she made cutting remarks to people, and was dread-
fully sorry for it. She withdrew a great deal from
society, and liked being thought odd. She had
begun to take lessons in painting with a number of
ladies under an artist's criticism; she took up

4

•

A WOMAN'S REABON. 17

courses of reading ; she felt that life was a serious
aflfair. On his return, Robert at first seemed to
her more boyish, more brotherly than before. But
in talking with him certain facts of his history
came out that showed him a very brave and manly
fellow, and good, too. This gave her pause; so
keen an observer of human nature at once dis-
cerned in this young man, who did not brag of his
experiences, nor yet affect to despise them as trifles,
but honestly owned that at one time he was scared,
and that at another he would have given everything
to be ashore, an object worthy of her closest and
most reverent study. She proceeded to idealise
him, and to stand in awe of him. Oh yes ! with a
deep sighing breath, and a long dreamy look at him
— he! What he had been through must have
changed tlie whole world to him. After that night
in the it/phoon — well, nothing could ever have been
tlie same ^jher aflcr that. He must find all the
inti^ro4ts at home sickeningly mean. This was the
'.«one she took with him, driving him to despair.
When he again urged his suit, she said that she
could not see why he should care for her. At the
same time she wanted to ask him why he did not
wear his uniform ashore, instead of that unnatural
civil dress that he seemed so anxious to make him-
self ridiculous in. Being pressed for some sort of
answer, she said that she had resolved never toy/
marry. Afler this Robert went off very melan-
choly upon his tliird cruise. But she wrote him
such kind and sympathetic letters that he came

D

18 A WOMAN'S REASON.

home from this cruise, which was a short one, more
fondly in love than ever, but more patiently, more
pleasingly in love ; and he now behaved so sensibly,
with so much apparent consideration for her uncer^
tainty of mind, that she began to think seriously of
him. But though she Uked him ever so much, and
respected him beyond anything, the very fact that
she was wondering whether she could ask him to
leave the navy or not, and whore and how they
should live, seemed sufficient proof to her that she

y^did not care for him in the right way. Lovo, she
knew, did not consider ways and means ; it did not
stop to argue ; it found in itself its own reason and
the assurance of a future. It did not come after

i years of shilly-shallying, and boating about the bush,
and weighing this and that, and scrutiny of one's
emotions. If she loved liobcrt so little as to care
what happened after they were mairied, she did
not love him at all Something like this, but
expreased with infinite kindness was what she had
written from Ilye Beach to Iwobert stationed at
Portsmouth. She ended by leaving the case in his
hands. She forbade him to hope, but she told him
that there had been a time, a moment, when she
thought that she might have loved him.

Robert took all this awry. He did not deign to
ask her when this mysterious moment was, far less
whether it might ever recur ; ho did not answer one
of her arguments; he did not even come over to
Rye Beach to combat and trample on her reasons.
Ho wrote her a furious, foolish reply, in which he

A woman's reason. 19

agreed with her that she had never loved him, and
never woald, and he bade her farewell He managed
to exchange with a friend who was bemoaning his
hard lot in being ordered away from his young wife
to tlie China station, and he sailed with their blessing
three days after getting Helen's letter. She only
learned of his departure by chance.

The old man held the letter in his hand, after
reading it, for so long a time, that at last Helen
looked up. ** It seems to me you take it pretty
coolly, papa," she said, her lips quivering.

" Yes, yes. Poor Robert ! poor boy !" sighed her
fattier. Then' while she bridled indignantly at his
misplaced compassion, he added, " I 'm sorry, Helen.
I think you would have come to like him. Well,
well ! If you are contented, my dear — "

"How can you My such a thing, papal" cried
Helen, astonished that he should have taken what
he understood! of her letter just as Robert had done,
" when you know, — when you know I — " but Helen
could not finish what she was going to say. She
eould not own that she thought her letter susceptible
of quite a difTcrent answer. She set her lips and
tried to stop their trembling, while her eyes filled.

Her father did not notice. " My dear," he said
presently, " will you ask Margaret to make me a cup
of teal I feel unpleasantly weak."

"\Vhy, papa!" cried Helen, flying to the bell,
" why didn't you tell me before, instead of letting
me worry you with all this foolishness 1 why didn't
you my you were not so well 1 "

20 A woman's reason.

'* I wasn't thinking of it/' said her father, meekly
accepting her reproof. '' It 's nothing. The wind
has changed, hasn't iti I feel the east a little."

''You're chiUyV Helen was now tempted to be
really harsh with him for his remissness, but she did
not stay from running after the wrap, soft and light,
which she had brought back from the sea-side with
her, and had thrown down with her bag in the hall,
and though she bemoaned his thoughtlessness, as she
flung it over him, still she did not pour out upon
him all the self-reproach in her heart She went
and hurried Margaret witli the tea, and then set un
old-fashioned tea-poy beside the sofa, and when the
tea came, she drew up her chair, and poured it
for him. She offered to pull down the window, but
he made her a sign to let it be ; and in fact, it was
not cooler without than witliin, and no chill came
from the little yard, on whose lofty walls the sunset
was beginning to bum in tender red light. She
poured herself a cup of tea when she came back,
and when she had made her father repeat again and
again that he felt ^luch better, fIio began to see the
absurdity of being tragic about Kobert at this late
day, when she had so oftcm refused him before
without the least troged}'. This, to bo sure, was
not quite like the other refusals ; not so one-sided ;
but really, except for Robert's own sake, what had
she to be sorry for, and why should she pity his
towering dudgeon 1 An ache, faint and dull, made
it'Self felt deep in her hearty and she answered sadly,
" WeU," to her father's tentative " Helen."

ffC

c«

A woman's reason. 21

He did not go on, and she asked presently, " What
k it, pi^Mit"

*' Oh^ nothing. There was something I was going
to speak to yoo about But it will do another time"
Helen recollected that once or twice before this her
father had b<^un in the same way, and postponed
whatever he had been going to say in the same fashion.
It was not a thing to be curious about, and she had
neyer pressed hira to qnuik. She knew that he
would speak when he really thought best But she
wondered now a little if his mind were still running
upon Itobert

** Was it something in regard to — to— me, papa t"
Why, yes. Yes; indirectly."
Well, tlien, don't think of it any more. I shall
not I 'm sorry I worried you about it"

*' About what, ray dearl" asked her fatlier, who
could not have followed her.

" Robert !" said Helen, abruptly.

'^ Oh ! I wasn't thinking about Robert"

** Because, if you were, papa, I want to tell you
that I am quite reconciled to havip everything end as
it has done. Robert and I will always be good friendsL
You needn't be troubled about that"

''Oh yes, certainly," assented her father, closing
his eyes.

Helen sat looking at him, as if she would like to
go on. But she was a little ashamed, and a little
piqued that her father should shut his eyes in that
way while she was talking of Robert He had taken
the whole affair rather oddly. She had been prepared

22 A WOMAN'S REASON.

to defend Robert if her father were angry with him,
as she expected ; but instead of being angry, ho had
really seemed to side with Robert, and had somehow,
by his reticence, implied that he would have been
glad to have her humble herself to Robert

"If you wish to sleep, papa,'' she said with a
dignity wasted upon him, for he still lay with his
eyes closed, " I will go away."

" I 'm drowsy," said her father. " But don't go,
Helen. Sit down here."

He made a motion for her to sit beside liim,and after
an instant's further resentment she drew up her chair,
and laid her beautiful head down upon the cushion by
hi& She gave him a kiss, and dropped a large tear
against his withered cheek, and wIikkI it away with
her handkerchief, and then she hid her face again, and
wept peacefully till all her tears were gone. At last
she lifted her face, and dried her eyes, and sat
dreamily watching the red sunset light creeping up the
wall on which the wisteria clambered. It rose slowly,
leaf by leaf, till it lit an airy frond at top, that swayed
in it like a |>ennon. . Suddenly it leaped from this and
left it dark, and a shiver coursed through the next
rank of foliage. It somehow made her think of a ship
going down below the horizon, and the waves running
along the sky where the streamers had just hung.
But Robert must have been out of sight of land for
two days and more before that

n.

Hblen sat beside her father, while the solitude of
the honse deepened from silence to silence. Then
Margaret came to the door, and looked in as if to
ask whether it was not time for her to fetch away
the tca-tliings. Helen gave her a nod of acqniescence,
and presently rose, and followed her out to the kitchen,
to tell her that she was going to her own room, and
to say that she most be called when her father woke.
Bat in the kitchen Margaret's company was a temp-
tation to her loneliness, and she made one litUe
pretext after another for remaining, till Margaret
set her a chair in the doorway. Margaret had been
in the hoase ever since Helen was bom, and Helen
still used the same freedom with her that she had
in childhood, and gave hcrwif the mnge of places to
which young ladyhood ordinarily denies its nuliant
presenccL She had indeed as much intimacy with
the cook as could consist with their different ages, and
she got on smoothly with the cook's temper, which
had not been so good as her looks in youth, and had
improved quite as little with age. Margaret was of
a remote sort of Irish birth; but her native land
had scarcely marked her accent, and but for her

*»>

24 A WOMAN'S REASON.

church and her sense of place, which was sometimes
very respectful and sometimes very liigh and mighty
with those above her, she might have been mistaken
for an American ; she had a low voice which only
grew lower as she grew angry. A family in which
she could do all the work had been her ideal when
she first came to Boston, but she had failed of this
now for some thirty years, and there seemed little
hope that the chances would still turn in her favour.
In Helen's childhood, when she used to ask Margaret
in moments of tenderness, follov^ing the gift of dough
in unexpected quantity, whether she would come
and live with her after she got married, Margaret
had always answered, '* Yes, if you won't have any-
one else bothering round," which was commonly too
much for the just pride of the actual second-girl.
She had been cook in the family so long ago as when
Mr. Harkness had kept a man; she had pressed
upon the retreat of the last man with a broom in her
hand and a joyful sarcasm on her hps; and she
would willingly have kept vacant the place that sho
had made too hot for a long succession of second-
girls. In the intervals of their going and coming,
she realised her ideal of domestic service for tho
time being; and in the summer when Helen was
away a good deal, she prolonged these intervals to
the utmost She was necessarily much more the
housekeeper than Helen, though they lailh ros|»ectoil
a fiction of contrary effect, and Helen commonly
left her the choice of her helpers. She had not been
surprised to find Margaret alone in the house, but

A woman's reason. 25

8he thought it well to ask her how she was getting
on without anybody.

"Oh, very well, Miss Helen 1 You know your
father don't make any trouble."

** Well, I 've come now, and we must get somebody,"
said Helen.

" Why, I thought you was going back on Hondayi
Miss Helen," answered Margaret

" No, I shall not leave papa. I think he 's not at
all well"

" He does seem rather poorly. Miss Helen. But I
don't see why yon need any one, in the summer, this
way."

"Who's to go to the doorl" asked Helen.
''Besides, you couldn't take care of both of us,
Margaret"

** Just as you say, Miss Helen ; I*d just as lives,"
answered Margaret, stubbornly. " It isn't for me to
say ; but I don't see what you want with anybody :
you won't see a soul."

** O, you never can tell, Margaret You 've had a
good rest now, and you must have somebody to help
you." Helen's sadness smiled at this confusion of
ideas, and its suitableness to Margaret's peculiar
attitude. " Get somebody that you know, Margaret,
and that you 11 like. But we must have somebody."
She regarded Margaret's silent and stiff displeasure
with a moment's amusement, and then her bright
face clouded ; and she asked softly : " Did you know,
Margaret, that Robert, — that Lieutenant Fenton —
had sailed again 1"

26 A woman's reason.

^ Why, no, Miss Helen 1 You don't mean that 1
Why, I thought he was going to stay the summer at
Portsmouth."

''He was/' said Helen, in the same low voice,
'' but he changed his mind, it seems."

''Sailors is a roving set^ anyway," Margaret
generalised. Then she added : " Did he come down
to say good-bye to your father 1"

"Why, no," sadly answered Helen, who now
thought of this for the first time. Her heart
throbbed indignantly; then she reflected that she
had kept him from coming. She looked up at the
evening blue, with the swallows weaving a woof of
flight across the top of the space framed in by the
high walls on every hand, and ** He hadn't time, I
suppose," she said sadly. " He couldn't get ofl."

" Well, I don't call it very nice, his not coming,"
persisted Margaret "I'd 'a' deserted first" Her
associations with naval service had been through
gallant fellows who were not in a position to resign.

Helen smiled so ruefully at this that she would
better for cheerfulness have wept But she recog-
nised Margaret's limitations as a confidant, and said
no more. She rose presently, and again asked Mar-
garet to look in pretty soon, and see if her father
were awake, and call her, if he were : she was going
to her room. She looked in a moment herself as
as she went, and listened till she heard him breath-
ing, and so passed on through the drawing-room, and
trailed heavily up-stairs.

The house was rather old-fashioned, and it was

awohan's reason. 27

not fnmished in the latest taste, but it made the
appeal with which things out of date, or passing out
of date, touch the heart It was in fact beginning
to be respectable because it was no longer in the con-
test for effect, which the decorations of the newer
houses carried on al>out it, and there was a sort of
ugly keeping throughout.

In the very earliest days of Mr. Harkness's house-
keeping, the ornamentation of his homo had reflected
the character of his business somewhat There had
been even a time when the young supercargo brought
back — it was his first voyage — quaint and beautiful
shells from the East, for his wife to set about the
tables and mantels ; but these objects, so exquisite in
themselves, so unyielding in composition, had long
since disappeared. Some grotesque bronzes, picked
up in Cliinr<«e ports, to which his early ventures had
taken him, survived the expulsion of ivory carvings
and Indian idols and genre statuettes in terra cdta,
(like those you see in the East Indian Museum at
Salem) and now found themselves, with the new
feeling for oriental art, in the very latest taste. The
others were bestowed in neglected drawers and
shelves, along with boxes containing a wealth of
ghastly rich and elaborate white crape shawls from
China, and fantastically subtle cotton webs from India
which Helen had always thought she should use in
tableaux, and never had worn. Among the many
pictures on the walls (there were too many), there
were three Stuarts, the rest were of very indifferent
merit; largo figure paintings, or allegorical landscapes.

28 A WOMAN'S REASON.

after the taste of Cole and Poussin, in great carved
and BcroUjT frames. Helen had once Uiought of
making a raid upon these enemies of art, and in fact
she had contemplated remodelling the whole equip-
ment of the parlours, in conformity to the recent
feeling in such matters ; but she had not got further
than the incomplete representation of some golden-
rod and mullein-stalks upon the panels of her own
chamber-door ; and now that the fervour of her first
enthusiasm had burnt itself out, she was not sorry
she had left the old house in peace.

** Ohf I should think you 'd ^ so rejoiced/' said the
chief of her friends ; " it 's such a comfort to go into
one house where you don't have to admire the artistic
sentiment, and where every wretched little sesthetic
prig of a table or a chair isn 't asserting a principle
or teaching a lesson. Don't touch a cobweb, Helen 1"
It had never even come to a talk between her and
her father, and the house remained unmolested the
home of her childhood. She had not really cared
much for it since she was a child. The sense
of our impermanent relation to the parental roof
comes to us very early in life ; and perhaps more
keenly to a young girl than to her brothers. They
are of the world by all the conditions of their active,
positive being, almost from the first — a great world
that is made for them ; but she has her world
to create. She cannot sit and adorn her father's
house, as she shall one day beautify and worship her
husband's; she can indeed do her duty by it, but
the restless longing remains, and her housewifelincss

A woman's rbason. 29

does not volantarily blossom out beyond the precincts
of her own chamber, which she makes her realm of
fancy and of dreams. She could not be the heart of
the house if she would, as her mother is, or has
been ; and though in her mother's place, she can be
housekeeper, thrifty, wise, and notable, still some
mysterious essential is wanting which it is not in her
nature to supply to her father's house.

Helen went to her own room, and, flinging up the
windows, let in the noises of the streets. A few feet
went by in the secluded place, and a sound of more
frequent trampling came from the street into which
it o|K5ncd. Further off rose the blurred tumult of
business, softened by the stretch of the Common, and
growing less and less with the lapse of the long
summer day. It was already a little cooler, and the
smell of the sprinkled street stole refreshingly in at
the window. It was still very light, and when Helen
opened her blinds, the room brightened cheerfully all
about her, and the sympathetic intimacy of her own
closest belongings tenderly appealed to her. After
something has happened, and we first see familiar
things about us as they were, there comes, just before
tlie sense of difference in ourselves returns to torment
us, a moment of blind and foolish oblivion, and this
was Helen's as she sat down beside the ^vindow, and
looked round upon the friendly prettiness of her roouL
It had l)een her room when she was a child, and
there were childish keepsakes scattered about in odd
places^ out of the way of young-ladyish luxuries, high-
shouldered bottles of perfume, and long-handled ivory

y

30 A woman's reason.

brashes, and dainty boxes and cases, and starred and
bevelled hand-glasses, and other sacred mysteries of
toilet Of the period when she hail thought herself
wedded to art there were certain charcoal sketches
pinned against the wall, and in one corner, not very
definite at first glance under the draperies tossed upon
it from time to time, was her easel. On projections
of her mirror-fraine hung souvenirs of Eobeit's first
cruise, which had been in the Mediterranean : ropes of
Roman pearls ; nets and bracelets and necklaces of
shells and beads from Venice ; filigree silver jewellery
from Genoa ; strands and rosaries of black, barbari-
cally scented wooden beads from the Levant: not
things you could wear at all, but very pleasant to
have ; they gave a sentiment to your room when you
brought any one into it; they were nice to have
lying about, and people liked to take them into their
hands : they were not so very uncommon, either, that
you had to keep telling what they were. She had
never thought that possibly Robert had expected her
to wear the absurd things. With an aching recurrence
to their quarrel (it could be called no less) and a
penitent self-pity, she thought of it now. It did not
seem to her that she could touch them, but she went
languidly to the mirror and took some of them down,
and then all at once fantastically began to array her-
self in them : like a mad girl, slie reflected. Sho
threw the loops of Roman pearls and the black strands
of Levantine beads about her neck ; she set a net of
the Venetian shell-work on her hair, and decked her
wrists and her lovely ears with the Genoese filigree; a

A WOMAN'S REASON. 31

perfectly frantic combination, she mused, as she shook
her head a little to make the ear-bobs dance. " Yes,
perfectly frantic," she said aloud, but not much think-
ing of the image confronting her from the mirror,
thinking rather of Robert, and iK>ignantly regretting
that she had never put them on for him ; and think-
ing that if the loss of him had made her certain about
him too late for ever, how fatally strange that would
be. Again she went over all tlie facts of the affair,
and was able to make much surer of Robert's motives
than of her own. She knew that if he had under-
stood her saying that she might have loved him once
to be any encouragement for the future, he would not
have written as he did. She could imagine Robert's
being very angry at the patronising tone of the rest
of her letter; she had entire faith in his stupidity; I
she never doubted his generosity, his magnanimous ^
incapability of turning her refusal of him into a refusal
of her ; his was not the little »oul that could rejoice in
such a chance. She wondered if now, far out at sea,
sailing, sailing away, three years away, from her, he
saw anything in her letter but refusal ; or was he still
in that blind rage 1 Did ho never once think that
it had seemed such a great thing for her to make con-
fession, which meant him to come to her t But had
she really meant thati It seemed so now, but
perhaps then she had only thought of mingling a
drop of kindness in his bitter cup, of trying to spare
him the mortification of having loved a person who
had never thought for a moment of loving himi
From time to time, her image appeared to advance

82 A woman's reason.

upon her from the depths of the mirror, decked in all
that incongruous frippery, and to say with trembling
lips, " Perfectly frantic, perfectly frantic," while tlio
tears ran down its face ; and she found a wild
comfort in regarding herself as quite an insane,
irresponsible creature, who did not know what she
was about She felt that fate ought not to hold her
to account The door-bell rang, and she snatched
the net from her hair with a fearful shudder, and
flung down all the ornaments in a heap upon her
dressing-table. Bumping sounds in the hall below
reminded her that in her trance before the glass, slie
had remotely known of a wagon stopping at the
door, and presently she heard Margaret coming up
the stairs behind the panting express-man who was
fetching up her trunk. She fled into another room,
and guiltily lurked there till they went out again,
before she returned to unlock and unpack the box.
It was one of Helen's economies not to drive home
from the station, but to send her baggage by express
and come up in a horse-car. The sums thus saved
she devoted to a particular charity, and was very
rigid with herself about spending every half-dollar
coach-fare for tliat object She only gave twenty-
five cents to the express, and she made a merit of the
fact that neither the coach-hire nor the charity ever
cost her father anything. Robert had once tried to
prove that it always cost him seventy-five cents,
but she had easily seen through the joke, and had
made him confess it

She was still busy unpacking when Margaret came

A woman's reason. 33

np to say that her father was awake now, and then
she left ofT at once to go to him. The gas had been
lighted in the hall and library, and that made life
another thing. Her father was in his arm-chair, and
was feeling decidedly better, he said ; ho had told
Margaret to have tea there in the library. Helen
laiiglied at hira for having two teas within two
hours ; he owned to being hungry, and that reminded
her that she had eaten nothing since an early dinner.
When the tea and toast came in, and the cloth was
laid half across the round table, in the mellow light
of the study lamp, they were very cosy. Helen,
who was always thinking of Robert, whatever else
she Uiought of, began to play in fancy at a long life
of devotion to her father, in which she should never
marry. She had always imagined him living with
her, but now she was living with him, and they were
to grow old together ; in twenty years, when he was
eighty, she would be forty-three, and then there
would not be much difference between them. She
now finally relinquished the very last idea of Robert,
except as a brother. She did not suppose she should
ever quite like his wife, but she should jiet their
children.

" Helen,^ said her father, breaking in upon these
ideas, " how should you like to live in the country?"

" Why, papa, I was just thinking of it I That is,
not in the country exactly, but somewhere off by
ourselves, just you and I. Of course, I should like
it"

" I don't mean on a farm," pursued her father,

c

31 A WUHAN'S REASON.

" but in some of the suburban towns, where we could
have a bit of ground and breathing space. I think
it grows closer and closer in town ; at times it seems
as if I could hardly catch my breath. I believe it
would agree with me in the country. I can't get
away from business entirely for a few years yet — if
the times continue so bad, I must bend all my
energies to it^ in fact — and I have a fancy that the
coming in and out of town would do me good. And
I have a notion that I should like to build. I should
like a new house — a perfectly new house. We could
live on a simpler scale in the country."

"0 yes, indeed!" said Helen. "I should come
into town to shop, with my initials worked in worsted
on the side of my bag, and I should know where the
bargains were, and lunch at Copeland's. / should
like it"

"Well, we must think about it I daresay we
could let the house here without much trouble* I
feel it somehow a great burden upon me, but I
shouldn't like to sell it"

" no, papa ! We couldn't think of selling it
I should just like to let it^ and then never go near
it, or look in the same direction, till we were ready
to come back to it"

" I have lived here so long," continued her father,
making her the listener to his musings rather than
speaking to her, *' that I should like a change. I
used to think that I should never leave the house,
but a place may become overcrowded with associa-
tions. You are too young, Helen, to understand

•I
cc

A woman's reason. 35

how terrible it is to find one's own past grow into
the damb material things about one, and become, as
it were, imprisoned in them."

" O yes," sighed the girl, " there are some dresses
of mine that I can't bear the sight of, just because
I felt, or said, or did certain things when I wore
them."

An old house like this," Mr. Harkness went on,

gets to bo your body, and usurps all your reality,
which doesn't seem to live in it either, while you
move round like a ghost. The past is so much more
than the present Think how much more these
walls and those old chairs and tables have known
of us than we now are 1"

** No, no ! Don't think of it, papa, or we shall be
getting into the depths again," pleaded Helen.

" Well, I won't^" consented her father, coming
back to himself with a smile, which presently faded.
"But it all makes me restless and impatient I
should like to l>cgin a new life somewhere else, in a
new house." He was silent a while, trifling with the
toast on his plate ; his appetite had passed at the
sight of the food, and he had eaten scarcely anything.
He looked at Helen, and then at a portrait on the
wall, and than at Helen again.

"I'm not much like mamma, am I, papat" she
asked.

" Not much in fjicc," said Mr. Harkness.
l)o you wish I was more t" she pursued timidly.
No, I don't think I do," said her father.

" It would only make me more painful, if I looked

«c
cc

36 A WOMAN'S RSASON.

more like her, such a helpless, selfish thing as I am,"
morbidly assented Helen. ^' I should only make you
miss her the more."

•* Why, Helen, you 're a very good girl — the best
child in the world," said her father.

'^O no, I'm not, pa[>a. I'm one of the worst
I never think of anybody but myself," said Helen,
who was thinking of Robert ** You don't know
how many times I 've gone down on my mental
knees to you and asked you to have patience with
me.

" Asked ms to have patience with you 1" said her
father, taking her by the chin, and pressing against
his cheek the beautiful face which she leaned toward
him. " Poor child 1 There 's hardly a day since you
were bom that I haven't done you a greater wrong
than the sum of all your sins would come to. Papas
are dreadful fellows, Helen ; but they sometimes live
in the hope of repairing their misdeeda"

** Write them on a slip of paper, and hide it in a
secret drawer that opens with a clasp and spring,
when you don't know they're there," said Helen,
glad of his touch of playfulness. " We 've both been
humbugging, and we know it"

He stared at her and said, " Your voice is like
your mother's ; and just now, when you came in,
your movement was very like hers. I hadn't noticed
it before. But she has been a great deal in my
mind of late."

If he had wished to talk of her mother, whom Helen
could pot remember, and who had been all her life

A woman's reason. 37

merely the shadow of a sorrow to her, a death, a
grave, a name upon a stone, a pictore on the wall,
she woahl not spare herself the duty of encoaraging
him to do so. " Was she tall, like mo t" she asked.

"Not so tall," answered her father. "And she
was dark."

" Tes," said Helen, lifting her eyes to the picture
on the wall

" She had a great passion for the country," con-
tinued Mr. Harkness, "and I liked the town. It
was more convenient for me, and I was bom in
Boston. It has often grieved me to think that I
didn't yield to her. I must have been dreaming of
her, for when I woke a little while ago, this regret
was like a phjrsical pang at my heart As long as
we Hve, we can't help treating each other as if we
were to live always. But it 's a mistake. I never
refused to go into the country with her," he said as
if to appease this old r^;rct " I merely postponed
it Now I should like to go."

He rose from the table, and taking the study-lamp
in his hand, he feebly pushed apart the sliding-doors
that opened into the drawing-room. He moved
slowly down its length, on ono ride, throwing the
liglit upon this object and that, before which he
faltered, and so returned on the other side, as if to
familiarise himself with every detail. Sometimes he
held the lamp above, and sometimes below his face,
bat always throwing its age and weariness into relief.
Helen had remained watching him. As he came
back she heard him say, less to her as it seemed than

38 A WOMAN'S RKA80N.

to himself, *' Yes, I should like to sell it I 'm tired
of it"

He set the lamp down upon the table again, and
sank into his chair, and lapsed into a reverie which
loft Helen solitary beside him. " Ah," she realised,
as she looked on his musing, absent face, " he is old
and I am young, and he has more to love in the
other world, with my mother and both my brothers
there, than he has in this. Oh, Robert, Itobert,
Robert!"

But perhaps his absent mind was not so much
bent upon the lost as she thought He had that
way fathers have of treating his daughter as an
equal, of talking to her gravely and earnestly, and
then of suddenly dropping her into complete
nothingness, as if she were a child to be amused for
a while, and then set down from his knee and sent
out of doors. Helen dutifully accepted this con-
dition of their companionship ; she cared for it so
little as never to have formulated it to herself ; when
she was set down she went out, and ordinarily she
did not think of it.

A peremptory ring at the door startled them both,
and when Margaret had opened it there entered all
at the same instant, a loud, kindly voice, the chirp
of boots, heavily trodden upon by a generous bulk,
that rocked from side to side in its advance, and
a fragrance of admirable cigars, that active and
passive perfume, which comes from smoking and
being smoked in the best company. '* At home,
Margaret)" asked the voice, whose loudness was a

A woman's rrabon. 39

husky loudness, in a pause of the boots. ''Yesi
Well, don't put me in there, Margaret," which was
apparently in rejection of the drawing-room. ** I '11
join them in the library."

The boots oame chirping down the hall in that
direction, with a sound of heavy breathing. Helen
sprang from her chair, and fled to meet the cheerful
sound; there was the noise of an encountering
kns, and a joUy laugh, and ''Well, Helen!" and
«<0h. Captain Butler !" and later, '* Harkness I" and
''Butler I" as Helen led the visitor in.

*« Well !" said this guest, for the third time. He
straightmed his tall mass to its full height, and
looked out over his chest with eyes of tender regard
upon Harkness's tliin and refined face, now lit up
after the hand-shaking with cordial welcome. " Do
you know," he said, as if somehow it were a curious
fact of natural history, "that you have it uncom-
monly close in here t" He went over to the window
that opened upon the little grassy yard, and put it
up for himself, while Harkness was explaining that
it had been put down while he was napping. Then
he planted himself in a large loatliem chair beside
it, and went on smoking the cigar on the end of
which he had been chewing. He started from the
chair with violence, coughing and gesturing to forbid
Helen, who was hospitably "whispering to Margaret
'* No, no ; don't do it I won't have anything. I
couldn't I 've just dined at the club. Yes, you may
do that much," he added to Helen, as she set a little
table with an ash-holder at his elbow. "You've

40 A woman's reason.

no idea what a night it is. It *b cooler, and the air's
delicious. I say, I want to take Helen back with
me. I wish she 'd go alone, and leave us two old
fellows together here. There 's no place like Boston
in the summer, after all. But you haven't told mo
whether you're surprised to see me." Captain
Butler looked round at them with something of the
difficulty of a sea-turtle in a lateral inspection.

« Never surprised, but always charmed," said
Helen, with just the shade of mockery in her tone
which she knew suited this visitor.

"Charmed, ehl" asked Captain Butler. Appar-
ently he meant to say something satirical about the
word, but could not think of anything. He turned
again to her father : '* How are you, Harkncssl"

'* Oh, I 'm very well," said Harkness evasively.
" I 'm as well as usual"

'' Then you have yourself fetched home in a hack
by a policeman every day, do youl" remai;|fed. Cap-
tain Butler, blowing a succession of white rings into
the air. "You wore seen from the club window.
I '11 tell you what ; you 're sticking to it too close."

" yes. Captain Butler, do get him away," sighed
Helen, while hor father, who hud not sat down, boguu
to walk back and forth in an irritated, restless way.

" For the present I can't leave it," said Harknoiss,
fretfully. He added more graciously: "Perhaps in
a week or two, or next month, I can get off for a
few days. You know I was one of the securities for
Bates and Mather," he said« looking at Captain
Butler over Helen's head.

A woman's rkason. 41

"I had forgoUen that," answered Captain Butler
gravely.

" Thej left things in a complete tangle. I can't
tell jnst where I am yet^ and, of course, I've no
peaee till I know."

''Of course, "assented Captain Butler. ''I won't
rex you with retroactiye advice, Joshua," he added
affectionately, ^ but I hope you won't do anything of
that kind again."

''No, Jack, I won't But you know under the
circumstances it would have been black ingratitude
to refuse."

" Yes," said Captain Butler. He smoked a wlule
in silence. Then he said, " I suppose it 's no worse
with the old trade than with everything else, at
pvesentb

" No, we "re all in the same boat, I believe," said
liarkness.

*How is Marian 1" asked Helen, a little restive
under the cross firing.

" Oh, Marian 's all right But if she were not, she
wouldn't know it"

" 1 snp|M)ee she 's very mtuJi engaged," said Helen,
with a faint pang of something like envy.

•• Yes," said Captain Butler. " I thought you were
at Rye Beach, young Uuly."

"I thought you were at Beverley, old gentleman,"
retorted Helen; she had been saucy to Captain
Butler from infancy.

" So I wasL But I came up unexpectedly to-day."

"So did I."

42 A WOMAN'S REASON.

"Did youl Good I Now I'll tell you why /
came, and you shall tell me why yati did. I came
because I got to thinking of your father, and had a
fancy I should like to see him. Did you V*

Helen hung her head. '' No/' she said at length.

The Captain laughed. " Whom had you a fancy to
see here, then, at this time of year) "

" Oh, I didn't say I should tell. You made that
bargain all yourself," mocked Helen. " But it was
very kind of you to come on papa's accounti" she
added softly.

'* What are you making there 1" asked the Captain,
bending forward to look at the work Helen had
taken into her lap.

''Who — 1 1" she asked, as if she had perhaps been
asked what Robert was making. Her mind had
been running upon him since Captain Butler asked
her why she had come up to Boston. '* Oh I" she
recovered herself. " Why, this," she said, taking
the skeleton frame-work of gauze and wire on her
finger-tips, and holding it at arm's-length, with her
head aslant surveying it, ''this is a bonnet for Mar-
garet."

"A bonnet, hey 1" said the Captain. "It looks
like a Sliaker cap."

" Yes 1" Helen clapped it on her head, and looked
jauntily at the captain, dropping her shoulders, and
putting her chin out " Now, does it V*

"No, not now. The Shaker sisters don't wear
crimps, and they don't smile in that wicked way."
Helen laughed, and took the bonnet-frame off. " So

A W01fAN*S RE^SON. 43

I

joa nike Margaret's bonnets, do youl Do you
make joar own t"

"Sometimes. Not often. But I like millinery.
It 's what I should turn to if I were left to take care
of myself."

" I *m afraid you wouldn't find it such fun," said
the Captain.

"Oh, milliners make lots of money," returned
Helen. "They must Why, when this bonnet is
done, yon couldn't get it for tea dollars. Well, the
materials don't cost three."

"I wish my girls had your head for business,"
said the Captain honestly. Helen made him a
burlesque obeisance. " Yes, I mean it," he insisted.
" You know that I always admired your good sense.
I 'm always talking it into Marian."

" Better not," said Helen, with a pin between her
teeth.

-Whyt"

" Because I haven't got it, and it 'd make her hate
me if I had."

" Do you mean to tell me that you 're not a sensible
girl t " inquired the Captain.

Helen nodded, and made " Yes" with her lips, as
well as she could with the pin between her teeth.
She took it out to say, " You should have seen my
performances in my room a little while ago." She
was thinking of that rehearsal before the mirror.

" What were they t" asked the CapUin.

"Oh, as if I should tell !" Helen bowed herself
over the bonnet^ and blushed, and laughed. Her

a A woman's reason.

father liked to hear the banter between her and his
old friend. They both treated her as if she wci*a a
child, and she knew it and liked it; she behaved
like a child.

" Harkness/' said the Captain, turning his fat head
half round toward his friend, who sat a little back
of him, and breaking off his cigar-ash into the bronze
plate at his elbow, " do you know that your remain-
ing in the trade after all the rest of us have gone out
of it is something quite monumental 1" Captain
Butler had a tender and almost reverential love for
Joshua Harkness, but he could not help using a little
patronage toward him, since his health had grown
delicate, and his fortunes had not distinctly prosjiered.

"I am glad you like it, Jack," said Harkness quietly.

'' The Captain is a mass of compliments to-night,"
remarked Helen.

ThejCaptain grinned his consciousness. " You are
a minx,'' he said admiringly to Helen. Then he
threw back his head and pulled at his cigar, uttering
between puffs, ** No, but I mean it, Harkness. There's
something uncommonly fine about it A man gets
to be Twblesse by sticking to any old order of things.
It makes one think of the ancien rSgivie somehow to
look at you. Why, you 're still of the oldest tradi-
tion of commerce, the stately and gorgeous ti*affic of
the orient; you're what Samarcand, and Venice,
and Genoa, and Lisbon, and London, and Salem havo
come to."

"They've come to very little in the end then/'
said Harkness as bef ore»

A woman's reason. 45

" Oh, I don't know about that ;" the Captain took
the end of his cigar out and lit a fresh one from it
before he hiid it down upon the ash-holder ; " I don't
know about that We don't consider material things
merely. There has always been something romantic,
something heroic about the old trade. To be sure,
now that it 's got down to telegraphing, it 's only fit
for New-Yorkers. They're quite welcome to it"
This was not very logical taken as a whole, but we
cannot always be talking reason. At the words
romantic and heroic Helen had pricked her ears, if
that phrase may be used concerning ears of such
loveliness as hers, and she paused from her milli-
nery. "Ah ha, young lady!" cried the Captain;
"you're listening, are yout You didn't know
there was any romance or heroism in business, did
you t"

" What business t" asked Helen.

" Your father's business, young woman ; my old
business, the India trade."

" The India trade t Why, were you ever in the
India trade, Captain Butler t"

"Was I ever in the India trade t" demanded the
Captain, taking Ids cigar out of his mouth in order to
frown with more effect uiwn Helen. " Well, upon
my word I Where did you think I got my title I
1 'm too old to have been in the war."

" I didn't know," said Helen.

" I got it in the India trade. I was captain and
supercargo many an eleven months' voyage, just as
your father was."

46 A WOMAN'S REASON.

Helen was vastly amused at thi& '' Why, papa !
were you ever captain of a shipf

" For a time/' said Mr. Harkness, smiling at the
absurdity.

« Of course he was 1" shouted the Captain.

*'Then why isn't he captain, now V

'' Because there 's a sort of captain that loses his
handle when he comes ashore, and there's a sort
that keeps it I'm one sort and your father's the
other. It's natural to call a person of my model
and complexion by some kind of title, and it isn't
natural to call such a man as your father so. Besides,
I was captain longer than he was. I was in the India
trade, young lady, and out of it before you were bom."

" I was born a great while ago," observed Helen,
wamingly.

'' I daresay you think so," said the Captain. " I
thought / was, at your age. But you '11 find, as you
grow older, that you weren't bom such a very great
while ago after all. The time shortens up. Isn't
that so, Harknessi"

" Yes," said Mr. Harkness. "Everything hapj>ened
day before yesterday."

'' Exactly," sxud the Captain. Helen thought how
young she must be to have already got that letter of
Bobert's so many centuries ago. '' Yes," the Captain
pursued. '' I had been in the India trade twenty-
five years when I went out of it in 1857 — or it went
out of me." He nodded his great, close-clipped
bead in answer to her asking glance. " It went out
of a good many people at that time. We had a

A woman's reason. 47

grand smash. We had oyerdone it We had warn-
ings enough, but we couldn't realise that oar world
was coming to an end. It hadn't got so low as
telegraphing, jet ; but it was mere shop then even,
compared with the picturesque traffic of our young
days. Eh, Uarknessl"

"Yes, it had lost all attraction but profit"

"Were you ever down at India Wharf, Helen I"
demanded the Captain. " I don't blame you ; neither
were my girls. But were you t"

" Of course," said Helen, scorning to lift her eyes
from her work. " The Nahant boat starts from it"

"The Nahant boat!" repeated the Captain in a
great rage. "In my day there was no Nahant boat
about India Wharf, I can tell you, nor any other
steamboat; nor any dirty shanties ashore. The
place was sacred to the shipping of the grandest
commerce in the world. There they lay, those
beautiful shi])6, clean as silver, every one of them,
and manned by honest Yankee crews." The Captain
got upon his feet for the greater convenience of his
eloquence. " Not by ruffians from every quarter of
tlie globe. There were gentlemen's sons before the
mast, with their share in the venture, going out for
the excitement of the thing; boys from Harvard,
fellows of education and spirit; and the forecastle
was filled with good Toms and Jims and Joes from
the Cape ;* chape whose aunts you knew ; good stock
through and through, sound to the core. The super-
cai^o was often his own captain, and he was often a
Harvard man — you know what they are 1"

48 A woman's rkason.

'' Nicest fellows in the world/' consented Helen.

The Captain blew a shaft of white smoke into the
air, and then cut it through with a stroke of his
cigar. *' We had on a mixed cargo, and wo might
be going to trade at eastern ports on the way out
Nobody knew what market we should find in Cal-
cutta. It was pure adventure, and a calculation of
chances, and it was a great school of character. It
was a trade that made men as well as fortunes ; it
took thought and forethought The owners planned
their ventures like generals planning a campaign.
They were not going to see us again for a year;
they were not going to hear of us till wo were
signalled outside on our return. When we sailed
it was an event, a ceremony, a solemnity ; and we
celebrated it with song from all the tarry throats on
board. Yes, the men used to sing as we dropped
down the bay."

'<0h, Captain Butler, it was finel" cried Helen,
dropping her hands on her work, and looking up at
the Captain in his smoke-cloud, with rapture. " Papa,
why didn't you ever let me come down to see your
ships saill"

'' It was all changed before you were bom, Helen,"
began her father.

<'0 yes, all changed," cried the Captain, taking
the word away from him. "The ships had begun,
long before that, to stop at East Boston, and we sold
their cargoes by sample, instead of handling them
in our warehouses, and getting to feel some sort of
human interest in them. When it came to that, a

A woman's reason. 49

mere shopman's speculation, I didn't much care for
the New-Yorkers getting it" The Captain sat down
and smoked in silence.

''How did the New-Torkers get itt" asked
Helen, with some indignant stir in her local pride.

" In the natoral course of things," said her father.
** Just as we got it from Salem. By being bigger
and richer."

" Oh, it was all changed anyway," broke in the
Ci^itain. " We used to import nearly all the cotton
goods used in Uiis country, — fabrics that the natives
wore on their little looms at home, and that had the
sentiment you girls pretend to find in hand-made
things, — but before we stopped we got to sending
our own cottons to India. And then came the
telegraph, and put the finishing-stroke to romance
in the trade. Your father loads now according to
Uie latest despatches from Calcutta. He knows
just what his cargo will be worth when it gets there,
and he tel^raphs his people what to send back."
The Captain ended in a very minor key : " I 'm
glad I went out of it when I did. You 'd have done
well to go out too, Harkness."

''I don't know. Jack. I had nothing else in
view. You know I had become involved before the
crash came ; and I couldn't get out"

" I think you could," returned the Captain stub-
bornly, and he went on to show liis old friend how;
and Uie talk wandered back to the great days of
the old trade, and to tlie merchants, the supercargoes,
the captains, the mates of their youUL They talked

50 A woman's rbason.

of the historic namos before their date, of Cleaveland
and his voyages, of Handasyde Perkins, of Bromfield,
of the great chiefs of a commerce which founded the
city's prosperity, and which embraced all climes and
rogiona The Dutch colonies and coiTco, the China
trade and tea, the North-west coast and furs ; the
Cape, and its wines and oil ; the pirates that used to
harass the early adventurers; famous shipwrecks;
great gains and magnificent losses; the splendour
of the English nabobs and American residents at
Calcutta ; mutinies aboardship ; the idiosyncrasies of
certain sailors; the professional merits of certain
black cooks : these varied topics and interests con-
spired to lend a glamour to the India trade as it had
been, that at last moved Captain Butler to argument
in proof of the feasibility of its revival. It was the
explanation of this scheme that wearied Helen. At
the same time she saw that Captain Butler did not
mean to go very soon, for he had already sunk the
old comrade in the theorist so far as to be saying,
"Well, sir," and "Why, sir," and "I tell you, sir."
She got up — not without dropping her scissors from
her lap, as is the custom of her sex — and gave him
her hand, which he took in his left, without rising.

<* Going to bed 1 That's right I shall stay a bit,
yet. I want to talk with your father."

"Talk him into taking a little i*est," said Helen,
looking at the Captain as she bcut over her father to
kiss him good-night.

" I shall give him all sorts of good advice," returned
the Captain cheerily.

I

A WOMAN'S REASON. 51

Her father held her hand fondly till she drew an
arm's-length away, and then relinqnished it with a
rery tender "Good-night, my dear."

Helen did not mean to go to bed, and wh^n she
reached her own room, she sat a long time there,
working at Margaret's bonnet, and ovorliearing now
and then some sach words of the Captain's as " dyes,"
"maslins,''"ice,'' "teak," " gnnny-bags," "shellac,"
"Company's choppers," — a name of fearful note
descriptive of a kind of Calcutta handkerchief once
much imported. She imagined that the Captain was
still talking of the India trade. Her father spoke so
low that she conld not make ont any words of his ;
the sound of his roice somehow deeply toached her,
his aiTcrtion appealed to hers in that nnintelligible
mnrmnr, as the disembodied religion of a far-heard
hymn api^eals to the solemnity of the listener's sonL
She Ix^an to make a fantastic comparison of the
qnalities of her father's voice and the Captain's, to the
disadvantage of the Captain's other qnalities; she
found tliat her father was of finer spirit and of gentler
nature, and by a natural transition she perceived that
it was a grander tiling to be sitting alone in one's
room with one's heart-ache than to be perhaps foolishly
walking the piasza with one's accepted commonplace
destiny as Marian Butler was at that moment At
this point she laughed at herself; said "Poor Marian "
aloud, and recognised that her vagaries were making
Captain Butler an ill return for his kindness in
dropping in to chat with her father ; she hoped he
would not chat too long, and tire him out ; and so her

/

52 A WOMAN'S REASON.

thoughto ran upon Robert again, and she heard no
more of the talk below, till after what seemed to her,
starting from it, a prolonged reverie. Then she was
aware of Captain Butler's boots chirping out of the
library into the hall, toward the door, with several
pauses, and she caught fragments of talk again : " I
had no idea it was as bad as that, Ilarknesa —
bad business, must see what can be done, weather
it a few weeks longer— confoundedly straitened
myself — pull you through/' and faintly, "Well,
good-night, Joshua; I'll see you in the morning."
There was another pause, in which she fancied
Captain Butler lighting his cigar at the chimney
of the study -lamp with which her father would be
following him to the door ; the door closed and her
father went slowly back to the library, where she felt
rather than heard him walking up and down. She
wanted to go to him, but she would not ; she wanted
to call to him, but she remained silent ; when at last
she heard his step upon the stairs, heavily ascending,
and saw the play of his lamp-light on the walls with-
out, she stealthily turned dovm the gas that ho might
not think her awake. Half an hour later, she crept
to his door, which stood a little ajar, and whispered,
"Papa!"

" What is it, Helen t" He was in bed, but his
voice sounded very wakeful. "What is it, my
dear 1"

"Oh, I don't know I" — she flung herself on her
knees beside his bed in the dark, and put her arms
about his neck — " but I feel so unhappy 1"

A woman's reason. 53

" Aboat — " heg^n her father, but she qoicUj in-
tcrropted.

" No, no 1 About ytm, papa ! Ton seem so sad
and careworn, and I 'm nothing bat a burden and a
trouble to you."

" You are nothing but a comfort and a help to roe.
Poor cliild ! You mustn't be worried by my looks.
I shall be all right in the morning. Come, come !"

" Hut weren't you i>orplcxod somehow about busi-
ness t Weren't you thinking about those accounts t"

" No, my dear."

"What were you Uiinking oft"

" Well, Helen, I was thinking of your mother and
your IttUe brothers."

"Oh !" said Helen, with the kind of recoil which
the young must feel even from the dearest dead.

Do you often think of them f "

No, I believe, not often. Never so much as to-
night, since I first lost them ; the house seemed full
of them then. I suppose Uiese impressions must

recur."

"Oh, doesn't it make you feel strange t" asked
Helen, cowering a little closer to him.

" Why should it t It doesn't make me feel strange
to have your face against mine."

" No, but — O don't, don't talk of such things,
or I can't endure it ! Papa, papa ! I love you so,
it breaks my heart to have you talk in that way.
How wicked I must be not to like you to think of
them ! But don't, to night ! I want you to think
of me, and what we are going to do togeUier, and

54 A woman's reason.

about all our plans for next winter, and for that
new house, and everything. Will you t Promise 1"
Her father pressed her cheek closer against his,
and she felt the fond smile which she could not see
in the dark. Ho gave her his promise, and then
began to talk about her going down to the Butlers',
which it seemed the Captain had urged further after
she had bidden him good-night The Captain was
going to stay in Boston a day or two, and Mr. Hark-
ness thought he might run down with him at the
end of the week. Helen did not care to go, but
with this in view she did not care to say sa She
let her father comfort her with caressing words and
touches, as when she was a child, and she frankly
stayed her wcak-heartedness upon his love. She
was ashamed, but she could not help it, nor wish to
help it. As she rested her head upon his pillow she
heard his watch ticking under it ; in this sound all
the years since she was a little girl were lost Then
his voice began to sink drowsily, as it used to do in
remote times, when she had wearied him out with
her troublea He answered at random, and his talk
wandered so that it made her laugh. That roused
him to full consciousness of her parting kiss. "Good-
night," he said, and held her hand, and drew her
down by it again, and kissed her once more.

s

V

V

IIL

Helen woke the next morning with the overnight
ache still at her heart : she wondered that she coald
have thought of leaving her father; but when she
opened her shatters and let in the light, she was
aware of a change that she coold not help sharing.
It was the wind that had changed, and was now
east; the air was fresh and sparkling; the homi-
cidal sunshine of the day before lay in the streets
and on the house fronts as harmless as painted
sunshine in a picture. Another day might transform
aD again ; Uie tidal wave of life that the sea had
sent from its deep cisterns out over the land might
ebb as quickly, and the world find itself old and
haggard, and suffering once more ; but while it lasted,
Uiis respite was a rapture.

Helen came down with something of it in her face,
the natural unreasoned and unreasoning hopefulness
of young nerves rejoicing in the weather's mood;
but she began at breakfast by asking her father if he
did not think it was rather crazy for her to be
starting off for Beverley the very day after she
had got home for good, and had just unpacked
everything. She said she would go only on three

A woman's reason.

.41 — first, that he felt perfectly well; second,
40 would be sure to come down on Saturday ;

. third, that he would be sure to bring her back
•irith him on Monday.

" I don't think I could stand Marian Butler in her
present semi-fluid state more than three days ; and I
wouldn't consent to leave you, papa, except that
while you 're worrying over business you 'd re^dly
rather not have me about Would you t"

Her father said he always likeil to have her about

« yes ; of course," said Helen. " But don't
you see, I 'm trying to make it a virtue to go, and I
can't go unless I do t "

He laughed with her at her hypocrisy. They
agreed that this was Thursday the 15th, and that he
should come down on Saturday the 17 th, and that
he would let nothing detain him, and that he would
come in time for dinner, and not put it off, as he
would be sure to do, till the last train. Helen gave
him a number of charges as to his health, and his
hours of work, and bade him, if he did not feel-
perfectly well, to telegraph her instantly. When he
started down town she made him promise to drive
home. After the door closed upon him, she won-
dered that she had ever allowed herself to think of
leaving him, and indignantly dismissed the idea of
going to Beverley; but she went on and packed her
trunk so as to have it ready when the expresa-man
came for it She could easily send him away, and
besides, if she did not go now, there was no hope of
getting her father off for a holiday and a little change

A WOMAN'S REASON. 57

of scene. She quitted the house in time to catch
the noon train, and rode drearily down to Beverley,
but not without the comfort of feeling herself the
victim of :in inexorable destiny. All the way down
she was in impulse rushing back to Boston, and
astonishing^ Margaret by her return, and telling her
father that she found she could not go, and being
fondly laughed at by him. She was almost in tears
when the brakeman shouted out the name of the
station, and if Marian Butler had not been there
with her phaeton, in obedience to the Captain's
telegram announcing Helen's arrival, she would have
hidden herself somewhere, and taken the next train
back to town. As it was, she descended into the
embrace of her friend, who was so glad to see her
that she tried to drive through the train, just begin-
ning to move off, on the tiack that crossed their
road, and had to be stopped by the baggage-master,
who held the pony's nose till the train was well on
its way to Portland. At the door of the cottage,
when the pony had drawn up the phaeton there,
with a well-affected air of being driven up, Mrs. Butler
met Helen with tender and approving welcome, and
said that they could never have hoped to get her father
to come unless she had come first *'This change
in the weather will be everything for him, and you
mustn't worry about him," she said, laying a sooth-
ing touch upon Helen's lingering anxieties. *' If he
has any business perplexities, you may be sure he 'd
rather have you out of the way. I have seen some-
thing of business perplexities in my time, my dear.

\

58 A WOMAN'S REASON.

and I know what thoy are. I shafi telegraph to Mr.
Butler to bring your father in the same train with
him, and not give him any chance of slipping through
his fingers."

Mrs. Butler was one of those pale, slight ladies,
not easily imaginable apart from the kind of soft
breakfast shawl which she wore, and which har-
monised with the invalid puq)le under her kind eyes,
the homes of habitual headache ; and the daughters
of the marriage Captain Butler had made rather late
in life with a woman fifteen years younger than
himself, were as unlike their mother as their father
was. These large, warm blondes invited all the
coolness they could with their draperies, and stood
grouped about her, so many statues of health and
young good looks and i)erpetual good-nature, with
bangs and fiizzes over their white foreheads, and
shadowing their floating, heavily-lashed blue eyes.
When alone they often tended in behaviour to
an innocent rowdiness ; they were so amiable, and
so glad, and so strong, that they could not very well
keep qniet, and when quiet, especially in their
mother's presence, they had a knowingly quelled
look : in their father's presence they were not ex-
pected nor liked to be quiet They admired Helen
almost as much as they admired their mother. She
was older than any of them, except Marian, and was
believed to bo a pattern of stylo and wisdom, who
had had lots of ofi*ers, and could marry anybody.
While Helen and their mother talked together, they
listened in silence, granting their superiority, with

A woman's reason. 59

the eager liumilitj of well-bred younger girlhood;
and Marian went to see about lunch.

Mr. fiay waa coming to lunch, and Helen was to
aee him with Marian for the first time since their
engagement lie was a man she had not known very
well in Harvard, though he was of the class she had
danced through with. He was rather quiet, and she
had not formed a flattering opinion of him ; some of
the most brilliant fellows liked him, but she had
chosen to think him dull. That was some years ago,
and she had not often met him since ; he had been
away a great deal.

His quiet seemed to have grown upon him, when
he appeared, or it might have been the contrast of
his composure with the tumult of the young girls
that gave it such a positive effect He seemed the
best of friends with them all, but in his own way.
He spoke little and he spoke low ; and he could not
be got to repeat what he said ; he always said some-
thing different the second time, and if he only looked
as if he were going to speak, his prospective sisters-in-
law fell helplessly silent. He was not quite so tall
as Marian, and he was much slighter ; she generously
prided herself upon being unable to wear his gloves,
which Jessie Butler could just get on. He was a
very scrupulously perfect man as to his gloves, and
every part of his dress, which the young ladies now
criticised in detail, after ho had paid his duty to
Helen and their mother. They all used him with a
freedom that amused Helen, and that was not much
short of Uie frankness with which Marian came out

60 A woman's reason.

and planted a large kiss upon his lips, and then,
without speaking to him, turned to her mother with
an air of housekeeperly pre-occupation to ask some-
thing about the lunch, and disappeared again.

Mr. Ray took everything wiUi grave composure, a
little point of light in either of his brown oyos, and
the slightest curve of the small brown moustache that
curled tightly in over his upper lip, showing his sense
from time to time of what he must have found droll
if some one else had been in his place. He had an
affectionate deference for Mrs. Butler that clianned
Helen. He carved at lunch with a mastery of the
diflicult art, and he was quite at ease in his chaiticter
of head of the family. It gave Helen a sort of shock
to detect him in pressing Marian's hand under the
table ; but upon reflection, slie was not sure that she
disapproved of it.

She perceived that she must revise her opinion of
Mr. Ray. Without being witty, his talk was bright
and to the last degree sensible, with an edge of satire
for the young girls, to whom at the same time he was
alertly attentive. Helen thought his manner ex-
quisite, especially towards herself in her quality of
Marian's old and valued friend ; it was just what the
manner of a man in his place should be. He talked
a good deal to her, and told her he had spent most of
the summer on the water, "Which accounts," she
mused, " for his brown little hands, not much bigger
than a Jap law-student's, aiid for that perfect mass of
freckles." He said he was expecting his boat round
from Manchester ; and he hoped that she would come

A wobian's reason. 61

with the other young ladies and take a look at her
after lunch. He said " boat ** so low that Helen could
just catch the word, and she smiled in consenting to
go and look at it, for she imagined from his depreca-
tory tone that it was something like a dory which
might have been bestowed upon Mr. Kay's humility
by some kindly fisherman. Walking to the shore by
Helen's side he said something further about running
down to Mt Dessert in his boat, and about one of his
men knowing how to broil a mackerel pretty well,
which puzzled her, and shook her in her error, just be-
fore they came upon a vision of snowy duck and paint,
and shining brasses, straight and slim nnd exquisite
as Helen herself in line, and light as a bird dipped for
a moment upon the water. A small boat put out for
them, and they were received on board the yacht with
grave welcome by Mr. Ray, whose simple dress — so
far hitherto from proclaiming itself nautical in cut or
colour — now appeared i>erfectly adapted to yachting.
He did not seem to do the host here any more than at
Captain Butler's table, but he distinguished Helen as
his chief guest, with a subtle accent in his politeness
that gave her quick nerves something of the pleasure
of a fine touch in music. She was now aware that she
admired Mr. Ray, and she wondered if he did not
look shorter than he really was.

She found it quite in character that he should have
a friend on board, whom he had not mentioned to
any of them, and whom he now introduced in his
most suppressed tones. The friend was a tall young
Englishman, in blue Scotch stuff; and Helen decided

62 A woman's reason.

at once that his shoulders sloped too much ; he talked
very far down in his throat, and ho had a nervous
laugh; Helen discovered that he had also a shy,
askance effect of having just looked at you.

Itay asked the ladies if they would lihh, and when
they would not, he frankly tried to entertain them in
other way& It came out that he could both play
and sing; and he picked on a banjo the air of a
Canadian boat-song he had learned at Gasp^ the
summer before. That made the girls ask him to
show his sketches of the habitans, and Helen thought
them very good, and very droll, done with vigour
and chic He made the afternoon pass charmingly,
but what amused Helen most was Marian's having
already got his tone about his possessions and
accomplishments ; her instinct would not suffer her
to afflict him by any show of pride in them, proud
as she was of them ; and on the yacht there was no
approach to endearments between them. " Really,"
thought Helen, " Marian will be equal to it, after
all," and began to respect her sex. After supper,
which Ray offered them on board, and M-hich that
one of the men who could broil a mackerel pretty
well served with touches of exquisite marine cookery,
Helen felt that it would be mean to refrain any
longer. ''Marian," she whispered to her friend
apart, '* he is perfect /" and Marian looked gratefully
at her and breathed "Yes 1"

Helen was generous, but the proximity of this
prosperous love made her feel very desolate and
left behind. The aching tenderness for Robert,

A woman's reason. 63

which was at the bottom of all her moods, throbbed
sorer ; she most still it somehow, and she began to
talk with the Englishman. As she went on she
could not help seeing that the young Butler girls,
innocently wondering at her under their bangs, were
suflfering some loss of an ideal, and that Marian's
averted eyes were reflecting Mr. Ray's disapproval,
otherwise hidden deeper than the sea over which
they sailed.

The Englishman, after a moment of awkward
hesitation and apparent self-question, seemed to fall
an easy prey. He presently hung about her quite
helplessly ; but his helplessness did not make her
pity him. ** So nice/' he said, as they sat a little
ajMirt, after. Ray had attempted a diversion with
another Canadian barcarole, '' to be able to do some-
thing of that kind. But it isn't very common in the
States, is it, Miss — Harknessl"

" I don't understand. Do you mean that we don't
commonly know Canadian boat-songs 1 I don't
suppose we do."

" No, no ; I don't mean thai /" replied Mr. Rain-
fonl ; if that was thn name which Helen had caught
** I meant being able to do something, you know,
to keep the ball rolling, as you say."

"Do we say 'keep the ball rolling']" Helen
affected to muse.

** I heard it was an Americanism," said Mr. Rain-
ford, laughing at the pretence she made, with her
downward look, of giving his words anxious thought
"I was thinking of the Canadians when I spoke.

64 A woman's reason.

They seem to be up to all sorts of things. I was at
a place last month — Old Beach or Old Orchard —
something like that — where the Montreal people
come; and some of those fellows knew no end of
things. Songs, like Mr. Ray's; and tricks; and —
and — well, I don't know."

Helen shook her head. " No, we don't have those
accomplishments in the States, as you say. We 're a
serious people."

"I don't know," laughed Mr. Rainford. <<You
have your own fun, I suppose."

" In our poor way, yes. We go to lectures, and
attend the public school exhibitions, and — yes, we
have our amusements."

Mr. Rainford seemed carried quite beyond himself
by these ironical impertinences. " Really, I can't
admit that they 're all of that kind. I saw a good
deal of an amusement at the sea-side that I was told
was not very serious."

'* Indeed 1 What could it have been)" asked
Helen, with the affectation of deep interest

''Oh, surely now. Miss Harkness, you don't ex-
pect me to explain it All the young people seemed
to understand it ; the Canadian ladies said it was an
American institution." She did not help him on,
and he had to get out of the affair as he could. He
reddened with the effort "I must say it seemed
very pleasant, at least for the two ])eople concerned."

''Oh, only two 1" cried Helen.

The poor young man laughed gratefully, and took
up the burden of silliness which she now led wholly

A woman's reason. 65

to him. " Yes ; a young lady — always very charm-
ing — and — "

"A gentleman always very brilliant and inter-
esting. Oh, yes ! " She turned about on her
camp-stool with an unconscious air, and began to
talk to the young Butler girls. She had provoked
his recognition of the situation, if he had meant
his allusion to sea-side flirtations for that, but her
fretted nerves did not resent it the less because she
was in the wrong. She could have said that there
was nothing in her words, and afterwards she did
say so to herself; but, as if he found a personal edge
in them, Mr. Rainford sat quite blank for a moment ;
then after some attempts at self -recovery in talk with
the others, he rose and went below.

" Ned," said Marian, " where did you pick up that
particularly odious Englishman t " In her vexation
with Helen, it was necessary to assail same one.

"He's a very good fellow," said Ray quietly.
** I met him in Cairo, first He 's very clever ; and
remarkably well up in Coptic — for a lord."

All the Butlers started, as if to pounce upon Kay.
" A lord /" they hoarsely breathed, with the bitter
sense of loss natural to girls who might never see a
nobleman again.

** IFhy did you introduce him as Mister 1 " de-
manded Marian, in accents expressive of the common
anguish ; and somehow the revelation of her victim's
quality seemed to Helen to heighten the folly and
cruelty of her behaviour; it seemed to elevate it
into a question of international interest

B

I
i

66 A woman's rbahon.

^' I said Lord Rainford/' retorted Ray.

'' You whispered it 1" cried Marian bitterly.

'* Well, he won't mind your calling him Mr. Rain-
ford. I can explain," said Ray. "Don't change,
now," he added mischievously.

" As if we should 1" indignantly retorted Marian.
" And let him know that we 'd been talking about
himl No, he shall remain Mister to the end of
the chapter with us. Are you going to bring him
to the house 1"

" I 'm going to Salem with him as soon as I put
you ashore. I 'd have asked you to let me bring him
to lunch if I 'd supposed he was on the boat When
I left him at Manchester this morning, he talked of
going to Boston by the cars."

" I think he 's hideous," said Marian, for all com-
ment on the explanation.

" Not pretty, but precious," returned Ray tran-
quilly. " He 's a good fellow, but he knows he isn't
good-looking. Ho 's rather sensitive about it, and it
makes him nervous am) awkward with ladies; but he's
a very sensible fellow among men," liay concluded.

There was a little unpleasant pause, and then Ray
and Marian began talking eagerly to Helen, as if they
felt a little ashamed, and a good deal sorry for her,
and were anxious to get her to do or say something
that would bring back their good opinion of her.

They dropped anchor in a sheet of sunset red off
Captain Butler's place, and Ray pulled them ashore
in his small boat. Some of them tried to sing the

A woman's reason. 67

barcarole he had played, but the girlish voices thrilled
sadly over the glassy tide, which was softly ebbing,
and leaving more and more bare the drowned-looking
boulders, heavily tressed with the dripping golden
brown seaweed.

Marian sat in the bow of the boat, and as she rose
and stood there, holding out one hand to Ray to bo
helfMHl ashore, and gathering her skirts with the
other, she glanced towards the house : ** Why, who
is there with mamma on the verandah t Why, it
can't bo papa !"

Helen looked round over her shoulder where she
sat, and now they all looked, Ray turning his head
and mechanically clasping Marian's hand.

Captain Butler was walking up and down before
his wife, who sat listening to what he was saying.
He was talking very loud and very fast, with a sort
of passionate vehemence ; his tones reached them, but
they could not make out his words. He gesticulated
as if describing some scene, and Uien suddenly
stopped, and threw back his head, and seemed to
be laughing.

" Wliat can amuse Captain Butler so much ? '* asked
Helen, with a smile. At the same time she s^w him
draw out his handkerchief and hide his face in it,
and sit down with his f.ice still hidden. The panto-
mime which they could see with such distinctness,
and of which they yet remained so ignorant, somo-
liow began to overawe them. Ray quickly helped
them from the boat. " I am going up with you," ho
said, and with a glance at Marian, '' Miss Harkness,"

68 A woman's reason.

be added, "wou't you take my arm over these
rocks 1"

Helen clung heavily to him as she tottered up the
path. " I wonder what has brought Captain Butler
to-night," she said tremulously. ^* He wasn't to bo
here till Saturday."

'*I fancy he's persuaded your father to come
with him/' answered liay. "Look out for that
stone, Miss Harkness."

*' Oh, I hope papa isn't worse again," said Helen,
stumbling over it She hurt herself, and was glad
of the pain that let her give their way to the tears
that came into her eyes.

"No; I should think he was more likely to be
better," said Kay, refusing to see her trouble, and
really lifting her along. The others had fallen
behind a little, and these two had now reached the
gravel drive up to the piazza steps alona

They saw a quick parley between the Captain and
Mrs. Butler, and he stepped in-doors through one of
the long windows, while she came forward to the
rail, and called out to Marian, '* Your father wants
all of you to go to the other door, Marian."

*' Why, mamma — " began Marian.

" Go, go I " cried her mother. " Don't ask I —
Edward, bring Helen here!"

" Yes, it 's some little surprise," said Ray, bo-
ginning to laugh. "Do you like surprises, Miss
Harknesd 1"

"I don't believe I do/' slie answered, trying to
laugh too.

A woman's reason. 69

Mrs. Butler came forward and took her from Kay,
motioning or rather looking him aside, as she clasped
the girl tight in her arms. At this moment she saw
Captain Butler glance stealthily at them from within
the room ; his face was contorted and wet with tears.
"What — what is it, Mrs. Butler!" she ga8|)ed,
weakly pulling back a little from her close embrace,
and facing her.

Tlioro was an instant in which the elder woman
dwelt upon her with all of compassion and imploring
in her eyes. Then she said, *' Death, Helen. Your
father is dead !"

Helen's strength came back. As if many days
had passed since she saw him, " To-day ? " she asked,
still holding her hand against Mrs. Butler's breast,
where she had pressed it

"At two o'clock"

Helen softly loosed herself from Mrs. Butler's arms,
and sat down in the chair near which they stood,
and looked out upon the grounds sloping to the
water, the black rocks by the shore ; the huger rocks
that showed their backs like sleeping sca-bcasts out
of the smooth water ; the yacht darkening against
the east; far beyond the rim of the sea, a light
just twinkling up in the invisible tower at the
horizon's verge. A thick darkness seemed to come
down out of the sky over all, but Helen would not
let it close upon her. She fought the swoon away,
and looked up at the pitying, suffering face above
her.

"I am glad you told me at once, Mrs. Butler.

70 A woman's keason.

Thank you/' sho said, and sank back in lier cliair,
while the other fell on hor knees bcBido lur, and
gathered her to her heart again, and wept over her.

'' my poor, poor child 1 It 's the one certain
thing in all the world. It will be known, and it wiU
be seen. What wouldn't I have given to keep it from
you for ever, Helen t You and my Marian were
babies together. I used to know your mother. You
are like a daughter to me." Helen passively sub-
mitted to tlie caresses, to the kisses, drop(>cd with
tears upon her pale cheeks, but she did not say
anything, or try to reply. " But it was not to be
kept," Mrs. Butler went on. " It could not be
hidden, and it seemed the mercifullest and best way
not to try to keep it from you in foolish self-pity for
a moment^ more or less."

'* yes, yes," said Helen, like another person
hearing of her own case. "It was best^" and she
found herself toying with the strings of her hat^
curling them round her finger, and running them out
in a long roll

" It doesn't kill, my dear. It brings its OMm cure
with it. It 's sorrow, but it isn't trouble 1 It passes
over us like a black wave, but it doesn't destroy us.
You don't realise it yet, Helen, my poor girl, but
even when you do, you will b«.'ar it Put your head
down on my shoulder, dciir, and I will tell you. It
was in his office, where he had spent so many years
at the work which had given him his honoured name
and place in the world. My husband was there
with him. They were turning over some books

I
I

A woman's reason. 71

together. He saw jour father put his hand oyer his
hearty and then your father sank down in his arm-
chair, and gave a little sigh, and — that was all"

Mn. Batler broke into a fresh sobbing on the girl's
neck, bat Helen remained silent and still, letting
herself bo clutched tight to that loving breast
*' Tlicre was no pain, Helen, there was no suflering.
It was a falling into rest But before he rested —
before he drew that last little sigh, my dear — he
spoke one word. Do jou know what it was, Helen 1"
She felt the girl tremble, and, as it were, lapse in
her arms. " It was just your name : it was, ' Helen.'
You were the last thing in his thoughts upon earth
— the first in heaven."

Helen broke into a long, low waiL She rose from
where she sat^ and flung ofl* the kind clinging arms,
as if their fiity stifled her, and fled up and down the
verandah, a storm of grief that beat forth in thick
sobs, and escaped in desolate moans.

Mrsw Butler did not try to stay her, or even to
approach her, as she wavered to and fro, and wrung
her hands, or pressed them to her streaming eyes.
At last» after many moments, as long as hours of
common life, Helen suddenly checked herself, and
drie<l the tears that drenched her face. There had
come the lull which must succeed such a- passion.
Slie stopped before Mrs. Butler, and asked in a
husky, changed voice, " Isn't there any train up to-
night t"

« AVhy, Helen—"

** BeoLiise if there is, I mixst take it I know what

72 A woman's rsason.

you will say, but don't say it If you try to stop
me, I will walk, I am going home"

It was too soon yet for her to realise that she
should never go home again, but the word went to
the mother-heart that ached for her with the full
measure of its tragic irony, and she perceived with a
helpless throe of compassion how alone in the world
this fair young stricken creature stood.

Hay had sent word to his English friend that he
should not join him again on board the yacht that
night, briefly explaining the trouble that kept him,
and promising to see him again on the morrow. He
directed the yacht to put in to Salem, as had been
arranged, and instructed his men to tell Lord Rain-
ford about the trains for Boston. He was with
Captain Butler and the awe-stricken girls in the
parlour, while Mrs. Butler kept Helen on the verandah,
and he had gathered from the captain such part of
the story as he had not already divined.

" Edward 1" called Mrs. Butler from without, and
he went to her where she stood with Helen, now
perfectly silent and tearless. '* Miss Harknoss wishes
to go home to-night. I shall go with her. Mr.
Butler has just got home, and — " She hesitated to
say before Helen's aflliction that he had had too
hard a day already, and she could not let him incur
the further excitement and fatigue ; but Ray seemed
to know.

"Captain Butler had better stay here," he said
promptly, ** and let me go. We haven't time for the
seven o'clock at Beverley," he added, glancing at his

A woman's reason. 73

watch, " bat we can catch the eight o'clock express at
Salem if we start at once."

" 1 am ready," said Helen quietly. " My tnink
can come to-morrow. I haven't even unlocked it"

Ray had tamed away to ring the stable bc^l.
"Jerry, put my mnrc into the two-seated phaeton.
I>on*t lose any time," he called out, stopping Jerry's
advance up the walk for orders, and the phaeton was
at the steps a minute or two after Mrs. Butler
appeared in readiness to go.

Helen went into the lighted dining-room, where
Ca{)tain Butler and the girls had fearfully grouped
tliemselves, waiting what motion of farewell she
should make. Her face was pale, and somewhat
stem. She went round and kissed them, beginning
and ending with Marian, and she did not give way,
though they each broke out crying at her touch, or
at her turning from them. When she came to the
Captain she put oat her arms, and took him inU^
them, and pressed herself to his breast in a succes-
sion of quick embraces, while he hid his face, and
could not look at her.

"Good-bye all," she said, in a firm tone, and went
ont and got into the phaeton, where Mrs. Butler was
sitting. Ray sprang to the place beside the driver.
"Salem, Jerry. Quick 1" and they flew forward
through the evening air, cold and damp in currents,
and warm in long stretches over the smooth road.
She smelt the heavy scent of the spinea in the
swampy places, and of the milkweed in the sand.
She said no, she was not chilly, to Mrs. Butler:

74 A woman's reason. '

and from time to time they talked together : about
the days beginning to get a little shorter now, and
its not being so late as it seemed. Once Itay
struck a match and looked at his watch, and the
driver looked at Kay, who said, *< All right," and did
not say anything else during the drive. Again,
after silence, Helen spoke —

" You know I wouldn't let you come with me, if
I could help it, Mrs. Butler."

*' You couldn't help it, dear," answered the other.
"Don't talk of it"

The station was a blur and dance of lights ; she
was pushed into the train as it moved away. She
sat next the window in the seat with Mrs. Butler,
and Ray in the seat before them. He did not look
round, nor did Mrs. Butler sit very close, or take her
hand, or try in any futile way to offer her comfort
The train seemed to go forward into the night by
long leaps. Once it stopped somewhere on the track
remote from a station, and liay went out with some
other passengers to see what had hapi^ened. Helen
was aware of a wild joy in the delay, and of a wish
that it might last for ever. She did not care to know
what had caused it As the cars drew into the Boston
depot, she found her handkerchief, soaked with tears,
in her hand, and she pulled down her veil over
her swollen eyes.

At her own door, she said, " Well, Margaret," like
a ghostly echo of her wonted greetings, and found
Margaret's eyes red and swollen too.

^ I knew you would come. Miss Helen," said Mar-

A woman's reason. 75

garet " I told them you never would let the night
pass over your head."

" Yea, I would come, of course," answered Helen.
She led the way back into the library, where there
were lights, and where the study-lamp burnt upon
the table at which last night she had sat with her
father. Then, while the others stood there, she took
up the lamp, and pushed open the drawing-room
doors, as she had seen him do, and, as she felt, with
something of his movement, and walked forward
under the dimly-burning gas to the place where she
had known he would be lying. Everything had been
done decorously, and he appeared, as they say, very
natural She stood with the lamp lifted high, and
looked down at the face, slowly and softly wiping
the tears, and shaken now and then with a sob.
She did not offer to kiss or touch him. She turned
from the clay out of which he had departed, and
walkcil back to the library, where it seemed as if
ho should meet her, and speak to her of what had
happened.

Tliere were Mrs. Butler and Mr. Bay, and behind
them there was Margaret She felt how pitifully
she must bo looking at them. Some one caught the
lamp, which had grown so light, from her hand, and
some one had thrown up the window. That was
right; she should not faint now; and now she was
opening her eyes, and Ray's arm was under her
neck, where she lay upon the floor, and Mrs. Butler
was dashing her face with cologne.

/

IV.

In those days Helen came to understand what her
father had meant hy saying, that after her mother
and her Httle brothers died, the house seemed full of
them, and that it did not make him afi*aid. Now
that he had died, the house seemed full of him, and
she was not afraid. She grew to be weak and sore,
and almost blind from weeping ; but even when she
cowered over the dead face, and cried and moaned to
it^ it seemed something earthly and perishable in her
love bewailing only the earthly and perished part of
him, while what was really himself beheld her grief
with a high, serene compassion, and an intelligence
with some immortal quiet in her own soul. Whatever
it was, whether the assurance of his life after death, or
the mere bhnd effect of custom, prolonging his pre-
sence, as the severed nerves refer sensation to the
amputated limb, and rehabilitate and create it anew,
this sense of his survival and nearness to her was so
vivid at times that she felt as if she might, could she
but turn quickly enough, see him there before her ;
that the inward voice must make itself audible — the
airy presence tangible. It was strongest with her that
first night, but it did not cease for long afterwards.

70

A woman's reason. 77

He was with her as she followed him to the grave ;
and he came back with her to the house from which
they had borne him.

In this sense of his survival, which neither then nor
afterwards had any fantastic quality to her, she
seemed to draw nearer to him than ever before.
He understood now, he knew the depth and trutli
of her love, through all her vanities and follies.
Something inexpressibly sweet and dear was in this
consciousness, and remained always, when its vivid-
ness had faded with the keen anguish of her grief.
Such things, the common experience of all bereave-
ment, are hard to put in worda Said, they seem
crude and boastful, and more than what is felt ; but
what is felt is more than can ever be said.

Captain Butler came up the morning after Helen's
return home, and he anrl Mrs. Butler remained in
the house with her till all was over. Marian came
up too, and Ray was there with his silent vigilance,
from which everything seemed done without his
agency. Helen had but to weep, to sorrow up and
down the house ; they gave her anguish way, and
did not mock it with wonls of comfort When the
tempests of her grief swept over her, they left her»to
herself ; when the calm that follows such paroxysms
came, they talked to her of her father, and led her to
talk of him. Then she was tranquil enough. At
some droll things that forcefl themselves into remem-
brance in th(*jr talk, she even laughed without feeling
it treason to her grief; and it was not what she
thought or recalled of him that touched the springs

78 A woman's reason.

of her sorrow. It was mooting Margarot, downcast
and olusive on the stairs, and saying sadly to her,
" Well, Margarot ; " or catching sight of Captain
Butler sitting opposite her father's vacant chair in
the library, his grizzled head sunk on his breast,
and looking suddenly aged, and, at the samo time,
awkward in his Itereavement, like a great boy, that
moved her with intolerable pathos.

Mrs. Butler went home and had out the headache
which she had kept back while she must, by forco of
will, but every day some of them came up to seo
Helen, and reminded her without urgcnce that she
was to come to them soon. She said yas^ she would
come very soon, and so remained without going
abroad, or looking into the light of the sun. At
night, when she lay down she wept, and in the
morning when she woke, but through the day her
tears were dried. She brooded u})on.what her father
had said and done in the last hours they had spent
together, his longing for change and for a new life
that now seemed to have been prophetic of death.
His weariness of tlie house that liad been his homo
took a new meaning ; he must long have been moro
in the other world than in this, and but for his
pitying love for hur, he must havd been glad when
his swift summons came. She realised at last tliat
he had been an old man. She had known without
realising it that liis ways were the ways of one who
has outlived himself, and who patiently remains in
the presence of things that no longer interest him.
She wondered if the tie by which she, who was so

A woman's rrason. 79

whollj of the earth, had bound her father to it, had
not aomctiines been a painful one. She remembered
all the little unthinkhig selfishnesses of the past, and
worse than these, the consolations which she had
tried to offer him. She thought of the gentleness
with which ho always listened to her and conscntocl,
and ended by comforting her; and she bitterly
accused herself for not having seen all this long ago.
But she had not even seen that he had a mortal
disorder about him; she had merely thought him
wearied with work, or spent with the heat, in those
sinkings which had at first so much alarmed her.
The hand carried so often to his heart that she now
recognised it as an habitual gesture, had given her
no warning, and she blamed herself that it had not
But in truth she was not to blame. The sources of
his malady were obscure, and even its nature had
been so dimly hinted to him that doubtless her
fatlicr had justified himself in keeping his fear of it
from her. Perhaps he had hoped tliat yet somehow
ho could struggle to a better footing in other things,
before he need cloud her young life with the shadow
that hung u|H>n his own ; ]>erhai>fl the end of many
resolutions was that he could not do it She won-
dered if he had himself known his danger, and if it
was of that which he so often began to speak to her.
But all now was dark, and this question and every
other searched the darkness in vain.

She seemed to stand somewhere upon a point of
time between life and death, from which either world
was equally remote. She was quite alien here.

80 A woman's rrason.

without the will or the fitness to be anywhere else ;
and she shrank, with a vague resentment, from the
world that had taken him from her.

This terrible touchstone of death, while it revealed
the unimagined tenderness of many hearts, revealed
also to her the fact that no friendliness could supply
the love in which there was perfect unity of interest
and desire, and perfect rest Every day, when the
Butlers came to her they brought her word from
some one, from people who had known her father
in business, from others who had casually met him,
and who all now spoke their regret for his death.
A rare quality of character had given him standing
in the world that vastly greater prosperity could not
have won him ; and men who were of quite another
stuff had a regard for him, which perhaps now and
then expressed itself in affectionate {latronage, but
which was yet full of reverence. They found some-
thing heroic in the quiet constancy with which he
fought his long, losing battle, and now tlkat he was
down at lost, they hod their honest regreU and si)oke
their honest praises. It made Helen very proud of
her father to hear them ; she read with a swelling
heart the paragraphs about him in the newspai>crs,
and even the formal preambles and resolutions
which expressed the loss the commerce of the city
had suffered in the death of a merchant of his
standing and integrity. These things sot Helen's
father in a new light to her ; but while they made
her prouder and fonder of his memory, they brought
her a pang that she should have known so little of

A wobian's reason. 81

what formed his life, and should never have cared
to know anything of it apart from herself.

This was not the only phase in which she seemed
to have been ignorant of him. She had always
believed him good and kind, without thinking of
him in that way. But now there came poor people
to the door, wlio sometimes asked to see her, or
who sometimes only sent by Margaret, to tell how
sorry they felt for her, and to say that her father
had at this time or that been a good friend to each
of them. They all seemed to be better acquainted
with him than she, and their simple stories set him
in a light in which she had never seen him befora
It touched Helen that they should frankly lament
her father's death as another of their deprivations,
more than if they had pretended merely to condole
with her, and she did not take it ill of them, that
they generally concluded their blessings on his
memory with some hint that further benefactions
would be gratefully received. The men accepted
her half-dollars in sign that their audience was
ended, and went away directly; the women shed
tears over the old clothes she gave them, and stayed
to drink tea in the kitchen.

One day after she had already seen three or four
of these visitors, the bell rang, and Captain Butler's
boots came chirping along the hall, not with their
old cheerful hint of a burly roll in the wearer's gait,
but subdued and slow as if he approached with un-
naturally measured tread. Helen sprang into his
arms, and broke out crying on his breast " Oh

F

82 A woman's reason.

Captain Butler 1 I folt just now that jxipa musi bo
here. Ever since he died he has been with me some-
how. It seems wild to say it; but no words can
ever tell how I have felt it; and just before you
came in, I kfww that he was going to speak to me."

The Captain held Jier away at arm's-length, and
looked into her faca ''Poor child 1 They've sent
me to bring you home with me, and I see that I
haven't come a moment too soon. You have been
alone in this house quite long enougk My Goil,
if he only could speak to us!" The Captain con-
trolled himself as he walked up and down the library,
with his face twitching, and his hand knotting itself
into a fist at his side, and presently he came and sat
down in his accustomed chair near Helen. He
waited till she lifted her head and wiped her eyes
before he began to speak.

" Helen," said Captain Butler, " I told you that
they had sent me for you, and I hope that you will
coma"

*' Yes," answered Helen, '' I sliall be very glad to
go with you; but I think it's hard for Marian,
bringing my trouble there^ to be a blot on her
happiness."

« We won't s])eak of that, my dear," said the
Captain. *' H Marian can't find her happiness in
something besides gaiety, she 'd better not think of
getting married." <.

" I wouldn't come if I thought I could endure it
here any longer; I wouldn't come, if I had any-
where else to go," cried Helen.

A woman's reason. 83

" We wouldn't let you go anywhere else," returned
the Captain. " But wo can talk of all that another
time. What I have to say to you now is something
for yon to decide. Do you think you are equal
to talking a little business with me t"

" O yes. I should like to."

" Yes, it will take up your mind."

The Captain paused restively, and seemed at a loss
how to frame what he had next to say. " Helen,"
he broke out abruptly, " did you know anything
about your father's affairs V

" Papa's affairs 1" asked Helen, with a start.

" Oh, don't be troubled — don't be troubled," the
Captain hastened to say. " It 's all right ; perfectly
right ; but I want to speak to you about yourself,
and — it's all right Don't you think we'd better
have one of these windows open 1"

"Are they shutt" asked Helen. "Yes, you can
o\Hif} them, please."

*' We shall be cheerfuller with a little light," said
the Captain, flinging back the shutters; but they
hanlly looked so. Helen had dark rings round her
eyes, which were swollen with her long weeping;
she was very pale, and looked old in that black
which, in a house of mourning, seems to grow upon
women in a single night She thought the Captain
tremulous and broken ; these muscles at the sides of
his chin hung down, as if ten years had been added
to his ago in the last fortnight They made a feint
of finding nothing strange in each other, and the
Captain resumed as he sat down again : " I mentioned

84 A woman's reason.

your father's affairs because there has to be some
settlement of the estate, you know ; and there are
circumstances tliat make it desirable to have an
eariy settlement The business was left in a little
confusion ; it 's apt to be the case/' Captain Butler
added quickly.

'' Yes," Helen said, " papa sometimes spoke of the
perplexity he felt about his accounts."

''Did hef" asked the Captain with some relief.
** Then I suppose he gave you some idea of how he
stood."

" No ; he merely said they worried him."

"Well, well. I don't know that there was any
occasion to tell you, any occasion for alarm. There
seems to have been no will; but that makes no
differenca The law makes a will, and you get what
there is — that is, all there is." The Captain had a
certain forlorn air of disoccupation, which now struck
Helen more than what he was saying.

" Would you like to smoke, Captain Butler 1" slio
asked.

" Why, yes, if you will let me, my dear," he
said, with an eager, humble gratitude, putting his
hand quickly into his breast-pocket "I didn't
know — "

Helen rose, and placed the little table at his elbow,
and set the ash-holder on it, as she had done that
last night when he had sat there with her father.
They looked at each other without speaking.

The Captain struck his match, and said apologeti-
cally between the long whiffs with which he lit his

A woman's reason. 85

cigar, " I talk better with it, and I have some things
to explain."

He pansed, and sinking back into his chair
with a sigh of comfort ivhich brought a dim
Fmilo into Helen's face, presently resumed : " As
(hero is no will, and no executor, there will have to
1x5 an administrator. Whom should you like ap-
pointed 1 I believe the Court appoints any one you
wish."

" Oh, yau^ Captain Butler I " replied Helen in-
stantly.

" I expected this," said the Captain, " and I sup-
pose I am as fit as any one. I 'm sure that no one
could care more for your father's interests and
honour, and I know rather more of his affairs than
anybody else. You will have to make your wishes
known in form ; but that 's easily managed. In the
meantime, you had better be away, don't you think,
while wo are looking into things 1 I don't know
what there is to do, exactly ; but I suppose there 's
to be some sort of survey, or appraisal, and — yes,
you had better be away, when we are looking into
things."

"Do you mean — away from the house)" asked
Helen.

"Why, yes," the Captain reluctantly assented.
"It's a — form ; a necessary form."

"It's quite right," said Helen positively. "And
— yes, — I had better be out of the way."

" I 'm glad you see it in that light, my dear," re-
turned Captain Butler. "You're a good girl.

86 A woman's rrason.

Helen, and you make it much easier for ma Pack
up everything that belongs to you, and ro as if you
were going to stay." The Captain made a ghastly
show of heartiness, and smoked without looking at
Helen. **Bun over the house, and put together all
the things that you would Uke to retain, and I'll
see that they come down." Helen was trying to
catch his eye, and he was keeping Ids gaze fixed
upon the ceiling.

" I don't think I need do that," said Helen ; *< I
should merely have to bring thcni back with me."

Captain Butler took his cigar from his mouth in
compassion, as ho now looked at her puzzled face.
" We don't moan you should come back, my dear
child. Wo want you to stay with us."

*< Oh, I can't do that," said Helen quickly.

" You can't go on Uving here alone," retorted the
Captain.

" No," Helen ruefully assented, and faced Captain
Butler in touching dismay.

*' You see," ho said, '' that you must submit
And, Helen," he said with a show of brisk, business-
like cheerfulness " I think you had better sell this
house. H I were you, I should sell it at once.
You '11 never get more for it"

'' Why, what would become of Margaret 1" gasped
Helen.

" Well, Mrs. Butler has been talking of that
We want a cook, and we will take Margaret."*

Helen simply looked bewildered. The Captain
apparently found it better to go on while she was in

A woman's reason. 87

this daze than aurait Iier emergence from it "And
if I were you, I would sell the furniture and pictures
and all the things that you have not some particular
association with ; everything of that sort I should
keep." Helen still made no comment, and the
Captain went on. " I know all this is very painful,
Helen—''

" It isn't painful," said Helen quietly. " It was
papa's wish to sell the house. We were talking of
it that night — the night before — He thought of
building in the country."

" Well, I 'm glad to hear it," said Captain Butler.
" Then we can push right ahead and do it"

"It's very sudden, though," faltered Helen.
" Poor Margaret ! What will she say 1"

"We will hear what she will say," cried the
Captain, ringing the bell before Helen could stop him.
Margaret answered it, drying her hands on her
apron, as she came in, and then with a prescience of
the coming interview, resting them folded upon that
prop with which nature in process of time provides
the persons of most cooks. "Margaret^" said the
Captain, " Miss Helen is going to break up house-
keeping. She is coming to us. Mrs, Butler wished
me to ask you to come too."

Margaret pursed her mouth, and bent forward so
far over the natural provision as to catch sight of the
toe of her neatly shod small foot "Should you
like to come V asked the Captain.

" I 'm afraid I should feel the change," said Mar-
garet

88 A wokan's reason.

** Of course," retorted the Captain shortly. " Thera
is going to be A change, and you would feel it. Wo
understand that But you know me, and you know
Mrs. Butler, and you know whether you would have
a good place."

*^ It would be a good place," said Margaret, still
surveying her slipper. *' But I think I should feel
the change more and mora."

''Well," said the Captain impatiently, '*do you
mean yes, or no )"

'* I think I should feel the change," replied Mar-
garet ,

The Captain was nonplussed by this dry response
to his cordial advance, and he waited a moment
before he asked: ''liave you any other place in
viewl"

" I had arranged," said Margaret calmly, '' to go
to a cousin's of mine that lives in the Port ; and then
advertise for some small family in Old Cambridge
where they only keep one girl."

Helen had felt hurt by Margaret's cold foresight
in having already so far counted the chances as to
have looked out for herself; but at this expression of
Margaret's niliiig passion, she could not help smiling.

The Captain gave an angry snort ** Very well,
then," he said, " there is nothing to do but to pay
you up, and let you go," and he took out his pocket-
book. " How much is it 1 "

''There isn't anything coming to me," Margaret
returned with the same tranquillity ; " Mr. Harkness
paid me up."

A woman's reason. 89

" But he didn't pay you up to the present time,"
8md the Captain.

" I should wish to consider Miss Helen my guest
for tlio past two weeks/' said Margaret, in the neilt-
ness of an evidently thought-out speech.

The Captain gave a laugh; but Helen, who knew all
Margaret's springs of action, and her insuperable pride,
inteq>osed : " You 'may, Margaret," she said gently.

** Thank you. Miss Helen," said Margaret, lifting
her eyes now for the first to glance at Helen. She
turned with a little nod of self-dismissal, and went
back to the kitchen, leaving the Captain hot and
baffled.

It was some moments before he spoke again.
"Well, then," he said; "about selling the house:
do you know, Helen, I think it ha<l better be sold at
auction 1 It might \ye tedious waiting for a private
sale, and real estate is such a drug, with the market
falling, that you might have to lose more on it after
waiting than if you forced it to a sale now. How do
you feel about iti"

The finesse that the Captain was using in all the
business, wreathing the hard logal exigencies of the
case in flowers of suggestion and counsel, and putting
on all a smiling air of volition, could never be fully
known, except to the goodness that inspired it ; but
ho was rewarded by the promptness with which
Helen assented to everything.

*' I shall be glad to have you do whatever yon
think is best, Captain Butler," she answered. "I
have no fooling about the house — it 's strange that I

90 A woman's reason.

shouldn't have — and I don't care how soon it is sold,
nor how it is sold."

The Captain instantly advanced a step further.
*' Perhaps you wouldn't care to come back to it at
all, any more 1 Perhaps you could put your hand
on what you 'd like to keep, and I could look after
it for you, and — " He stopped at seeing Helen
change countenanca *' Well 1"

'* Did you think of selling the furniture too V* she
asked.

" Why, yes," assented the Captain. " I said so just
now. I 'm afraid you 'd find it a burden after the
house was gone. You 'd have to store it, you know.
Still, if you don't wish it — "

** Oh, yes," said Helen, drawing a long breath, " it
had better go 1" She spoke with a gentle submis-
sivencss that smote the Captain to the heart

" You can keep evorytlking you want, my dear —
you can keep it all !" he returned vehemently.

''That would be silly," said Helen. ''Besides,
there are very few things I should want to keep. I
couldn't keep papa's things : they 're terrible. I
should like you to take everything that belonged to
him, Captain Butler — except his watch and his Bible
— and give them to some ix>or |)eople that could use
them. Then I only want my own things ; and per-
haps his chair, and — " Helen 6topi>cd, and the
Captain, not to look at her, cast a roving eye about
the room.

" Those Copleys, of course, you would reserve," he
remarked presently.

A woman's reason. '91

" No," 8aid Helen, " I never saw the people. You
can sell tbenL But I shall keep my mother's picture,
because I think papa would like me to.*'

Tlio sense of her father's presence expressed in
these words touched the Captain again. He cleared
his throat, but he was still hoarse in saying, "I think
the Museum would buy the Copleys." Helen seemed
too indifferent about their fate to make any reply.

The worst was now over. Captain Butler had
accomplished all that he wished without being obliged
to explain anything to Helen, or to alarm her fears
in any way, and he was unreasonably heartened by
the fact He might, perhaps, have stated the whole
truth to her ignorance of affairs without being much
more intelligible than he had been with all these
skilful evasions. If he had said, " Your father died
with his business in the utmost confusion, and pro-
bably insolvent," she would scarcely have realised
that life was not to go on just as before ; and if he
had said, " You are left a beggar," how could Helen
Harkncss have conceived of herself in the figure of
one of the women who had dropped their tears into
their tea-cups in the kitchen, as they cried over the
old clothes she had given them 1 It had wrung the
Captain's heart to hear her talk of poor people, and
of giving ; and yet, he rose from his chair, when he
saw Helen still safe in her ignorance, with something
like rhecrfulnesa

*' You just make a memorandum of what you 'd like
re€cr%'ed, Helen," he said, '* and I '11 attend to it for
you. Put your own little traps together, and I'll

92 A WOICAN'S REASON.

send a carriage to take you down to the four o'clock
train. Anything you think of afterwards of ooui-se
will be kept for you."

He left her to this task. It was at least something
to do, and Helen wont about it with an energy which
she was surprised to find in herself. At first the re-
proach with which the silent house seemed to use her
indifference smote upon her, but it did not last long.
Home had died out of it, as life had gone out of her
father's dust ; and neither house nor grave was any*
thing to her. She passed from room to room, and
opened closets and drawers, and looked at a hundred
things. She ended in despair by choosing a very few.
If she could not keep all, why should she want any I
Whatever it seemed desecration to sell she put on her
memorandum to be given away. She selected a large
number of things for Margaret, and when she sat down
at the old Bostonian half-past two o'clock dinner (to
which her father had always kept), she told Margaret
what she had done. Margaret took one or two little
trinkets which Helen offered her in her hand, and
declined the other gifts.

"Why, what do you mean, Margaret 1" asked
Helen. ** Why don't you Uke them 1 "

*' I shouldn't wish to. Miss Helen," said Margaret,
pursing her mouth.

" Well, have your own way," returned Helen. '* I
supi)Ose this is another of your mysteries."

"I should wish to do everything properly, Miss
Helen."

•• What do you mean by properly I Why do you

A woman's reason. 93

Mi88 Helen me, all the time f What made yoa 8o
stiff with Captain Butler 1 and he so kind 1"

" Captain Butler is a very pleasant gentleman/' said
Margaret, in her neatest manner, "but I shouldn't
wish him to think it was quite the same as going on
hero." '

" You 're very foolish. It would have been a nice
place."

''I wished him to understand that I felt it a
change."

"Well, well!" cried Helen impatiently. "You
must do as you please, but you needn't have been so
cross."

Helen's nerves were beginning to give way, and
she went on childishly. " You act just as if we were
going to be together always. Do you know that I 'm
going away now, and not coming back any moret"

"Yes, Miss Helen."

" And do you think this is the way to treat me at
the last moment f Why don't you take the things 1"

"I shouldn't wish to be under a compliment, Miss
Helen."

" What do you mean by being under a compli-
ment 1"

•' I shouldn't wish to be beholden."

" Oh, you shouldn't wish, you shouldn't wish 1
This is too bad !*' whimpered Helen. " What am I
but under a compliment to you, as you call it 1 I
didn't think you'd behave so at the last moment.
But I see. You 're too proud for anything, and you
never did care for me."

94 A woman's ruason.

" Oh, Miss Helen I"

" Yes I And go to your cousin's, — the quicker the
better — and have your own cross way. I 'in sure 1
don't care, if you '11 be the happier for it. I can tell
you what you are, Margaret: you're a silly goose,
and you make every one hate you. The charm's
broken between ui, — quite ; and I 'm glad of it."

Margaret went out without saying anything, and
Helen tried to go on with her dinner, but failed, and
began her inventory again, and at last went to her
room and dressed for her journey. She came down
into the library just before starting, and rang for
Margaret. When the cook appeared, the young girl
suddenly threw her arms round her neck. " Good-
bye," she sobbed out, " y6u good, old, wicked, foolish,
stuck-up Margaret. I 'm glad you didn't come to the
Butlers', it would have killed me to see you there 1
Oood-bye, good-bye I Remember your poor little
Helen, Margaret, and come to see me I I can't bear
to look into the kitchen ! Say good-bye to it for me 1
Oh my poor old slighted happy home I Oh my home,
my home, my home I Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye 1"
She ran wildly through the well-known rooms, and
bade them adieu with heart-breaking farewells ; she
stooped down and kissed the lounge, on which her
father used to lie, and spread out her empty arms
upon it, and laid her homeless head where his had
rested. At the sound of the boll she sprang up, and
opened the door herself, and fled down the steps, and
into the carriage, shrinking into the furthest comer,
and thickly hiding her face under her black veil

A woman's reason. 95

She seemed to herself part of a vast train of events,
without control, without volition, save the will to
obey. She did what she was bid, /ind the great
movement went on. Somewhere must be arrest,
somewliere repose, but as yet she could not foresee it,
and she could only yield herself to the forces carrying
her forwai*d. She was going to the Butlers' because
Captain Butler had told her to come; she had
assented to everything he proposed because ho had
seemed to wish it ; but she felt tliat he was as power-
less as she in the matter. If he had proposed every-
thing of contrary effect, she must still have yielded
tlie same.

Captain Butler joined her at the station half-an-
hour after she had left home, and just in time to step
aboard the train with her. He was hot and looked
vexed. When he got his breath a little, " Do you
know,'' said he, ** that old fool hasn't made any bills 1"

" What old fool 1" asked Helen passively.

"Margaret!" replied the Captain, with a burst
"Didn't you understand that she meant merely to
refuse her wnges for the last two weeks, when she
said she wished to consider you her guest 1"

" Why, yes," said Helen.

"Well, she meant a great deal more," cried the
Captain. "I've been round to the butcher and
baker and all the rest, to settle their accounts, and I
find that she 's paid for everything since we left you.
But I shall have it out with her. It won't do. It's
ridiculous !"

" Poor Margaret 1" said Helen softly. She under*

96 A woman's reason.

Btood now the secret of Margaret's intolerable state-
liness, and of her reluctance to mar her ideal of
hospitality by accepting a reciprocal benefit. It was
all very droll and queer, but so like Margaret that
Helen did not want so much to laugh as to weep at it
She saw that Captain Butler was annoyed at the way
she took the matter, and she thought he would have
scolded her at any other time. She said very gently :
" We must let her have her way about it, Captain
Butler. You couldn't get her to take the money
back, and you would only hurt her feelings if you
tried. Perhaps I can do something for her some
time."

" Do you mean that you 're actually going to stand
it, Helen 1"

" Yes, why not t It isn't as if anybody else did it
for me — any equal, you know. I can't feel that it 's
a disgrace, from Margaret; and it will do her so
much good — you 've no idea how much. She 's been
with us ever since I was bom, and surely I may
accept such a kindness from an old servant^ rather
than wound her queer pride."

The Captain listened to these swelling words with
dismay. This poor girl, at whose feet he saw desti-
tution yawning, was taking life as she had always
done, en princesse. He wondered what possible con-
ception she had formed of her situation. Sooner or
later he must tell her what it waa

V.

Captain Butler believed that his old friend
had died a bankrupt ; he represented the estate as
insolvent, and the sale of the property took place at
the earliest possible day. A red flannel flag, on
which the auctioneer's name was lettered, was hung
out from the transomo above the front door, and at
ten o'clock on a dull morning when the sea-turn was
beginning to break in a thin, chilly rain, a long
procession of umbrellas began to ascend the front
steps, where Helen had paused to cast that look
of haughty wonder after the retreating ^liceman.
The umbrellas were of all qualities, from the silk
that shuts into the slimness of a walking- stick, to
the whity-brown, whale-bone ribbed family umbrella,
under which the habitual auction-goer of a certain
size and age repairs to her favourite amusement.
Many of the people had a suburban look, and some
even the appearance of having arrived by the Fitch-
burg railroad ; but there was a large proportion of
citizens, and a surprising number of fashionably
dressed ladies, who, nevertheless, did not seem to
be of that neighbourhood ; they stared curiously
about them, as if they had now for the first time

o

98 A WOMAN'S REASON.

entered a house there. They sat down in the sad
old parlour, and looked up at the pictures and the
general equipment of the room with the satisfied air
of not finding it after all any better than their own.
One large and handsome woman, whose person
trembled and twinkled all over with black bugles,
stood in the middle of the fioor, and had the effect
of stamping upon the supposed pride of the place.
People were prowling all over the house, from cellar
to garret, peering into closets and feeling of walls
and doors; several elderly women iu feeble health
were to be met at the turns of the stairways, pi'essing
their hands against their chests, and catching their
breath with difficulty. Few, apparently, of the con-
course had come to buy ; but when the sale began
they densely thronged the rooms in which the bidding
successively went on, and made it hard for one
another to get out of the packed doorways. The
whole morning long the auctioneer intoned his chant
of *' A half, and a half and half, dolhear-the-three-
quarters?" varied with a quick *'Sold/" as from time
to time he knocked off this lot or that. The cheaper
carpets, chairs, beds, and tables were bought for the
most part by certain fading women who bid with a
kind of reluctant greed, and got together each her
store of those mismated moveables which characterise
furnished lodgings. They wore cheap camel's hair
wraps and thread gloves ; others, who seemed |K>or
mothers of families, showed their black stubbed
finger-tips, pressed anxiously together outside the
edges of imitation India shawls, and bid upon the

A woman's reason.

kitchen crockery. The Copleys were bought,
Captain Butler had expected, by the Museum of Fine^
Arts ; the other paintings were bought by men who
got them low to sell again, and in whose ruinous
bazaars they were destined to consort with second-
hand refrigerators and strips of dusty carpeting.

Captain Butler would gladly have stayed away
from the auction, but his duty in the matter was not
to be avoided. Helen had given him a list of things
to be reserved from the sale, which she had made
out under two heads. The first was marked '* For
self,'' and this was very short, and easily managed
by setting the things aside before the sale began.
But the list of articles " To be given away," was on
a scale which troubled the Captain's conscience, while
it forlornly amused him, by its lavish generosity;
the girl had done charity to an extent that wronged
the creditors of the estate, and that put it quite
beyond Captain Butler's power to humour her unwit-
ting munificence by purchasing the things to give
away. He used a discretion with which he invested
himself, to put all the valuable articles up at the sale,
and bestowed in charity only the cheaper matters on
Helen's list £ven then, the auction was an expen-
sive affair to him. He was unable to let certain
things, with which ho intimately associated his old
friend, pass into the hands of strangers, especially
things connected with the India trade. Ho bought
the Chinese vases and bronze monsters, the terra
cotta statues and ivory carvings, the outlandish
weaiK>ns, and Oriental bricabrac, which in the age

A woman's reason.

Eastlake mantel-shelves, then setting in with
great severity, he discovered to be in great request.

His dismay increased as these costly and worthless
treasures accumulated upon his hands, for his house
was already full of them, to the utmost capacity of
its closets and out-ofthe-way comers. Besides, he
laid himself open to the suspicion of bidding in, and
remained under that doubt with many. He had
a haughty way of outbidding that stood him in no
good stead, and went far to convince the crowd tliat
all the sales to him were sham.

The auction, which began in the basement, as-
cended through the several stories, wandering from
room to room till it reached the remotest attic
chamber. Then, all the personal property had been
sold, and it descended again to the first floor, where
the crowd was already much thinner than at first,
and was composed mainly of respectable-looking
citizens who had come to bid on the house, or to
see how much it would bring. The fashionably-
dressed women were gone; it was not long before
the last auction-goer's whity-brown umbrella, ex-
panded after the usual struggle, went dovm the front
steps, and round the next comer. The auctioneer
took his stand in the parlour before the pier-glass, —
into which Helen looked that day to see whether
her trouble with Robert had changed hcT, — with the
long windows of the swell-front on either side of
liim. He was a young man, eager to win his
reputation. He had been praised to Captain Butler
as a frightfully vulgar wretch, who could get him

A WOBfAN'S REASON. 101

more for the property than any other auctioneer
in tlie city, and the Captain had taken him with
certain misgivings. As he now confronted his
respectable audience, he kept his hat a little aslant ;
he had an unlighted cigar in his left hand, which
ho put into his mouth from time to time, and chewed
upon nervously ; his eyes shone with a gross,
humorous twinkle, and his whole face expressed
a reckless audacity, and a willingness to take other
people into the joke of life's being a swindle, anyway.
" Gentlemen," he said, " I feel honoured in being
the instrument, however humble, of offering this
property to your consideration ; this old family
mansion, rich in tradition and association, in the very
heart of the most select quarter of Boston. You
have already examined the house, gentlemen, from
attic to cellar, you have seen that it is in perfect
repair, and that it has no concealments to make —
' nothing extenuate nor aught set down in malice,'
as our coloured brother says in the play. I will
not insult your intelligence, gentlemen, by dwelling
upon its entire soundness. Built forty years ago,
it is this day a better house than the day its foundar
tions were laid — better than nine-tenths of the
gaudy and meretricious conceptions of modem archi-
tecture. Plain, substantial, soberly elegant, — these,
gentlemen, are its virtues, which, like

' A Yk>1(1 peasantry, their country *8 pride,
Wheu once destroyed, can never be supplied.'

Gentlemen, I will not ask your attention to the eligible

102 A WOMAN'S REASON.

position of the house. I see none but Boston faces
here, and I am proud to take it for granted that you
need no instn^ctions from me upon this point When
I say that this is one of the best sites on Beacon
Hilly I say everything. Vou know the value of the
location, you know the character of the social sur-
roundings, — you know what I mean, and all that I
mean. I do not appeal to strangers hero. I afipeal
to the old Boston blood, animated by a generous
affection for our city and its history, and unwilling
to see dishonour cast upon her by the sale, even in
these ruinous times, of a property in her midst at
less than its full value. Gentlemen, I feel that you
will stand by me in this matter; and I have the
pleasure of opening the sale with a bid of $10,000.
Is this so, Mr. Wetherallt"

The gentleman addressed, in the midst of the
laughing crowd, nodded slightly.

The auctioneer looked keenly at the faces in an
irregular semicircle before him. *' With a bid of
$10,000 from Mr. Wetherall," he resumed. '*Mr.
Wetherall, gentlemen, does not want the property,
and he does not dream of gettin;^ it at a sixth or
seventh — in any other times I should say a tenth—
of its valua But he does not choose that it shall be
disgraced by the offer of any ignobler sum ; and, gentle-
men, if Mr. Wetherall had not made tliis bid I should
have made it myself in good faitk 1 am offered
ten thousand, ten thousand, ten thous — eleven, from
Mr. Wheeler. You don't want the property either,
Mr. Wheeler, but I thank you neverthelesa Eleven,

A woman's reason. lOd

eleven, eleven— do I hear the twelve t Twelve from
Mr. White. The W.'s are doing well, but we must
mount higher yet in the alphabet Twelve, do I
hear the thirteen 1 Five hundred ! Thanks : twelve
five, twelve five— thirteen. Going at thirteen, at
thirteen — fourteen ! This is something like, gentle-
men ; this is very good as a genteel relaxation ; four-
teen has its merits as part of the joke ; but, gentle-
men, we must not give too much time to it We
must come to business, before long ; we must indeed.
I am willing to accept these ironical bids for the
present, but — fifteen, did you say, Mr. Newell t
Thank — you for fifteen. I am offered fifteen, fifteen,
fifteen, by an eminent American humorist; fifteen,
fifteen, going at fifteen Y Oh come, gentlemen I
Some one say iicentt/, and let the sale begin seriously.**
Nobody had bidden twenty, but at that moment a
greedy-eyed, nervous little man, with a hot air of
having hurriod to arrive, wedged his way through
the people who filled the doorway, and entered the
opener space inside with a bid of five hundred. A
roar of laughter rewarded his ardour, and the
auctioneer instnntly went on : " Twenty thousand,
live ; twenty thousand, five. Now we are really
warming to the work. We have reached the point
at which blood begins to tell. Twenty thousand,
five from Mr. Everton — do I hear the twenty-one 1
Yes, right again ; I do hear the twenty-one, and
from Mr. Newell, who redeems his reputation from
the charge of elegant trifling, and twenty-two from
Mr. White, who also perceives that the time for

104 A woman's reason.

jesting is past Going at twenty-two, at twenty-two,
twenty-two 1 Do I hear twenty-three 1 No, only
twenty-two, three ; I regret to say it is only twenty-
two, three."

A quick succession of small bids now ran the sum
up to twenty-four thousand, at which point it hung
in spite of all the devices of the auctioneer to urge it
beyond. " Going, going, going," — he swung his right
hand threatingly above the open palm of his left —
" going to Mr. White at iwerUy-four thousand dollars 1
Are you all done)" He scanned tlio crowd, and
pierced it to the outer circle with his audacious glance.
''Going at twenty-four thousand dollars to Mr.
White. Are you all done, twice t Are you all done,
three times 1 Going once, going twice, going —
Gentlemen," said the auctioneer, putting his cigar
in his mouth and his thumbs in his waistcoatrpockets,
and addressing them in a low, impassioned tone,
''Gentlemen, it's no money for it! I should feel
ashamed, personally disgraced, if this property went
for such a sum. I should know that it was owing to
some fault of mine, some failure on my i>art to im-
press its value upon you. But I have trusted to your
own sagacity, to your own intelligence, to tlie faci«
that you are all Boston men, and thoroughly ac-
quainted with the prices of adjacent proi)erty, and
the worth of tins. I may have deceived myself; but
I appeal to you naw, gentlemen, not to let mo suffer
by the confidence I have reposed in you. My pro-
fessional repute is in your hands. If this estate goes
at $24,000 I am a ruined man." A general laugh, in

A woman's reason. 106

which the auctioneer himself joined so far as to smfle,
met this i^peaL He ran his eye over the assembly.
Suddenly he exclaimed, " Thank you, Mr. Everton 1
JFas it twenty-six!" He leaned forward oyer his
desk, and beamed with a flattering gratitude upon
the new-comer.

" No, twenty-four, fifty," replied Mr. Everton in a
weak, dry voice.

"Thank you all the same, Mr. Everton. Ton are
none the less my preserver. Thank you for twenty-
four, fifty. We breathe again. Twenty-four, fifty,
— do I hear the fivet Twenhf-ftmr^ fifty^ — will
you give me the fivet Twenty-five, very good,
twenty-five thousand, twenty-five, twenty-five — just
one-fourth of the worth of the estate in prosperous
times. Now let me hear the twenty-six 1 Gentle-
men," said the auctioneer, again breaking from his
chant, and lowering his voice to the colloquial tone,
''you all know the old stf^ry of the sibyl and her
books : how, when she came with nine copies in the
first instance, she asked a sum which struck the
oflicials as a fancy price ; how she went away and
burnt throe of the e<lition and then asketl twice the
original price for the six ; and how, when she had
burnt three more, they were glad to take the rest off
her hands at her own terms. We have here a
parallel case."

** Don't see the parallel," said one of the crowd.

"Don't you, Mr. Rogers t Well, you will, pre-
sently, when you Ve failed to buy this property for
half the money that you 'd be glad to offer the pur-

106 A woman's RBASOl^.

chaser for his bargain. Do I hear twenty-six from
you, Mr. Rogers 1" Mr. Rogers laughed and nodded.
"Twenty-six it is from Mr. Rogers. Twenty-six,
twenty-six, twenty-six, will you give me the seven %*'
He went on crying this sum in varying tones of exulta-
tion, reproach, and persuasion for several minutes.
Again and again he brought himself to the point of
knocking ofif the house at that price, and then retired
from it upon some fresh pretence of having heard a
higher bid. But none came, or could be made to
seem to have come ; every one to whom he turned
with a questioning look shook his head in prompt
denial. The auctioneer's mobile countenance took
on an air of deep discouragement Ifo threw aside
his mallet, and pulled down his waistcoat. ** 1 won't
sell this property at that price. I suppose there are
men in this city who woiUd do it, but / won't Cajitain
Butler, I should like a word with you." He came
down from his perch, and retiring to a comer with
the Captain talked with him in a dumb show of bitter
and passionate appeal. When he again mounted to
his place, he wore a look of gi-im despair. " Well,
gentlemen, I have done my best to persuade Captain
Butler to withdraw the property, and stop this bloody
sacrifice." The crowd laughed and the auctioneer's
eye twinkled. " But he feels bound by the terms of
his notice to you to let the sale proceed. The pro-
perty will be sold without reserve Now let us see
whether you will meet him in the same magnanimous
spirit" Captain Butler looked on in blank amaze
while this statement was making; but an intenser

u
it

A WOMAN'S REASON. 107

nnprise was painted apon the face of Mr. Wetherall
as Uie aactioneer proceeded : *' Twenty-eeven, twenty-
•even."

Twenty-six was the last bid," said a bystander.
Excuse me, sir," retorted the auctioneer severely,

I don't think I deceived myself in a nod from my
friend Mr. WetheralL Twenty-«frfii / "

Mr. Wetherall seemed straggling to open his
petrified mouth in protest, when Mr. Everton quickly
bid twenty-seven five hundred. Mr. AVetherall
turned sharply upon him and bid twenty-eight
The keen auctioneer scented their rivalry, and played
upon it 80 artfully that in ^ve minutes the property
was going at thirty thousand to Mr. Everton. He
came to the thinl going, in his thrice-repeated warn-
ing, when he once more paused, and leaning forward,
bent a look of pitying incredulity upon the faces
before him. " Gentlemen," he asked in an accent of
soft reproach, " is this fiosion t "

His audience again roared their pleasure, and the
aactioneer, leaving his place, stepped forward and
personally approached several gentlemen of the group
in a conversational tone. " Mr. AVetherall, am I
going to have nothing more from you t Mr. White,
what do you say Y You know this house is worth
more than thirty thousand, and whoever buys it will
have a dozen people after him tomorrow offering to
take his bargain off his hands at an advance. Mr.
Merritt^ we haven't heard from you at all yet^
I believe. You've been enjoying the show for
nothing : it isn't your custom to dead-head yourself

108 A WOMAN'S REASON.

on these occasions. And you, sir, — ^I can't call your
name, but I know your face ; I Ve seen it iu State
Street often — can't I get a bid out of yout" The
gentleman addressed coloured, and shrank further
back in the crowd. The auctioneer smiled in |)crfect
good-humour, and turned away for another word
with Captain Butler in private.

*' Captain," he whispered, ''Mr. Eveiton is going
to buy this property. Do you think he will stand
another five thousand t"

Captain Butler, who seemed in a sort of daze,
said, ^ I don't believe he will. But if you — "

'* I '11 get it," said tlie auctioneer briskly, and re-
turned to his work, into which he struck with a sudden
and startling energy. '* Going at thirty thousand,
go — . Thirty-one, thirty-one, thirty-one; at thirty-
two; thirty two, five; thirty-three, thirty-three — and
five; thirty-four 1" He clashed off the bids with a
rapid confidence that would have inspired belief in the
most sceptical Mr. Wetherall bid thirty-four thou-
sand five hundred, and was instantly topped by Mr.
Everton at thirty-five. ''Thirty-five, thirty-five,
thirty-five," cried the auctioneer, "going at ihiriy-
five thousand, going, going, going, and sold — givett
away — to Mr. Everton I"

Mr. Everton came forward, with a half-frightened
look, and laid down the money necessary to secure
his purchase, and received a provisional deed of the
property.

" Look here 1" said Captain Butler, as soon as ho
could get the auctioneer aside, " I didn't hear any of

A woman's RKASOM. 109

these bids till WethenJl's last" The Captain looked
troubled and unhappy.

The auctioneer laid a re-assuring hand upon his
shoulder. " You haven't got a practised ear, Captain
Butler. / have. Mr. Everton has got a great bar-
gain. But it was hardf working up to that final
point"

V

VI.

" What perplexed me the most about it," said the
Captain to Mi-s. Butler, when he came home the day
after the sale, <<was that the auctioneer had so
misrepresented his first talk with me. He never
asked me to withdraw the property at all ; he knew
I couldn't; he merely offered to bet me that he
would get thirty thousand for it. AVcUl I don't
see what I could do about it. I couldn't have
proved that the bids were fictitious, and the attempt
to try would have made a great scandal. That's the
way Hibbard looks at it ; I went to him for advice ;
I put the case to him, and he says that there 's no
way of going back of the fact, for the auctioneer
would swear, to save himself, that he heard the bids,
or thought he did. Mosi probably he did ; it was all
confusion; and my not having heard them proves
nothing at all. Besides, Everton was not obliged
to bid thirty-five thousand, and he did get a great
bargain. The property is worth fifty, in any decent
times. And that extra five thousand is a perfect
godsend for Helen, poor girl ! It 'a all she '11 have
in the world. I tell you, my dear, I haven't had
many things in life that gave ine more satisfaction

110

A WOBIAN'S REASON. 1 1 1

than meeting the principal creditors to-day. You
see, when I looked into his affairs with Joshua the
day he died I was very badly discouraged. They
were all in confusion ; he seemed to have lost his
grip of them; I suppose it was his failing health,
but ho couldn't make head or tail of anything; and
when I was appointed administrator I reported the
estate insolvent. It was precipitate — "

"It was like you, my dear," said Mrs. Butler.
" You never believe that anything is wrong till you
believe that everything is wrong."

" Well, well — very likely," returned the Captain.
"I had what I thought very good reasons for my
course. But afterwards I set a shrewd hand at work
on the books, and we found out that things were
very much l»ctter, as I told you at the time. When
a man's affairs are in such confusion as Joshua's, the
confusion is usually against him, but in this case it
was mostly for him. There wasn't a day after I
reported the estate insolvent that the case didn't
brighten. If it had been any other case, I should
have been mortified at the way things turned out
To be sure, I didn't Iwlicvc there 'd bo anything for
Helen, but before the sale I saw that unless the
property went for nothing the estate would pay all
Joshua's debts, dollar for dollar. This morning we
called a meeting of the creditors. They had the
notion they were going to lose, and they were
prepared for that When I told them how matters
really stood they were tremendously taken aback.
But they had behaved very handsomely all along,

112 A WOMAN'S REASON.

out of respect for Joshua's memory, and they came
out strong now about him, and said such things —
well, / can't tell you," said the Captain. ** But," he
added confusedly, **I wish Harkness could have
been there 1"

^ Perhaps he was," said Mrs. Butler devoutly.

<<£hr' cried the Captam sharply. "Ah I Yes I
Well, perhaps. Old Rogers asked me to wait a
minute, and they had a little confabulation among
themselves, and then Rogers came forward and asked
if there would bo anything left for Helen. Then I
told them the estate had yielded $5000 more than
the indebtedness, so far as I knew of it ; and we had
congratulations all round, and if Joshua had been
alive to resume, he might have started business again
on a better basis than ever he had in his life. I wish
— confound it I — I could be sure about those bids."

"Why, my dear!" cried his wife,"you talk as if some
fraud had been really committed. Can't you look at
it as Mr. Hibbard does 1 Probably the man did hear
the bid& He wouldn't have dared to pretend that he
heard them ; it wouldn't have been safe for him."

" No," said the Captain thoughtfully. " Why, of
course not," he addcil briskly, after a moment. " Of
course you're right about it He wouldn't have
dared. Where's Helen)"

He went down and found Helen on the rocks b}'
the sea, where she often strayed apart from the
others; they did not follow her, they i-espected
her right to what solitude she would. Her sorrow
was no longer a thing of tears and sobs; but it

A woman's reason. 113

was no more comprehensible than at first; her
bereavement still seemed the one great unreasoned
fact of the universe. She turned the pathos of
her bewildered smile upon the Captain, as she heard
him climbing the rocks behind her, and rose to
meet him.

" No, sit down," he said. " I want to have a little
talk with you, Helen, as your man of business."

" You're my man of business as — as— papa was,**
said Helen, with a grateful look.

"Thank you, my dear, for that," answered the
Captain. " I 've only tried to do what he would
have done for my girls. I don't know, my dear,
whether I had ever given you the idea that your
father was in embarrassed circumstances 1"

"O yes; I knew that,'* said Helen.

" Well, we won*t enlarge upon the fact It isn't
necessary. Would you like me to go into pai-ticulars
al)out tho settlement of the estate Y**

** No,** answered Helen, "that i8n*t necessary either.
I shouldn't be any the wiser if you did. Tell me
wh.itever you think I ought to know, Captain
Butler.*'

"I was very much afraid, my dear," said the
Captain, " when I began to look into your father's
nffairs that there would be nothing, or worse than
nothing, left." Tliis did not seem to affect Helen as
. a matt-er of personal concern, and the Captain went
on : " There was a time when I was afraid that the
creditors would not get more than seventy-five per
cent of their money, and might be very glad to get

H

114 A woman's REASON.

that." Helen looked round at Uie Captain vrith a
quick glance, as if here were something that touched
her. " But as I got along towards tlie bottom,
things looked better, and I saw that unless the sale
turned out very badly, we should save ourselves.
The sale turned out far beyond my expectations. —
Helen," cried the Captain, " the prospect now is tiiat
I shall pay up every cent that your father owed in
the world, and have some five thousand dollars left
for you."

" Oh, Captain Butler I"

'* It isn't a great sum — "

'' It's more than I dared to dream of !"

** But if it 's carefully handled, it can be made to
go a great way."

" Oh, it 's ample, ample ! But I don't care for'
that. AVhat I think of— and I feel like going down
on my knees for it — is that no one loses anything
by papa. He would rather have died than wronged
any one, and that any one should have suffered
by him after he was helpless to repair the wrong,
ihat would have been more than the bitterness
of death to me. Oh, I 'm so happy about this,
Captain Butler; you can't think how much more of
a comfort it is than anything else could have been 1 "

^* You 're a good girl, Helen," said the Captain,
with a reverent fondness ; '* you 're your father's
girl, my dear. He would have died a rich man if
he had not stood by people whom he knew to be in
a bad way, because they had helped him long ago^
when it was no risk for them to do so."

A woman's reason. 115

"He was right!" cried Helen. "He would not
have been papa if he had done less."

" I should not have said he was right," said Cap-
tain Butler, " if he had not believed that he had
already put you beyond want. Ho had insured his
life for twenty-five thousand dollars in the Metro-
)K>litan lieciprocal ; but that went to pieces two
years ago."

"That's nothing. I couldn't have managed so
much money," promptly answered Helen. " The five
tliousand will be enough, and more than enough, for
my utmost desires. I 'm not extravagant I can get
on with very little, and this is wildly abundant"

The CaptAin, from rejoicing in her mood, suddenly
looked aghast, as if a terrible idea had presented
itself. " You undei-stand, Helen," he said, " that it
will be some time yet— six months at least — before I
can place the money due you at your disposal. It
isn't certainly due you till all the creditors have had
full notice to present their claims, and these have
been passed upon by the commissioners."

" Oh, that makes no difference," said Helen.
"I 'm in no haste for the money."

" And you understand," pursued the Captain, as
if this were really the point he wished to insist on,
" that it is only five thousand 1"

"0 yes, I understand perfectly," quickly an-
swered the girl, and then she stopped, and cast a
keen glance at the Captain, without, however, seem-
ing to perceive his chopfallen aspect : she was,
perhaps, looking deeper.

116 A WOMAN'S REASON.

*'You haven't brought any more letters for me,
I suppose V* she said.

'' No, I must have got everything the last time/'
replied the Captain. " I went carefully through all
the drawers again before the sale began."

*' I shall ask you to take care of those law-papers
for me, Captain Butler ; I don't know what to do
with them. The letters were all recent onea I
thought there might have been some old ones. Not
that I have missed any. But you did sometimes
lose home letters when you were off on those long
voyages of yours, didn't you 1 "

"No, very few," the Captain responded. "We
get them nearly all, sooner or later."

" But sometimes they had to wander about after
youl"

"Yes, sometimes. And sometimes they waited."

"It must have been terribly distressing," said
Helen, " to wait for them."

" Well," returned the Captain, " that depended a
good deal on whom the letter was from." Helen
flushed a little. "There were some letters that I
shouldn't have cared if I 'd never got. But, generally
speaking, the fellows in the navy had the advantage
of us in the merchant servica"

" I don't see why," said Helen.

" Oh, their letters were addressed to them through
the Navy Department, and of course they came the
straightest and safest way. I recollect once at Singa-
pore," and the Captain went on with much circum-
stance to give a case in point Helen had furniahed

A woman's reason. 117

him a thread of associations which the Captain
never willingly dropped. She listened at first
with interest, then patience, then respect. At last
she said it was getting a little chilly, and Captain
Biitlcr agreed that it was. They went back to the
house together, and parted on the piazza, where
Helen paused a moment to say : " I haven't thanked
yon. Captain Butler, because it seemed no use to try.
Where should I endl"

*' Don't begin," said the Captain, with the smile
which he kept for Helen ; she was as dear to him as
his own daughters, and just strange enough to be a
colour of romance in his thoughts. It always
astonished him, and slightly abashed him that she
should be a young lady; she had so long been a
little girl.

She looked fondly into his kind eyes. " It is too
much— too much !" she cried, and slipped away with
a fallen head.

The words made the Captain think of the money
again, and the smile went and the trouble came
back to his face, as he wnlked away to find his wife.

"Well?" said Mre. Butler.

"Catharine," said the Captain, "I'm afraid she
thinks it 's five thousand a year."

" no, she doesn't !" pleaded his wife.

" Yes, she does, my dear. She spoke of it as an
enormous sum, and I hadn't the courage to make the
thing clear. I began to, and then gave it up. I
don't see what's to be done about it I'm afraid
it 'a going to be a dreadful blow when she finds out

118 A woman's reason.

wliat it really is." Captain Butler looked niefuUy
at his wife.

"I think you're mistaken," said Mrs. Butler. ** It 'a
her ignorance of money that makes her think of five
thousand, and not the income from it ; but as you 've
raised the doubt she must be told that it is not five
thousand a year, and she must be told just ho\^
much it is." The Captain groaned. *'But you
needn't tell her, John. You 've gone through quite
enough. / will tell her."

Captain Butler looked ashamed, but relieved.
*' Well, my dear, I must let you. It 's shirking, but
I can't help it You can manage it better than I
can. When I think of tolling that poor child how
very little better than a beggar. she is, my tongue
turns to a chip in my mouth."

'* Yes, it 's hard. But suppose she 'd had nothing t "

''Then something better than this might have
been done with the creditors. Some were old
friends. But you can't ask people to help a girl
who has five thousand dollars. It sounds pre-
posterous."

''I doubt whether Helen would have allowed herself
to be he]|)cd in that way if she had known it, and how
could it have been kept from her t" Mrs. Butler
rose to go to another room.

*' Catliarine," asked the Captain, '' was it at Singa-
pore that I got that first letter of youn, after it
had chased me round so long 1"

"No; it was at Cape Town," said Mrs. Butler.
"Whyl" .

A WOMAN'S REASON. 119

" I told Helen it was at Singapore."

" How in the world came you to be talking to
Helen of our old love-letters, my dear 1"

" Oh, she was asking if letters to the East didn't
often get lost I don't know why she should have
happened to ask. But she did."

"I suppose," said Mrs. Butler simply, "she is
going to write to Robert Fenton."

A light dawned upon Captain Butler ; he laughed
in a sliamefaccd way, and then he frowned a little.
"Why didn't she ask me outright which was the
best way to address him 1"

** How cofUd she 1 She couldn't have asked her
own father. You wouldn't have wished your own
daughter to do it."

** Yes, I should," defiantly answered the Captain.

" Well, she wouldn't," replied Mrs. Butler. The
Captain was silenced, but not satisfied. He suffered
Mrs. Butler to go, but remained still with that du|)cd
smile, and did not half like it.

That night Helen came rather late and tapped at
Mrs. Butler's door. " It 's I — Helen — Mrs. Butler.
Can I speak with you 1"

" Yes, come in, Helen."

She pushed in impetuously. "I came to ask
Captain Butler's pardon for the mean little intriguing
way I got out of him how to address a letter to
Kol>eFi Fenton. He must have told you I"

" Ho said you asked him if his letters from home
weren't lost sometimes," said Mrs. Butler, with a
little smile. "/ understood, my dear," she added,

120 A woican's reason.

leaning forward to smooth Helen's hair, where she
had sunk on the cricket at her feet. "It was a
perfectly natural thing."

" O yes, only too natural with me / But I hate
and detest all that beating round the bush, in me,
even when I 'm doing it ; and what I came for now^
Mr& Butler, is to ask you how I had better write to
Kobert." Neither found anything worthy of remark
in this second avowal of purpose, which might be
said in a manner to supersede- the first. " If it
hadn't been for my wretched shilly-shallying ways, I
shouldn't have to write to him at all. But now I
must. There is something — something — that I must
tell him for his own sake, and— for his peace of
mind. For if a person hates any one, especially if
it 's through a mistake, I don't think we ought to let
any foolish pride interfere; do you, Mrs. Butler 1"

" No, Helen," said Mrs. Butler, with perfect intel-
ligence.

''That's what I think too, and it would be per-
fectly easy — more than easy — to write and tell him
that, and take the consequences, whatever they were.
You see it is just this : we liad a quanel before he
went away, — or not a quarrel, but a misunderstand-
ing ; that is, fie misunderstood — and ho was so vexed
with me that he wouldn't come to say good-bye. I
don't care for that He did (ierfectly right. But
what I can*t forgive is his not trying to scq pftpa,
and bid him good-bye. I can't bear to have him
think any longer that I was trifling with him, and
yet I can't write to him, when I think of the. way he

A woman's reason. 121

treated papa. It seems very bad-hearted in him.
Of course, I didn't see how he andd have borne to
see papa under the circumstances, and feeling the
way he did towards me ; and, of course, if papa had
lived it would liave been different, and if it hadn't
been for me, I know liobert wouldn't have done it,
for he's one of the best and kindest^-" Helen
stopped, and Mrs. Butler waited a moment before
she answered.

"Did you ever think, Helen, that Robert loved
your father like — not like you, not like a daughter —
but like a son 1 "

" Why, papa had always been a father to him !"
cried Helen. " Why shouldn't he 1"

"And were you never remiss with your father,
because you trusted that somehow, sometime, the
love you felt for him would more than make it up to
him t"

" Oh, a thousand times 1" cried Helen, bowing her
head on Mrs. Butler's knees.

The pale hand continued to stroke her hair.
"That's a risk wo nil take with those we love. It's
an earnest of something hereafter, perhaps. But for
this world it isn't safe. Go, and write your letter,
my dear, and give Robert all our love."

Mrs. Butler leaned forward, and kissed the beautiful
head good-night, and Helen, after a silent embrace,
went back to her room again. It was easy now to
write the letter which she had found so hard before,
and a deep peace was in her heart when she read it
over, and found no shadow of resentment or unkind-

122 . A WOICAN'8 REASON.

ness in it She was glad to have abased herself so
utterly before him, to have put herself so completely
in his power. Now he might do as he pleased, but
he never could have it to say that he had misunder-
stood her, or that he had cause to think her proud
or cruel

" Dear Kobert," the letter ran, ** it is five weeks
now since pa|)a died. I wrote you a line to tell you
the sad news as soon as I could bring myself to put it
in words, and I suppose you will get that letter before
this reaches you. But for fear that it may fail (I
sent you a newspaper with the account, too), I will
tell you again, that it was very sudden, and while I
was away here at Beverley, where he expecte<l to
join me in a day or two. It was at his office;
Captain Butler was there with him. I thought I
could tell you more about it; but I cannot He
died of a disease of the heart I will send a cutting
from another newspaper that will tell you mora

''The day before papa died I told him every-
thing about that last letter I wrote you, and ho
took your part The last words he spoke of you
were full of affection and sympathy. I thought you
would like to know this. You were mistaken about
that letter. Kcad it again, and see if it doesn't mean
something different. But I 'm afraid you tore it up
in your disgust with me. Well, then, I must tell
you. / did love you all Oie time. There, — I don't
care what you think of me. You can't think less of
me than I do.

'' The house has been sold, and everything in it

A woman's reason. 123

pApa did not leave a will, but I know he would have
liked you to have his watch, and I am keeping that
for you.

" I am with the Butlers at Beverley. They have
been everything to me, and are everything.

" Helen."

In Helen's tall hand it took three sheets of note-
paper to hold this letter ; the paper was very thin,
but she put on a double postage to make perfectly
sure, and she kept the letter till she went up to
Boston, and then posted it herself in the general
post-office.

VII.

Helen had been three weeks at the Butlers', and,
in spite of their goodness, which guarded her free-
dom, as well as all her wishes, she began to feel a con-
straint which she could not throw off. Life had
come to a pause with her, and when it should move
forward it must be seriously, and even sadly; and
she was morbidly conscious that she somehow
clogged the joyous march of Marian Butler's days.
There hod been an effort to keep out of her sight
the preparations for the wedding, till she had pro-
tested against it, and demanded to see every dress.
But this very demand emphasised the dark difference
between her fate and her friend's, and Marian was
apologetically happy in Helen's presence, however
they both tried to have it otherwise. Once Marian
had explained with tears that she would like to put
it off for Helen's sake, if she could, but the time of
the marriage had been fixed with regard to so many
other matters that it could not be postponed. Helen
had answered that Marian made her very wretched
talking of such a thing, and that she must go at once
if Marian spoke of it again. They had embraced
with perfect tenderness and sympathy, and Helen

A woman's reason. 125

had remained with the helpless feeling of her incon-
gruity in a house of rejoicing. It seemed to her
intolerable that she must bring her sorrow thither ;
she suffered till she could get away with it ; all they
did to make her feel at ease could only heighten her
trouble. She had waited with a painful patience till
the Captain should report to her on the settlement
of her father's affairs, and she could begin to shape
her future ; now that he had spoken she need wait
no longer.

She found Mrs. Butler in the parlour the morning
after she had written to Robert

"Mrs. Butler," she said, "I want you to let me
go away next week."

"I can't bear to have you talk of leaving us,
Helen 1" cried Mrs. Butler, with a wistful trouble in
her eyes and voice, yet as if she had expected this.

"Yes, I know," returned Helen, "but I must go.
It's foolish and useless to keep staying on ; and now
that I 've made up my feeble mind about it, don't try
to stop me."

" Helen," said Mrs. Butler, " don't go 1 We all
want you to stay. We want you to go to Europe
with us— to be our guest, our child. Put away your
scruples, my dear — I understand them, and honour
them — and go with us."

" You know I can't, Mrs. Butler."

"But if your father had been living, you would
have felt free to accept our invitation."

" Perhaps. But it would have been different then.
Don't press me."

»

126 A woman's reason.

" I 'm sorry, Helen/' sighed Mrs. Butler. •* I won't
press you. But stay with us, my dear. It does us
good to have you. Mr. Butler and I often talk of
it ; we all feel it. Say that you '11 stay till wo go
away, and then we'll feel as if wo had parted
because we must" Helen was standing before Mi-s.
Butler, wlio had the girl's hands in hers, as she sat
in her easy-chair, and looked up into her evasive
face.

*' No," said Helen, gently taking away her hands,
and sitting down near the other, '* I couldii'ts DouH
let us deceive ourselves. I 'm a shadow in the house ;
we all know it, and feel it Nobody's to blame,
nobody can help it," she added quickly, to stay a
protest from Mrs. Butler, "but it's true. You
see how I have to take my blackness out of tlio
room when your friends come ; I give them a pain-
ful shock when they catch sight of me ; it checks
the pleasant things they would like to say ; and I
hate myself for glooming about the house in secret ;
I feel that I must cast a shadow on tliem even
through the walls and floors."

*' Helen, dear, there 's no friend we have who is so
precious to us as you are !"

" O yes — yes I I know how kind you are. But
you see it can't be. I should have to go away at the
time of the wedding, and you had better let me go
before."

" Go away at the time of Marian's wedding t Not
be— Why, Helen!"

"Yes. Think, Mrs. Butler! It couldn't ba"

A woman's rkason. 127

Mrs. Butler was silent ** I shouldn't care for myself,
and I know you wouldn't care for yourselves ; but
the others have some rights which we mustn't over-
look. I should throw a chill over everything. I
couldn't endure that, and you can't persuade me,
Mrs. Butler ; you mustn't try."

Mrs. Butler looked really disconsolate. Helen
was right ; there was no possibility of gainsaying her,
much less of outreasoniiig her ; and Mrs. Butler was
one of those feminine temperaments, rather commoner
in New England than elsewhere, whom a good reason
absolutely silences : they may not often have it
themselves, but their reverence for truth and a clear
conclusion is such that they must bow to it in others.
The most that she could say was, "But you will
come back to us afterwards, Helen 1 You will come
after Marian is gone, to comfort ns, won't youl It
will be a month before we shall sail, and we should
so like to have you with us. We shall not be gay
ourselves, then, and you will feel more at home. I
won't oppose you now, dear, but you '11 promise me
that !"

" Yes," answered Helen, " I 'II come back, then, if
you want nie."

" And where are you going, now 1 Where do you
mean to stay 1"

''I don't know. I thought I should go to the
Miss Amys — you remember them, don't you t — and
ask them to let me stay with them for the present
I know they sometimes take |>eople to board."

"O yes, I remember them— on West Pomegranate

128 A WOMAN'S REASON.

Street; one of those pleasant old houses, with the
threshold level with the side-walk. It will be a
good place/' said Mrs. Butler, cheered with the
thought. ''You must let Mr. Butler arrange for
you. He — "

" No/' said Helen promptly ; " I am not going to
trouble Captain Butler any more. I must begin
taking care of myself now, and I can't begin too
soon. I have my own money, and I ought to know
how to use it" Human nature is such a very simple
as well as complex thing, that Helen could feel a
childish pride in being absolute mistress of a certain
sum, and for the moment could forget the loss that
had endowed her with it. ''I am going to be very
saving of it, Mrs. Butler." She smiled, but the
smile took away all hope from Mrs. Butler. She
looked at Helen in despair, and did not know how
to begin what she felt it on her conscience to say at
once.

*^ Oh, Helen ! " she broke out, and then checked
herself.

"What, Mrs. Butler 1" asked the girl, startled by
her accent.

''Oh, nothing ! I mean — has Mr. Butler told you
how much it is 1" Mrs. Butler was ashamed of her
flighty reluctance and indecision, and now took her-
self firmly in hand.

''Yes, it's five thousand dollars — so much more
than I ever — "

"Did you understand," interrupted Mra. Butler,
" that it 's only five thousand in all 1 Not — not five

A woman's reason. 129

thousand a ycnri" Mrs. Butler was prepared for
the worst dismay that Helen could show, but Helen
showed none. On the contrary, she gave a little
laugh.

" Five thousand a year t No indeed I Why, Mrs.
Butler, what have you been thinking oft That
would bo insanity."

Mrs. Butler looked like one to whom the worst
dismay might have been welcomer than this cheer-
fulness : this might be a far more hopeless condition
than the realisation of the fact that the sum of
five thousand dollars was not a fortune ; Helen
might be thinking it was. Mrs. Butler felt obliged
to a.sk: "Do you know how much that will give
you to live on V*

"Not exactly," said Helen, "but not much, I

8Up|>O80."

Perhaps she thouglit a thousand a year. Mrs.
Butler must still go on. "Some of Mr. Butler's
Chicago mortgages bring him nine per cent. That
would be five times ninety — four hundred and
fifty ?"

"Oh, I should never send my money away to
Cjiicago. I want it where I can put my hand on it
at once. I shall deposit it in savings-banks — like
Margaret— at six i»cr cent., and then I shall get
three hundred a year from it"

" But, poor child I you can't live upon that,"
Mrs. Butler besought her.

" No, I must do something. I 'm determined never

to encroach upon the principal, whatever happena

I

130 A woman!s reason.

Don't you think that 's the right way t I Ve always
heard that it 's perfectly ruinous to live upon your
principal."

Mrs. Butler could not combat these just concep-
tions. ''Have you thought what you shall do,
Helen V* she asked.

" Yes, I 've been thinking about it nearly all night.
I couldn't sleep, and I thought I might as well think.
I couldn't decide. But one thing I have made up my
mind I shall not do: I shall not paint holly-wood
boxes." They both laughed, the elder lady pityingly
and reluctantly. '*In the first place, I paint
horridly; but that wouldn't make any difference.
What I couldn't do would be to ask the outrageous
prices which holly-wood boxes bring from sympathis-
ing friends when painted by young ladies in need.
Besides, I think the market must be overstocked.
Only consider, Mrs. Butler, how many holly-wood
boxes must have been painted by this time, and what
stores of them people must have laid by, that they
couldn't give away if Christmas came twice a year
from now till the millennium. And all so much alike,
too : a farm-house very deep in the snow ; the moon
monopolising the sky, and Santa Chms, very fuzzy
all over, and much too large for his sleigh, with his
reindeers and his pipe just of a size ; and fat robins
at each end of the box. No, you needn't be afraid
of holly-wood boxes from me, Mrs. Butler."

'< Oh, Helen, you queer child 1" laughed Mra Butler
helplessly.

''But I will confess that when I thought of doing

A woman's reason. 131

something for myself, holly- wood boxes popped into
my head the first tiling. I suppose there 's really no
getting away from them. And, () yes ! I thought of
something else ; I thought of parlour-readings. What
should you think of parlour-readings, Mrs. Butler f

Mrs. Butler visibly cowered under the proposi-
tion, and Helen gave a wild laugh. '''How they
brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix,'
don't you know ? and Poe's * Bells ; ' and * Curfew
shall not ring to-night' How would that dot
1)on't you believe that if it could be generally given
out, I might bo handsomely bought off by public
subscription 1 But I really needn't do anything at
f »ncc, Mrs. Butler," Helen went on seriously. " I *ve
^ot clothes enough to last me indefinitely, for I shall
expect to make over and vmke over, now; and I
shall take a very cheap little room at the Miss Amys',
and think it all over very carefully, and look about
licfore I attempt anything. I 'm not afraid : I can
do all sorts of things. Don't — don't — sympathise
with mo I" she added, suddenly breaking. "That
kilh me 1 It disheartens me more than anything."

** She understands perfectly well how much she 's
got," Mi-s. Butler reported to her husband. ** She
had worked out just how much income it would be,
and she says she expects to do something to help
herself. But she is so cheerful about it that I don't
lioliove she does. There's something between her
and Itobert Fen ton."

"It would be the best thing that could happen,"
said the Captain, with a sigh of relief. " I hope to

132 A woman's reason.

the Lord it 's so I But he 's off for thi*ee years 1 " he
added, with dismay.

** She doesn't think of that Or perhaps she hopes
he can get leave to come home — or something.
Besides, such a girl as Helen could wait thirty years,"
said Mrs. Butler, viewing the affair in the heroical
abstract. '' Her hope and her trust will support her."

"Monilly, perhaps. But she would have to be
supported otherwise," said the Captain. He refused
to be wholly comforted by his wife's manner. Still,
its probability, in the absence of anything more sub-
stantial, afforded him a measure of consolation. At
any rate it was, to his thinking, the sole hopeful out-
look for Helen. Since the hard times began he had
seen so much futile endeavour by able and experi-
enced men, to get something to do for even a scanty
living, that he had grown sceptical of all endeavour
at self-help. Every year he was called upon to assist
at the disillusion of a score or more of bright young
spirits fresh from the University, with their academic
honours still green upon their brows, and eager for
victory in the battle of lifa He knew the boys' fathers
and mothers, and of what excellent stock they came,
what honest fellows they were, and what good reason
there was to believe them capable of bearing their
part with distinction in any place demanding quality
and talent, and training. But there seemed to be no
such place for them ; the world in which their sires had
prospered did not want them, did not know what to
do with them. Through the strange blight which had
fallen upon a land where there should be work for

A woman's reason. 133

every one, and success for every one willing to work,
there seemed to be nothing but idleness and defeat
for these young men in the city of their ancestry
and birth. They were fit to lead in any common-
wealth,, but the commonillness apparently would not
have thcin ; they were somehow anachronisms in
their own day and generation ; they were too far
before or too far behind their time. The Captain
saw them dispersed in a various exile. Some tried
cattle-rnising in Colorado ; some tried sheep-farming
in Virginia, and some sheep-ranching in California.
There were others who tried cotton-planting in the
South and the orange-culture in Florida ; there were
other? yet, bolder and more imaginative, who tried
the milk- farming in Massachusetts. The Captain
heard of their undertakings, and then ho saw them
with their hats scrupulously on, at the club, which a
few of their comrades had in a supenor wisdom never
abandoned.

They had got back, and they were not to blame.
Perhaps there was some error in the training of these
young gentlemen, which had not quite fitted them
to solve the simple yet exacting problem of making
a living. lUit then, })eoplo who had worked hard
all their lives were not now solving this problem.
Captain Butler thought of these nice fellows, and
how willing and helpless they were, and then he
thought, with compassion too keen for any expression
but grim laughter, of such a girl as Helen, and what
her training was for the task of taking care of herself.
It was probably the same as Marian's, and he knew

134 A woman's reason.

vfhtLt that was. They had in fact gone to the
same schools, and grown through the same circum-
stances into the same society, in which everything
they had been and had done fitted them to remain,
and wliich was very charming and refined, and good
in a good sense, and so very. Very far from doing
anything for anything but culture's, or pleasure's, or
kindness' sake.

At five or six years of age, Helen had begim to
go with the other little girls of her btation in life to
a school, in which the established language was
French, and in which she acquired a graceful and
ladylike use of that tongue. It stood her in good
stead when she went abroad one summer with her
father, and she found that she spoke it as correctly
as most English girls she met, and a great deal more
readily. But she had too much sense to be sure of
her accent or her syntax ; at Paris she found that
her French was good, but with a difference, and she
would not have dreamt of such a thing as teaching it
In fact she had not thought of that at any time, and
she had no such natural gift for languages as would
have enabled her to master it without such a design.

From this school she went to otliers, where she
was taught what people must learn, with thorough-
ness and with an intelligence very difi*erent alike
from the old-fashioned methods of young ladies'
establishments, and from the hard, mechanical
processes of the public schools. She was made to
feel an enlightened interest in her studies; she
liked some of them very much, and she respected

A WOMAN'S REASON. 135

those she di<l not like. Still she had not shown a
luissionate preference for any particular branch of
h^aming; she had a ladylike ease and kindness
withal ; if she really hated anything it was mathe-
matics, but l>o^ause she hated this she had been the
more conscientiously attentive to it She had a good
taste in music, and fair skill. After she left school,
she had a musical enthusiasm, in the height of
which she devotefl herself under her German in-
structor to many hours of practice every day, and
had her own ideas of becoming a great performer.
But these gave way to clearer conceptions of her
powers, and she reniaintMl an impassioned amateur
of musical genius in others. She went devotedly to
all the private musical f.^ ; she was unfailing at the
rehearsals of the Symphony Concerts, and of the
Handel and Ilnydn Society. She made her father
join the Afiollo Club for her, and she made him go
to some of the concerts with her. In those days
her talk was of Bach and Beethoven ; she thought
poorly of Italian music, though she was very fond of
the Italian operas.

It was to this i>rrio4l that her passion for the
German langtiage also l>elonge<i. She had studied
German at school, of course, but it was not till after
leaving school that French was relegated to its true
place as something charming enough, but not serious ;
and German engrossed her. She read Goethe's and
Schiller's plays with her teacher, and Heine's songs
with one of her girl-friends. She laid out a course
of reading in German, which was to include Schopeu-

136 A woman's reason.

hauer's philosophy, already familiar to her through
the talk of a premature Harvard man, who rarely
talked of anything else. But it never really came to
this ; German literature presently took the form of
drama, and after Helen's participation in a certain
number of German plays, it yielded to the pleasing
dance of the same name; though not till it had
superseded Italian as well as French in her affections.
Dante, of course, one must always respect, but after
Dante, there was so little in Italian as compared
with German 1 The soft throat from which the
southern vowels came so mellow roughed itself with
gutturals. But this, like music, was only for a tima
In the end, Helen was always a girl of sense. She
knew that she was not a German scholar, any more
than a great performer, and she would have shmnk
with astonished modesty from Uie notion of putting
such acquirements as she had in either to practical
use. She hid them away, when her frenzy for them
was past, as really so little that one ought to be
ashamed of them.

It was the same with painting — or Art, as she then
called it — in which it has already been represented
that she at one time took a great interest She
really liked it very much ; she had that feeling for
form and colour without which no di'cssmaker can
enable a young ludy to dress exquisitely, and she
enjoyed form and colour in painting. But by and
by, as the cl^ss fanned itself down to the grains
of wheat in its large measure of amiable and well-
meaning chaff, Helen found that her place was with

A woman's reason. 137

the chaff. It did not need the eye of the great
painter, glancing with a humorous gleam from her
work at her, to teach her this ; she had felt it
before, and she gave it up before she had conspicu-
ously disgrace<l herself. 8he was always very glad
to have taken to it ; the attempt-to paint for herself
hail cleared and defined her taste in painting, and
indefinitely enlarged the bounds of her knowledge
and enjoyment But it had not done anything more,
and all that Helen had learnt and done had merely
had the effect that was meant : to leave her a
cultivated and agreeable girl, with bright ideas on
all sorts of pleasant subjects. She was, as the sum
of it, merely and entirely a lady, the most charming
thing in the world, and as regards anything but
a lady's destiny the most helpless.

It was the fact that Helen's life now seemed
wrenched and twisteil so far from its rightful
destiny, which Ijowed Captain Butler over it in such
desfiair, and which well might strike pity into the
hardiest Y)eholder. Her old friend saw no hope for
her but in the chance of there being something, as
his wife suggested, between her and Robert Fenton.
Yet it was against this hope that Helen herself had
most strenuously sterlcd her heart. She had not
the least doubt of Robert. He was a gentleman,
and ho would take what she had written in the
right way. She rested in such absolute faith in his
generosity, that she shrank from the possibility of
abusing it as from something like sacrilege. If
Robert were that moment to come and ask her to

138 A WOMAN'S REASON.

marry him, she would not take him till she hatl
fairly won him again; and if, when ho had got hor
letter, and thought it all over, he decided that she
was too light and flippant a girl to trust with his
happiness, she should know just how to take it
She should not blame him; she should not think
him less kind and true ; he should be none the less
her hero. In fact, it seemed as if his willingness to
forget her folly would somehow mar the jierfection
of her self-sacrifice. So, while she clung the most
fondly to the thought of him, it was with the
austerest readiness to give him up, and even a sort
of impatience. Women seldom reason, it is said;
when they do so, it must be owned that it is with
passionate largeness. The sum of Helen's emotional
logic was that she must plan her future with as
much severity and seriousness, as much will to venture
and to endure, as if there were no Robert Fenton,
or ever had been, in the world. Her sole difficulty
was to imagine her future, and to begin to imagine
it, she must first escape from the affectionate restraint
of these kind friends of hers. She had no purpose
more definite than that.

When she went from Mrs. Butler to her own
room, the chaml)er did not seem spacious enough
for the tumult in her mind, and now that she had
resolved to go up to Boston that afternoon, and was,
as it were, already in motion, the inertness of the
place was intolerabla She put on a wrap and a hat^
and stole out to her accustomed place on the rocks.
It was a very still morning late in September, after

A woman's reason. 139

the first anttimn gales had blown themselves away,
and a glistening calm, with a deep heart of meUow
warmth, had followed. Tlie sea sparkled and shone
with a thousand radiances in its nearer levels, and
in its distance was a blue that melted into a hardly
more ethereal heaven, a few white sails that might
have been wings showing palely at its confluence
with the sky. It washed languidly up the little
beach of the cove, and with a slow, shouldering
action, softly heaved against the foot of the rocks
where the sear weed flung up by the storm hung
drying its masses in the sun, and trailing its ribbons
in the tide. The air seemed to sparkle and bum
like the sea, and was full of the same pungent,
saline odours.

Helen came round a knot of twisted cedars that
hid her haunt from the house, and, climbing to tlie
|)erch where she was used to sit, found herself con-
fronted by a gentleman apparently in as great
trouble as herself at their encounter. She could not
mistake those sloping shoulders, that long neck, and
that ineffective chin : it was Liord Rainford, not now
in the blue yachting-stuff' in wliich she had last seen
him, but in a morning costume which seemed to
make even less of him in point of personal attrac-
tiveness. Helen held the only pass by which he
could have escaped, and, much as she would have
liked to let him go, it was impossible for her to
yield without speaking.

"Ah — good-morning. I*m intruding here, I'm
afraid, Miss — Harkness," he began.

140 A woman's reason.

" no/' she said, and paused, not knowing just
what else to say.

**The fact is," the Englishman continued, <* that I
had been calling with Mr. Ray, and he went back a
moment, and I stepped down here on the rocks,
and — " Helen perceived that he had taken in the
fact of her crapes, visiting them with a glance of
wistful pity, as if he would like to say something fit
and due about her bereavement But he only asked,
after his abrupt pause, " Have you been always well
since I saw youl"

She remembered Ray's praises of Lord Riiinford,
and would have liked to put herself right with him.
She hated to have him thinking her flippant and
unfeeling, though she might have proved that it
was his fault she had been so. But she could think
of nothing more than "Thank you" to say; and
then she asked, ** Have you been well 1"

"Oh, very I" answered Lord Rainford; "my
American summer has quite set me up."

This seemed to imply that he had not been very
well when he came, but Helen did not ask. She
was thinking that when he should have a heavier
moustache and a beard to that feeble chin, his face
and neck might be helped off a little, but nothing
could ever do anything for Uiose shoulders. She
settled this in her mind before she said, rather
absently, "I am glad of that You will be going
home soon, I suppose," she added, from mere dearth,
though it occurred to her that this might be set
down as an instance of the Yankee inquisitiveness
that Englishmen are always in quest of.

A woman's reason. 141

" Yes ; I 'm going to sail to-morrow," said Lord
Rainford. "Your friends have promised to come
and see me in England.**

"They told me," assented Helen.

" I *m sure they owe me a revenge in that way,"
continued the young man. "Mr. Ray has done
me no end of kindness. In fact everybody 's been
most uncommonly kind. I couldn't say enough of
it!"

" I 'm glad you have enjoyed your stay here," said
Helen. " We Americans are rather weak about our
country. We like people to like it, and take it as a
personal favour when they do. I suppose none of
us/' she added, "does anything to set even the least
imftortant person in it before a stranger in a false
light, without feeling sorry." She examined Lord
Rainford's face for an instant before she dropped her
eyes, and Raw it kindle with a delicate intelligence.

" I wish," he answered, " that I could be sure I
leave everybody in America as well pleased with me
as I am with all America."

"Good-bye," said Helen; "we shall be making
international allusions to the language of Shake
spearc and Milton in another minute."

"No," said Lord Rainford; "it seems to me you
don't care to do that any more. Very curious," he
added ; " I can't get the people I meet to say a good
word for their country. They all seem ashamed of
it, and abuse it, no end."

"That's because they want you to praise it|"
suggested Helen.

142 A WOMAN'S RKA80N.

'' Ah, but they won't let you praise it ! They '11
let you join them in crying it down."

** But you had better not"

^Al), yes; very likely. I can't think that a
country where I've mot so many nice i>eople, and
seen scarcely anything but order and comfort even
in these very bad times, can be going to die dogs;
but I can't get anybody here to agree with me — that
is, in society. I don't understand it"

** I can't explain/' said Helen, with a little smile,
** except by * the settled opposition to our Institutions
which pervades the British mind.'"

*' Ah, Chuzzlewit ; I know. But you 'II excuse my
saying that I think your institutions have changed
for the worse in this respect since Mr. Pogram's time.
I think Pogramism is better than this other thing."

**What other thing)" asked Helen, not a great
deal interested^

*' Why, tliis not talking of America at all. I find
your |)eople — your best people, I suppose they are —
very nice, very intelligent, very pleasant — only talk
about Europe. They talk about Loudon, and about
Paris, and about Rome ; there seems to be quite a
passion for Italy; but they don't seem interested in
their own country. I can't make it out It isn't as
if they were cosmopolitan ; tliat isn't quite the im-
pression, though — excuse my saying so — they try to
give it They always seem to have been reading the
Fortnightly and the Saturday Meview, and the Spectator,
and the Bevue dee Deux Mondes^ and the last French
and English books. It 's very odd I Upon my word,

A woman's reason. 143

at one dinner the Americans got to talking to one
another about some question of local finance in
pounds, shillings, and pence. I don't understand it"

Lord Ilainford seemed to find nothing ridiculousi
but only something mysterious in this, and reddened
a little when Helen laughed.

"Perhaps you're embittered because experience
has destroyed your ideal. You expected us all to call
you a Britisher, and to flaunt Bunker Hill Monument
in your face."

"Ah, now, do you think that's quite fair, Miss
Harknessi"

Helen stooped a little sidewise and felt about her
skirts with her left hand for the loop of her train, in
that peculiar clawing and grappling manner which
once had its faJtcination for the idle spectator. " We
American women are accused of not caring any-
thing about our institutions," she said. She secured
the loop now, and, erecting herself, gave Lord Kain-
ford her right hand for good-bye.

A deeper red dyed the young man's face, as he
took her hand and detained it a moment "Are
you going," ho asked, and hesitated before he added,
with an abrupt change of tone : " I can't let you go.
Miss Harkness, without saying — without saying —
without trying to say how very sorry I have felt at
— at — your bereavement It came so soon after I
first saw you that— that I — thought you — thought
myself not altogether wrong to tell you. But, I
suppose, I shouldn't have spoken. I beg your
pardon I"

144 A WOICAN'S RSA80N.

"You are very, very kind, Lord Bainford,"
answered Helen steadily, "and I thank you for
speaking of it I know people usually avoid speak-
ing to others in — mourning — about it to spare them ;
but it's better to recognise it; I like it better than
trying to ignore it/'

" I 've always felt," pursued Lord Rainford, " that
I was painfully associated in your mind— I mean — I
don't know — I hope you won't always think of me
as a particularly disagreeable part of that day's ex-
perience." Lord Rainford still spoke with an awk-
ward halt and hesitation, but the genuine feeling
with which he seemed eager to leave Helen a better
impression dignified his manner. "If you won't
think it egotistical," he hastened to add, " I '11 say
that I believe I 'm rather a serious man ; at least .1 'm
a heavy one ; and when I attempt anytliing else, I —
I know I 'm disgusting — more disgusting tlian ordi-
narily. I was shocked — I can't tell you how much I
was shocked — to think I had followed you up almost
to the moment of that — intelligence, with imbecilities
that must have been a — in distressing contrast I
don't know whether I make myself clear — whether
I ought to speak — "

"0 yes!" cried Helen, touched at his assump-
tion of all the blame. " I 'm so glad you have spoken
of that, if only for the selfish reason that it gives me
a chance to say how ashamed I am of my own part
in it. I never thought of yours" — this was not
quite true, but we cannot be very generous and quite
true at the same time — " but it was Uie thought of

A woman's reason. 145

my own frivolity that sometimes helped to make
what followed so hard to bear. I was very rude."

"0 no, no!" answered the young maa "You
said nothing but what I richly deserved. If you 'd
only said more, I should have liked it much better
— afterwards. But what I want you to think is,
that I shouldn't have done so badly, perhaps, if I 'd
been acting quite naturally, or in my own character.
That is—"

" I 'm afmid," said Helen, ** that I can't ask you to
think that I was acting out of my character — or all
of my characters : I seem to have so many — "

" Yes," interrupted Lord Raiuf ord, " that 's what I
meant"

" It seems to me that it was only too much like
one of mine — the one I 'm most ashamed of. You
will have a pleasant time to cross. Lord Rainford,"
she added, and took away her hand.

" Well, I don't know," said the other, accepting
the close of this passage of their interview, and
answering from the conscientiousness in talk which
serves the English so well instead of conventional
politeness, and is not so pleasant, " there are apt to
be gales at this season, you know."

"0 yes, yes!" returned Helen, a little vexed at
herself. "Gales, yes. But I was thinking of the
equinoctial storm being past They say it 's past now."

" I'm a gowl sailor," said Lord Rainford. " I
tliink I shall take a run over again, next year."

"You've not got enough of America in three
months I"

K

146 A WOMAN'S REASON.

''No. I hope it hasn't got too much of me."
He looked at Helen as if he expected her to say
something civil on the part of her hemisphere. But
she refused to be the national voice, except very
evasively.

'' Oh, i¥e ought to be flattered that people care to
come back."

" You know/' said Lord Bainford, " that I 've seen
almost nothing of the country yet. I 've not even
been in Washington, and I want to see Chicago and
San Fi-ancisca" Helen did not say tliat slie could
not understand why, and Lord Rainford went
on. *'I'd only a few weeks in Canada, you
know, before I came down to Orchai'd Beach — ^I
think they call it — with some Montreal people, and
then I came to Boston, and I 've been about Boston
and Newport ever since. People have been extra-
ordinarily kind. I couldn't really get away, and as
I 'm going away rather prematurely now, I must come
back."

From this outline of his experience, Helen knew
quite accurately all its details. She could have
told just wliat had happened to him at Newport^
going thither with Boston introductions, what la^vn-
parties, lunches, and dinners had been made for
him, and in whose carriage he had first driven to the
polo grounda Ho had been perhai»s once at the
Town and Country Club ; and he had been a good
deal at the bathing-beaches, although early assured
that nobody bathed there any more, and the Man-
hattan Yacht Club had sailed him over all the neigh-

A WOMAN'S REASON. 147

bonring waters. Ho had seen the decay of the
custom of Fort Day, and had been told what
nnmbcrs of people used to go to the mnsic in Fort
Adams l)cforo polo began. When he retained to
Boston, it was too soon for society to have come
back in full force, but enough of it had got back to
show him with what intensity of hospitality the
sojourning Engtisliroan, distinguished by rank, or
otherwise, or simply well accredited, is used among
us. Helen knew, witlidut asking, the houses and
their succession, in which Lord Rainford had been
entertained, and she could have guessed pretty weU
at what s<!mi civic feasts ho had assistcil. Tlio
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday,
and Saturday Evening Clubs had all shared in
him, and he had listened to part of a lecture at the
Woman's ChiK He had been taught much more
about the charitable, penal, and educational estab-
lishments of ]U)stfm, than any one Bostonian could
endure to know, and he had kept his original im-
pression that Boston reifiinded you of an English
town. H he wns at all astonished, as a young man,
at the attentions heaped ni>on him, he nnist, as a
J/ord, have l)ecn too much used to consideration in
his own country, to be surprised at it in ours.
Men vastly his superiors in everything but birth
liked to speak casually of him as that very nice
young Englishman, who had dined with them, and
to let the fact of his rank rather patronisingly escape
them in talk. People whose secret pride and dearest
prejudices he had unwittingly trodden into pulp in

148 A woman's reason.

his plump expressions of crude opinion, professed
rather to like his frankness. They said that there
was something in his bearing — a simplicity, a direct-
ness, an unconsciousness — which showed the advan-
tage of a standard of manners. The fact that you
might often think him, at first glance, the most
plebeian-looking person in company, showed his ex-
traordinary qualities of race ; the persistence, through
so many hundred years, of the ancestral traits,
which, in the attrition of a democratic society
like our own must have boon obliteratcil long
ago, was held to be a peculiar triumph of aristo-
cratic civilisation. One accomplished gentleman
had proved himself much better versed in the
Bainford pedigree than Lord Rainford himself.
''Talked to me about my great-grandmother," said
the nobleman afterwards to Ray, " and my maiden
step-aunts."

** Good-bye," said Helen once more, and nodding,
she turned away, and went down the rocks.

Lord Rainford bowed, 'and said good-bye, too,
following her with his eyes, but not otherwise pur-
suing her.

" You 're back soon," he said to Mr. Ray, when
the latter presently joined him.

At Salem that afternoon he came into the car
where Helen sat The place beside her was the
only vacant one, and he stood leaning against the
seat while he explained that he had been left by bis
train at that station in the morning. He looked as
if he would like to be asked to take the vacant seat,

A woman's rsason. 149

Helen thought ; but she was perturbed and preoccu-
pied, she could not endure the thought of talking all
the way to Boston, and she made no sign of invita-
tion. She was sorry, but she could not help it He
hesitated an instant, and bidding her good-bye once
more, said he was going forward into the smoking-
car, and she did not see him again.

She went first to the post-office, where she had never
lH5on before, and whicli was so va.st, and looked so hur-
ried and careless with those throngs of people sweep-
ing through its corridors, that she began to question
whether it could be safely intrusted with a letter
for Robert. Through one of the windows opening
in the long facade of glass above the stretch of brass
drawers, which people were unlocking and locking
up, all about, she saw a weary-looking clerk toss a
little package into the air for relaxation, and then
throw it into a distant comer, and she thought with
a shudder, what if that had been her letter, and it
had slipped under something and been lost I Be-
sides, now that she had come to the post-office, she
did not know in which of the many letter-holes to
trust, and she studied the neighbouring inscriptions
without being able to make up her mind. At last
she asked an old gentleman, who was unlocking his
box, and he showed her ; she feigned to drop her
letter according to his instructions, but waited till he
went away, and then asked the clerk at the nearest
window. He confirmed the statement of the old
gentleman, and Helen had almost allowed her letter
to go when she bethought herself to say to the

» .

150 A WOMAN'S REASON.

clerk that it was to the care of the Navy Depart-
ment He smiled — sarcastically, Helen fancied —
and said it was quite the same thing. Then she
dedicated a final blush to the act, and posted her
letter, and found herself quite at a distance from the
post-office, walking giddily along, with a fluttering
heart full of delicious shame. She was horrified to
think she had done it, and so glad it was done.

VIII.

The walk from the post-office *to West Pome-
granate Street is not very short, but Helen was at
the Miss Amys* door before she knew. The elder
Miss Amy came herself to answer the bell. She
recognised Helen presently through her veil, and
welcomed her with a decayed-gentlewoman-polite-
ncss, explaining that she and her sister kept no
servant when their lodgers were out of town. Helen
had begun to say, after the preliminary parley about
hcntth and the weather, that she had come to see if
she could take board with them, when the younger
Miss Amy came in. She shook her head in response
to the elder Miss Amy's reference of the matter to
her, and said she was sorry, but it was a mistake :
they only let their rooms furnished now, and people
must find tablo-boanl at some of the neighbouring
houses. At Helen's look of disappointment, she
said she knew it was very disagreeable going out to
meals ; but their lodgers were nearly always gentle-
men, and they did not mind it

" Is the lady who wishes the rooms a young

person 1" asked Miss Amy.

Helen saw that they thought she was looking up a

ui

152 A woman's reason.

place for some one else, and that they were far from
imjigining lier errand to be on her own behalf. They
saw in her an amiable young lady, interesting lier-
self for some one who was out of town perhaps, and
wished to come in for the winter. It cost Helen more
to set them right than she could have believed ; the
first steps downward in the world are not so painful
from the surprise of your equals as from that of
people on the level to which you descend.

''It's for myself that I want the rooms," said
Helen, and both the Miss Amys said " Oh ! " and
then were silent, till Helen asked if they could
recommend her to some good place where she could
find both board and lodging under the same roof.
The Miss Amys thought a while. All the neighbour-
ing places were ^ery large boarding-houses, and the
company very promiscuous. ' * I don't tliink you would
like it. Miss Harkness," said the younger Miss Amy.

" I 'm afraid it isn't a question of what I shall like,
any more," said Helen bravely. "It's necessary
that I should economise, and if I can get a room
there cheaply, I must not be fastidious."

*'0h 1" said the younger Miss Amy a little more
expressively than before.

'* Still," continued the young girl, " I should like it
better if I could find some place where there were
not many other boarders."

The elder Miss Amy looked at the younger with
a blankness for which the glare of her spectacles
was mainly responsible, and asked, " How would
Mrs. Hewitt's do f "

A woman's reason. 153

"Mrs. Hewitt's might do,** assented the younger
sister. " Her rooms are good, and the Smiley s liked
hnr table. But Miss Harkness would find it very
different from what she's been used to." She
seemed to add this caution with a certain indefin-
able insinuation, that the change might be a useful
lesson.

" Oh, no doubt," said Helen, *< but I shall not
mind, if — "

" It's quite a proper place in every way," continued
the younger Miss Amy, "and the neighbourhood
unexceptionable. If you can get the use of the
parlour to see your friends in, it would be desir-
able."

"You won't keep all your acquaintance," she
added, " but some will remain true. fFe retained
all that wo wished."

*' Yes," said Helen drily, not choosing that Miss
Amy should assume their equality in that fashion.
Tlie Miss Amys had, in fact, declined to their
present station from no great social eminence,
but the former position had been growing in dis-
tinction ever since they lost it, and they had so
long been si>okon of as " such gentlewomen," that
they had come to look back upon it as something
quite commanding ; and there was a note of warning
for Helen in the younger Miss Amy's remark, as if
all persons must not expect to be so fortunate as
they. " I should like," said the young girl with
some stateliness, "very much to see Mrs. Hewitt.
Will you give me her address 1"

154 A woman's reason.

" I will write it on one of our cards/* said Miss
Amy, who found with difficulty, in a portable writ-
ing-desk on the table, a card inscribed with 7*he
Misses Amy in the neat pencilling of a profes8ion«*il
card-writer. The reception-room of Uicse ladies \\m
respectable in threadbare brussels, and green re\is ;
a fire of English cannel coal, in the grate, seemed to
have been a long time laid, and Uie lumps of coal
would have been the better for dusting. The house
was clean, but it had the dusty smell, which small
city houses have at the end of summer before their
furnace fires are lit, and Helen had found the Miss
Amys not such nice Miss Amys as she had tliought
them in former days, when she had come to their
house to call upon some friends tliere. When the
card was inscribed with Mrs. Hewitt's address, she
rose to receive it

She felt strangely depressed, and the tears came
into her eyes as she pulled down her veil and
hurried away. She had packed a bag before
leaving Beverley, with the purpose of not going
back that night, for she had not thought but that
slie should go at once to the Miss Amys, and had
resisted all entreaties that she would return and tell
the Butlers about it She would not have gone to
the Miss Amys now on any account, and yet she felt
somehow hurt at not finding their house open to her
in the way she had imagined. She had a cowardly
satisfaction in thinking that she could easily get the
six o'clock train to Beverley after she had seen Mrs.
Hewitt

A woman's reason. 155

Like the cider Miss Amy, that lady answered her
door in person when Helen rang, and taking the card,
with the explanation that Helen gave her, led the
way to her reception room. It took shape from the
swell-front ; and the rocking-chair, into which Mrs,
Hewitt sank, stood between the two windows, by
which she could easily command the life without, up
street and down. What had been the fireplace was
occupied by a register; over the mantel hung the
faded photograph of an officer in uniform ; in the
comer was a whatnot, with shells and daguerreotypes
in cases, and baskets of sewing on its successive
shelves; against the wall, opposite the windows,
stood a sewing-machine ; the carpet was a tapestry
of moss pattern in green colour ; the window shades
had a b<ind of gilt around their edges, relieved in
green, and the ro[m of the sofa and chairs were green.
iSimple and few as these appointments were, they
had an unreconciled look, as if they had not been
bought to match, but were fortuitous combinations
on which some one else had lost money.

Mrs. Hewitt asked her to sit down, but Helen
remained standing, and said that she was a little
pressed for time, and must ask at once if she could
have a room with board.

" I don't know as I 've got anything 'twould suit

you, but we can look,'' said Mrs. Hewitt, apparently

disappointed in not being first allowed to talk it all

' over. *' Did you want something on suil, or singly V

she asked.

" I don't know what you mean," said Helen.

156 A woman's reason.

" Do you want more than one room t"

" no 1 I only want one." •

The landlady preceded Helen up the stripe of
linen that covered half the narrow carpeting on the
cramped staircase. "Parlour/' she announced on
arriving at the first landing, as she tlirew open the
door of a large room furnished in much-worn brown
plush. '* Goes with the rooms on this floor ; I always
let 'em on suit Now, if you wanted anything on

«*!<—"

'* I only want one room, and I don't care for a
private parlour/' said Helen.

The landlady glanced up the next flight of stairs.
" That whole floor is let to one family — ^lady and
gentleman and little boy — and tlien there 's only a
room on the top floor besides/' said Mrs. Hewitt

*' I '11 look at it) please/' said Helen, and followed
the landlady up. The room had a pretty bed and
bureau ; it was very neat, and it was rather spacious.
'* Is there any one else on this floor!" asked Helen,
feeling sure that the cook and second-girl must be
her neighbours.

The landlady pushed open the door across the
little passage-way. " There's an art-student in this
room/' she said.

'* Art-student 1 " gasped Helen.

" Young lady from Nashua," said the landlady.

"Oh 1" cried Helen, remembering with relief that
art-students in our time and country are quite as apt
to be of one sex as another, and thinking with a smile
that she had been surprised not to smell tobacco as

A WOMAN'S REASON. 157

soon AS Mrs. Hewitt had said " art-student" She re-
flected that she had once been an art-student herself,
and wondered what the sketches of the young lady
from Nashua were like. " What would be the price
of this room 1 "

The landlady leaned against the side of the bed.
" Seven dollars,** she said in an experimental tone.
*' I used to get my ten and twelve dollars for it, right
after the war."

"I will take it," said Helen, who found it much
less than she feared. '* And I should like to come
at once."

" To-night ?" asked the landlady, looking at Helen;

" Yes, if the room 's ready."

"Oh, the room's ready. But— did you bring a
trunk 1"

" I forgot ! It *s at the station. I can send for it"

" yes, the express is right round the comer
from here. You just give 'em your check. But you
better not lose any time. They 're late sometimes,

■

any way."

"Very well," said Helen, childishly pleased at
having transacted the business so successfully. " I
will take the room from to-day, and I will pay you
for the first week now."

" Just as you please," said Mrs. Hewitt

Helen drew out her porte-monnaie, and said, "The
Miss Amys can tell you about me."

"Oh, that's all right," answered Mrs. Hewitt,
IK)litc1y. She had perhaps been perplexed to know
how she should hint anything about references to

158 A woman's rrason.

this young jady who took an attic room with such a
high and mighty air. "Their card was sufficient"

When Helen came back from her errand to the
express office, and went to her room, she laid aside
her things and made herself at home in it She did
not know in the least what her life wus to be there ;
but she felt that tliis, whatever it was not^ was
escape and independence, and beginning. A rapid
calculation had shown her that her payment of
seven dollars a week would not encroach much upon
her capital, and somehow she would earn enough
money to meet her other expensea She could not
sit still ; she rose and opened her closet and found it
deep and convenient; she pulled out the bureau
drawers, and they were very sweet and clean. She
discovered a little cupboard with shelves where she
thought she would put her books. The room was
very complete ; there was even a hook in the ceiling
by the window where some one must have hung a
bird-cage. Helen was happy, without accusing her-
self, for the first time since her father died. She
smiled to herself at her landlady's queerncss, and was
glad, as young people are, to be housed along with a
character. She wondered how the art-student looked,
and who the family could be. At the sound of the
tea bell she felt the emotion of a healthful hunger.

There was a dish of cream toast, very hot and
fragrant ; hotter, and more fragrant still, there was a
dish of oysters, delicately stewed and flavoured ; in
a plated basket in the centre of the table was a
generous stack of freshly sliced lady-cake. " From

A woman's reason. 159

Copeland's," Mrs. Hewitt explained, when she passed
it. " Mr. and Mrs. Eyans are out to tea, and I
thouglit we wouldn't wait for Miss Root She *s late
sometimes. Did you like yout oysters 1 "

" Delicious ! " said Helen.

•* Yes, I think there 's nothing like a drop — ^not
wore than a drop — of sherry in your stew, just when
it comes to thp stow. I don't believe in any thick-
enin' myself; but if you mvst have it, let it be
cracker crumbs : flour makes it so kind of slippy."
Mrs. Hewitt went on to enlarge upon many different
kinds of dishes, and then from whatever obscure
association of ideas, she said : " When you first
came in today, before I fairly looked at the Miss
Amys* card, I thought you *d been buryin' a husband.
I don't see how I could took you if you had. Widows
arc more trouble in a house ! Boston family t "

" jrhat r crincl Helen.

" Your folks Boston people 1"

"0 yes," replied the girl, and she submitted
with what grace she could to the inquisition into her
past that followed. "I've never lived anywhere
cIrc;" and notlnng seemed stranger than this when
she came to think it over in her room. Here in the
heart of Boston, she was as remote from the Boston
slio had always known as if it were a thousand miles
away ; from herself of the time when she lived in
that far-off Boston she seemed divided by centuries.
Into what a strange and undreamt-of world she had
fallen ! She did not dislike it ' On the contrary,
she thought she should be rather content in it

160 A WOMAN'S REASON.

Without definite aims as yet for the future, she
fancied that she should try to be wliolly of her pre-
sent world, and ignore that in which slie used to live.
Already she felt alien to it so far as to wish that the
Butlers would not send people to call on her, nor
come much themselves. She knew that she could
adapt herself to her circumstances, but she dreaded
the pain of their inability to realise her in them, and
felt that their unhappiness about her would be more
than she could bear. She planned a geographical
limit within which she could live a long time and
not meet any one whom she had known, and she
resolved next day to begin her exploration of her
solitude. The dark gathered into the room, and the
window showed a black frame against the sky before
she thought of lighting her gas. She was shaking
her match out, as women do, when a light tap at her
door standing ajar startled her, and then the door
was pushed open, and the figure of a tall girl stood
on the threshold. *^ Miss Root : Miss Harkness, I
believe," said the figure. " Will you lend me a match,
please 1 I waited for you to light your gas so as
to be sure you had matches before I bothered you.
It 's such a long journey down-stairs."

Helen smiled in her most radiant way, and got
the matches, saying as she held them forward,
'^ Won't you come in, please 1"

" No, I thank you," said Miss Root, taking one
match only. '*! begin badly. But you won't find
me a great borrower. Have you got everything you
want in your room t"

A WOMAN'S REASON. IGl

" Yc8, everything, I believe," said Helen, sweep-
ing it with a compreliensive glance.

"You'll find Mrs. Hewitt pretty prompt. Yon
won't have anything to complain of, unless you mind
boing talked to death. Good-night," and drawing
the door to after her, Miss Root returned to her own
ix)oni.

Before she slept, Helen heard the street door open
and shut, and then voices ascending to the third
floor : a lady's voice, and a gentleman's voice, and a
sleepy little boy's voice.

" Well, this is the last time we shall take Tom to
the theatre," said the lady's voice — the voice of
spent nerves.

"Yes," said the gentleman's voice. "We shall
confine ourselves to the circus after this, Tom."

" Circuses are the best, any way," said the child's
voice.

" Ihish ! Don't speak so !" cried the lady.

"Why, they are, mamma," insisted the boy.

"This is a question of morals, not of opinions,
Tom," said the father. " You 're not to prefer
circuses when they 're inflicted as a punishment."

They had now reached their door, as it appeared,
for a light flashed into the hall below as from gas
turned up.

The lady's voice was heard again : " His forehead 's
burning hot 1 If that child should have a fever —
Here, feel his forehead !"

"Forehead's all right 1" responded the heavier
voice.

L

162 A WOMAN'S REASON.

" I shall give him three of aconite I" cried the
lady.

" Give him three thousand, but put him to bed/*
assented the gentleman.

*^fFUl you shut the door t" implored the lady.
'* Waking the whole house 1"

" I haven't refused, my dear/' said the gentleman;
" Why do you always — "

The door closed, expressively, and not, as Helen
fancied, by the gentleman's hand. '* The Evanses,"
she inferred. She fell asleep wondering if she could
indeed be the same girl who had talked that morning
to Lord Rainford on the rocks at Beverlev.

IX.

Helen saw the Evanses in going to breakfast
They came down-stairs jnst after her, Mr. Evans
leading his boy by his extended forefinger, and Mrs.
Evans coming behind, and twitching something
about the child's dress into place, as mothers do.

" Mrs. Hewitt," said Mr. Evans, as they sat down
at table, " I have been some time in your house, but
you must have older friends than I, and I don't
understand why the law has honoiu^d me as it
hw»."

" I 'm sure / don't know what you 're talkin'
about," said Mrs. Hewitt, pouring the coffee.

** Well, I don't, myself," returned Mr. Evans, "and
I thought I would get you to explain. You don't
find yourself unusually infirm of mind, do you t "

" No, 1 don't," replied Mrs. Hewitt candidly.

"And you haven't experienced anything like a
return of extreme youth t"

"What M the man after t" cried Mrs. Hewitt

" Then why should you be taken care of in any
special manner, and why should I, of all people, be
called upon to take care of you 1 Here's a paper,"
Mr. Evans continued, taking a document from his

164 A woman's reason.

pocket) ''that I found slipped under my door this
morning. It makes a personal appeal to me, in the
name of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, to
to become your trustee. Of course, it 's very flatter-
ing and all that, but I'd much rather not You
must allow mo to resign, Mrs. Hewitt. I never
did understand business very well, and — "

'' How 'd they ever get into this house without my
knowing iti That's what / should like to find
out !" said Mrs. Hewitt, gazing absently at the paper
which Mr. Evans had given her.

'* What does it mean t" he asked.

''Pshaw!" cried his landlady. "You don't say
you never was trusteed before 1 And boarded round
as much as you have !"

" Trusteed 1 Is it so common a thing as to have
a participial form t Then I needn't have any scruples
about resigning 1"

Mrs. Hewitt broke into a laugh. " Resigning I
Bless you, you can't resign. There 's no such thing."

" Gracious powers 1 Not resign an office for which
I don't feel myself competent — "

" Oh, come, now ! you know very well what it is.
It's them curtains," said Mrs. Hewitt, pointing to the
green-and-gold-trimmed shades.

Mr. Evans rose and curiously examined the
shades ; his boy also slipped down out of Ids chair,
and joined in the ius|)cction.

" Thomas, who gave you leave to quit the table t
Come back 1" cried Mrs. Evans.

" My dear 1" expostulated her husband, " the child

A woman's reason. 165

very naturally wishes to see what sort of window-
sliade it is that thrusts an irresignable office of
honour and profit upon his father. Look carefully,
Tom. Kcgard the peculiarity of the texture; the
uncommon tone of the colours."

"Oh, jishawy Mr. Evans ! You stop !" exclaimed
Mra Ilowitt "When they sent in their bill, I
told 'cm 'twas too much, and I shouldn't pay it
I didn^t believe they 'd really go so far as to trustee
me.

"But what does it mean, Mrs. Hewitt 1" asked
Mrs. Evans. " I don't believe Mr. Evans knows any
more than the rest of us "

" Why, Mrs Evans, it means just this : that your
husband isn't to pay me any board till this bill is
settled, and if he does, he 's liable for it himself.
I presume they '11 be trustcein' all of you. I shall
have to pay it now."

" Is that the law 1" demanded Mrs. Evans. " It
makes one long for a delinquent debtor of one's own.
So 8im])lo, yet so efTective."

"Well, you have it to say," said Mrs. Hewitt,
surprisingly little ruffled by the incident, " that you
never was trusteed in my house before."

"1 certainly have that to say," admitted Mr.
Evans. " I 'm sorry on your account that I can't resign
my trusteeship, and I'm sorry on my own that it's
such a very sordid affair. I never happened to be
a]i|K>intod to office l>eforo, and I was feeling rather
proud of the confidence reposed in me."

They all rose from the table together, and Helen

166 A woman's reason.

went up-fitairs with the Evanses. She and Mrs. Evans
exchanged a few words on Uie way, and stopped on
the first lauding to glance into the large fmrlour. Mr.
Evans came after, bestriding his boy, who now had
hold of both his forefingers — like a walking Colossus
of Rhodes. He flung open the parlour door, which
stood ajar, in Mrs. Hewitt's manner. " Goes with
the rooms on tliis floor ; I always let 'em on suit ;
now, if you wanted anything on suit — " He looked
Helen for sympathy, and she laughed.

" Yes, I know," she said.

*' Mrs. Hewitt won't like your joking her so much,"
said his wife.

'* She won't know it, if I do it behind her back.
And she seems to enjoy it to her face."

" Do you think she liked your coming out about
that trusteeing?"

'' She didn't mind it. But I have it on my con-
science to tell Miss Harkness that Mrs. Hewitt is,
for all I know, a very just person — and that I 'm
surprised she let those shade-people get the advan-
tage of her. She has a passion, like all landladies,
for single gentlemen. She idealises them, I am
afraid. There haven't been any single gentlemen
in the house since we came here, two years ago.
We sometimes fancy that her preference is founded
upon her experience of Mr. Hewitt as a married
gentleman, which was probably unpleasant"

"Is — is she a widow 1" Helen ventured to Mrs.
Evans.

'* Why, not exactly," said Mrs. Evans.

A woman's reason. 167

"It's a very neat way of putting it," said Mr.
Evans. "She's a widow, Miss Harkness, of the
herbaceous variety."

" My dear, she 41 hear you," cried Mrs. Evans.

" Very well, tlicn, she won't understand me. 1 11
venture to say Miss Harkness doesn't"

"No, I don't," said Helen, and looked at Mrs.
Evans for light

" Her husband is living, I believe," explained Mrs.
Evans, " but— absent"

Mr. Evans laughed again. ''Not lost, but gone
before. Come, Tom ! We must go to work !" He
led the way up to the next floor, and at her door
Mrs. Evans asked Helen if she would not come in.

Helen had a curiosity, which she thought harmless,
to see their apartment-, and she accepted the invita-
tion in the drifting, indecisive manner which ladies
have when they do not mean to commit themselves
to tiie consequences of a self-indulgence. She did
not feel quite sure of these people ; she had a strong
impression that she was their social superior, but
thrown with thorn as she was, she had too much
good sense to hold stiflly aloof from them. She sat
down without, as it were, acknowledging that she
sat down ; and she followed Mrs. Evans about
from room to room without seeming to do so,
as well as she could manage that difficult eflect. It
was a very pretty little apartment of four tiny rooms,
of which the last was Mr. Evans's study : this was
just large enough to admit his desk and chairs, and
was packed with books on shelves to the ceiling, and

168 A woman's reason.

Helen inferred that be was some sort of literary man.
She would not sit down again, but paid a frosty little
net-work of compliments to the souvenirs of travel that
she saw upon the tables and walls ; she pmised the
balcony on which one of the windows Ofx^ned, and
she smiled upon the flowers with which Mrs. Evans
had filled it. In fine she guarded her distance with
the skill that had kept the acquaintance at a stand-
still, and yet left it resumable on more cordial terms
at will. One is of one's world after all ; and even
in resigning her world, as she thought she had done,
Helen had not yet made up her mind to be of a
lower one.

She had promised to go down to Beverley on the
morrow, and tell her friends what she had done, as
the condition of their letting her come up to Boston
at all on that wild enterprise of hers ; and though
she would have been glad not to go, she kept her
word. But it was really not so hard meeting them
as she had feared. Mrs. Butler was forbearing, and
Marian was preoccupied; the younger girls saw it
somewhat as Helen did, and thought it an enviable
adventure. She told them all that had happened in
detail, and made them laugh. She pai'tly dranui-
tised her interview with the Miss Amys, and they
said it was perfectly delightful to think of Helen
being patronised by such people. They wanted to
see Mrs. Hewitt, and the fellow-boarders; they
wished that somebody would tiiistee their mother ;
they said that the life Helen was leading was fas-
cinating.

A WOMAN'S REASON. 169

" Perhaps you wouldn't find it so fascinating if
you wcro obliged to lead it," said Mrs. Butler.

*' Helen leads it, and she finds it faiscinating."

** Helen leads it out of the hardness of her heart,
because her friends don't wish her to," returned Mrs.
BuMer fondly.

" Mrs. Butler I Remember your promise I" said
Helen.

** I hof»o yon 11 remember yours, my dear, — to
come back to us."

" Oh ! And what are you going to do, Helen t
What are you going to do for a living!" demanded
Jessie Butler.

" Jessie I" cried her mother. " Don't be absurd I
Do for a living I"

" I ho|>c you won't think it absurd, Mrs. Butler,"
said Helen, with serious dignity, "for I really want
to do something for a living."

"Poor chilil I" said Mrs. Butler, getting Helen's
hand between hers, and tenderly smoothing it
" What could you do 1"

" I don't know what yet But I know I could do
something." She felt dispirited by Mrs. Butler's
motherly kindness, and would have liked to take
her hand away. This was what she had dreaded,
this feeling on the part of such friends as the Butlers
that anything useful and practical was impossible to
her. For the moment this feeling seemed all that
stood lietwoen her and a prosperous career of self-
help ; it unnerved her so terribly

" Do tell us what you 've been thinking of trying,"

170 A WOMAN'S RBASON.

persisted Jessie. She was the youngest^ and she
ventured on almost as great freeiloms with her
mother and Helen as Marian herself did.

''Oh, I thought over a great many things as I
came down this morning/' answered Helen. " But I
haven't settled upon anything yet Indeed, indeed,
Mrs. Butler!" she exclaimed, "I'm very much in
earnest about it, and donH try to discourage me,
please r*

'' I won't, dear !" Mrs. Butler assented soothingly,
as if Helen were a sick child, and must be humoured
in her little fancies.

'* How would plain sewing do t" suggested Jessie.
" Or, Wanted by a young lady, to have the care of
small children, where she would bo reccivecl as one
of the family; no objection to* the country; wages not
so much of an object us permanent home, address
H. H., Transcript Office!"

They laughed at this, Helen forlornly and help-
lessly with the rest They could not realise her
ambition, and they did not believe in her necessity :
Mrs. Butler because she felt that all Helen need
really do was to go to Europe with her, and return
to marry Robert Fenton as soon as he could get
leave to come home; the young girls because they
had no experience of life, and could not imagine
Helen's case. They were merry about her projects
all through lunch, and Helen herself felt that she
was behaving very ridiculously in pretending to be
anything but the well-taken-care-of young lady that
she luul always been. The world which she had

A woman's reason. 171

touched yestorrlay became as unreal in its turn as it
had made her old life seem.

" I will tell you," said Marian, who had given the
subject less attention than the rest, and had laughed
at Helen with half her mind all the while on her
a)>proaching marriage ; " I will tell you. In these
days Helen must take to some fonn of keramics. I
wonder that we didn't think of it before. How
could we discuss this subject in Beverley, of all
places, and not think of pottery t Helen must
decorate pottery for a living."

"0 yes! and she can drive over to the pottery
this afternoon with us, and select the shapes!'*
clamoured the younger sisters.

Their noise submerged Mrs. Butler's rebukes;
there was open rebellion to her voice.

" Mamma ! " cried Jessie, " you needn't try to put
us down about this. It's an extraordinary case!
We *ve never had the opportunity before, to decide
the vocation of a young lady who wants a lucrative
employment Do say you '11 decorate pottery for a
living, Helen I"

"Do! do!" pleaded all the rest They had left
their places and gathered round her in postures
of supplication.

Helen was swept along in the tide. " I don't
know anything about keramics," she laughed, turning
upon the group.

"That's the beauty of the profession," they
shouted in reply. "You don't need to know any-
thing about it"

172 A woman's reason.

" I can't draw !"

'' Drawing 's the very last thing that 's wanted for
art-pottery. tSay that you'll drive over with us and
select the shapes 1"

" You must first begin with a bean-pot, like that
pretty little Mrs. Gay/' said Jessie Butler. '' You
ought to have heard her talk about it : so colonial,
so in character with Beverley 1 " The young girl gave
the tone and the languish. *' She decorated it with
a flowering bean ; they say she thought that was the
kind they baked. Perhaps you '11 find that they 've
begun to give bean-pots an esthetic shape. Miss
Harkness's bean-pots will become the fashion. We
shall have a course of beans in their native earthen-
ware, at dinners, and when the pot comes in, every-
body will put on their pince-nez, and crane over, and
ask, ^Is that a Harkness, Mrs. Jones 1'"

''No, no I I can't go with you!" cried Helen;
"I'm going back to Boston this aficrnoon."

They all protested, but Helen stood firm,
feeling that it was her one chance for life, or for
making a living. H she was ever to put in force
her resolutions to be something and to do something,
she could not get away too soon from an atmosphere
in which no one, not even herself, could regard them
seriously. It was a trying ordeal, this pity of Mrs.
Butler's, and this jocose incredulity of the young
girls ; yet as Helen rode back to town, she was more
and more satisfied that there was something possible
and practical in Marian's suggestion. She recalled
some pretty shapes of pottery which she had seen

A woman's reason. 173'

in a shop-window, and which seemed to her more
stupiflly decorated than anything she could do if she
did lier worst. They were there on sale, and some-
l)ody liad been paid for doing them, or expected to
be paid for it The conclusion from the premises
was irrosistibic, and Helen found herself impatient
to arrlvo and begin work. She could really draw
very prettily, though she had denied her gift; she
was even a clover copyist ; but she knew that she
lacked the imaginative impulse, and she had not
cared for what she could do, because so many others
could do it as well

As soon as she left the train she hastened to this
shop, whcre^ 1)csides the decorated pots and vases,
she bad seen a good many uncontaminated examples
of the ncvcrlcy ware. She was vexed to find the
plnco niroatly closed, and she could hardly wait for
tlic morning.

She hurried from her breakfast to the shop in the
morning'; when her purchase came home, and she
unpacked it on her bed (the largest and safest surface
in her room), she cowered a little to see it so great
in qnnntity. She blushed to find herself making
such an ambitious beginning, and though five dollars
had Rcomcd a great deal to spend, she wished for the
moment that it had not bought quite so much. But
this was foolish ; of course she must spoil some of
the designs, and since she was going to try a variety
of decorations, she should want a variety of jam.
She set thorn all on the shelf of her closet, which
she locked ; she folded up the wrapping-paper and

'174 A woman's reason.

tacked it away ; she even concealed the string ; and
after putting on her hat and veil for the street, she
had to sit do\yn and have a paroxysm of guilty con-
sciousness before she could summon courage to go
out on her next errand.

She was going to a shop where they sold artists'
materials, to get her colours, and to pick up any hints
they could give her there about her work. They
were not personally very well informed, but they
sold her several little books which had koramic
designs in them, and which would tell her all she
wished to know. After she had bought them, she
thought them rather poverty-stricken in their pat-
terns, and as she passed a print-shop window she
saw that pretty series of engravings, illustrative of
the old fable of the storks and the babies ; and the
keramic fitness of storks at once struck her. The
prints were rather expensive, and Helen thought
that she could not get on without the whole set
Then, as the matter developed in her mind, a great
idea occurred to her : Flaxman's illustrations of
Homer. They were of course the only things to
copy iu the classic shapes. The book cost more than
she s'ipi>osed it would, but as she meant to stop
with tliat, she believed she might afTiinl it, and at
any rate she bought it She was afraid to look the
whole sum in the face at first, but her ho|)es rose
with her rapid walk homeward, and she finally con-
fronted the fifteen dollars with serene courage.

The next three weeks were given to very ardent
if not very diligent labour. Helen had an insupor-

A woman's reason. 175

able shyness a1x>ut her enterprise ; she managed so
that she might put everything out of sight at a
moment's warning, if any one came to her room.

Before actually beginning upon the vases, Helen
schooled herself in reproducing on paper the designs
she meant to use, and this took time. She was also
interrupted by excursions to Beverley; but she did
not count this as loss altogether, for she was able to
make several studios in colour of the low blackberry
vine, now in its richest autumnal bronze, and of
certain sea-weeds, with which she meant to decorate
several pieces. She did three with storks, and had
a fourth half-done when fIic let it fall. She wrapped
the fragments in paper, and took them out at twilight,
and dropped them in the street some distance away,
that the pieces might not be traced to her, and
so proceeded to the Flaxmans. She chose three
subjects nmong those : The old nurse Euryclea recog-
nising Ulysses as she bathes his feet; Penelope
carrying the bow of Ulysses to the Suitors ; and the
meeting of Ulysses and Penelope. These all related
to the return of the wanderer, and they went very
))rettily round the vases. Ulysses following the
homeward car of Nsiusicaa from the coast on which
she found him shipwrecked, was a subject which
Helen instinctively rejected, though the lines were
lovely, and she felt that she could do it easily. The
jar which she decorated with the seaweed had a
band of shells round the middle ; a slanting flight of
birds encircled the vases, over which she taught the
blackberry vine to wanton.

176 A woman's reason.

She had many alternating moods of exaltation
and despair while upon this work, but when it was
all done, and the pots set out m a fair row on her
window-shelf, and she retired a pace or two with her
pencil at her lip to get their entire oilect, she could
not but own that they seemed very successful. At
that distance certain defects of drawing — such as
that which gave Penelope bearing the bow rather a
pert and mincing look — and other blemishes were
subdued, but even when taken up severally and
scrutinised merely at arm's length, the vases bora
the ordeal of critical inspection very well. *'Aud
no one," thought Helen, "will ever look at them
more severely than I have."

She sank into her chair, which she drew up in
front of her work, and indulged a long reverie. In
this she dramatised her appearance at one of those
charming shops where they deal in such things ; she
set little scenes in which the proprietors called one
another up to look at her vases ; and she dialogued
their compliments and her own evasive acceptance of
them. They ended by asking very res|)ectrully if
she could not be persuaded to emplo}" a part of her
leisure in doing something of tlie kind for them;
and on her replying that these were for sale, they
hod instantly offered her a price for them that jiossed
her wildest hopes ; that seemed so much too much,
indeed, that she insisted upon abating something
from it. Struck by this nobleness in her, they had
conversed in low tones together ; and then the senior
member of the firm had confessed that thoy had

A woman's reason. 177

some hesitation in asking her to design certain friezes
which they were to do for a cottage at Newport, and
their admiration for her work must be their excuse
if they were proposing something quite out of the
way ; but they begged her to remember that two
ladies in London had taken up decorative archi-
tecture as a profession, and they trusted they were
not wrong. Then Helen had replied, no, indeed I
She was only too much flnttered by their confidence
in her, and she would be vary glad to think it over ;
all that she feared was that she would not be able
to meet their expectation ; at which they had laughed,
and said they had no such fear, and had drawn her a
check for her vases, and had added a few hundreds
as a sort of retainer in the matter of the friezes. At
this point Helen broke from her reveries with " What
silly, silly nonsense I What a simpleton I am I"

While she was in good humour with them, she
resolved to pack her vases in the basket that she had
got for that purpose, and when each was carefully
wrapped, and put in, she laughed to find the basket
looking like that of an old Jew who used to come to
the kitchen door to sell Bohemian glass, when she
was a child. The matter of transportation was one
that she did not consider till the next morning, when
it flashed upon her that she could not go carrying
that basket al)out She must drive, and though
this di<l not accord with her severe ideas of economy,
she had to own that she had been rather lavish in
her preparations for work, and that it would be
foolish to try now to scrimp at an impossible point

M

178 A woman's reason.

She would take a coup6 by the hour, aud perliaps
get it cheaper, if she had it several houi-s ; though
when she went out for the carriage, slie found die
driver inflexible, and she had to take it at the usual
rate. She bade him drive her to Mrs. Hewitt's door,
and she wanted him to go up with her and carry
down her basket ; but he, seeing her a single defence-
less woman, boldly answered that he could not leave
his horse; and Helen, indignant, and trembling for
her secret, was forced to bring it down herself.
Happily, Miss Root had gone out ; the Evanses' door
was closed ; and she encountered Mrs. Hewitt neither
in going up nor in coming down. When she lifted
the basket on the carriage seat she was out of
breath, but exultant at her escape, and with unbroken
courage she ordered the driver to go to the address
given him. But it now occurred to her that she
could not lug that great .hamper across a crowded
pavement into a shop-door, and she must sell her
wares by sample. She employed the drive in taking
out the best of the stork vases; one of the most
characteristic Flaxmans; and the blackberry and
bird-banded jar. She scarcely dared look at them
now, but as she gathered them to her bosom with
one hand, while she caught up her skirt with the
other to alight from the coup^ it was with quite as
much hope as fear that her heart palpitated against
those classic shapes. She pulled down her veil, how-
ever, for she knew that she was blushing violently*
and when she stepped upon the ground, she found
herself giddy.

A WOIIAN'S REASON. 179

The people were all busy when she entered the
store, and the gentleman to whom she hoped to
speak was occupied with a lady whom Helen knew :
a lady who gave proof of having lived abroad by the
loud and confident voice which she had succeeded in
managing, not like an Englishwoman but like an
Englishman. Helen shrank from her recognition,
and lurked about^ pretending to be interested in
distant bricabrac, and growing momentarily more
faint and tremulous, but when the lady went out and
the gentleman turned from closing the door after
her, Helen came quickly forward. She plucked up
an excited gasp from somewhere, and waiving the
rcBpectful kindness with which he bent to listen,
said, " I Ve something here I'd like to show you,''
and she unfolded one of her vases, and as he took it
up, with '' All, yes I Something in kcramics," she
unwra]»])ed the others and set them on the shelf near
which thoy stood. " Why, this is very nice. Miss
Harknoss," said the dealer, " very nice indeed." He
carried all three of the vases to the light and re-
turned with them, holding out the bird-banded jar.
** I like this one best You 'vo managed these birds
and this vine in quite the Japanese spirit : they 're
the only people who understand the use of uncon-
ventionalised forms. The way your blackberry
climbs into the neck of your vase is thoroughly
Japanese. These storks are good, too, very eflfec-
tivcly handleil. The classic subject — well, I don't
think that 's quite so successful, do you Y"

"No, I don't know that it is," said Helen, so

180 A woman's reason.

grateful for his praise of the others that she would
%villing1y have allowed this to be a disgraceful
failure.

*' Have you ever done anything of this kind be-
fore t " asked the dealer.

" No," replied Helen.

<< Very remarkable/' said the dealer. He had set
the vases back on the shelf again, and now gazed at
them somewhat absently. " It shows what can be
done with this sort of thing. See hero 1" he called
to his partner, who was also disengaged. " Here *8
something pretty, and rather new V*

''Your work, Miss Haiknesst" asked the other
partner politely, coming up. Ho said much the
same things that the first had said ; he even stopped
a young lady assistant who was passing, and made
her admire tho jars. Thou ho also fell into a musing
silence, while Helen waited witli a thickly beating
heart for the rest of her reverie to come true, and
stayed herself against a counter, till these amiable
partners should formulate some offer for lior wares.
The young lady assistant ebbed noiselessly away,
and went to writing at a high desk ; the second
partner shifted from his right foot to his left, turued
his head abruptly, and feigned to be called suddenly
by some duty in the direction to which he looked.
His going roused the first partner. " Yes !" he said
with a deep, nasal sigh, in coming to himself, and
was sinking again into his abstraction, when he
seemed to think of something. '' Excuse me a
moment," he said, and went and looked into the

A woman's reason. 181

show window, and then into a dark corner in tbe
back part of the room. ** I thought we had some of
that Cambridge pottery," he called out to his
partner.

" No," said the other, remaining aloof, " we only
had a few pieces."

" Well !" said the first, coming back to Helen.
" I supposed we had some of it left I was going to
suggest, Miss Harkness, if you 're interested in this
sort of thing, that you ought to see that North
Cambridge ware. Have you ever seen it t"

" No," answered Helen faintly.

"It isn't so native quite in sentiment as this
Beverley ware, but it 's much more refined in form.
It's beautifully finished. Really, I don't see how it
falls short of that Copenhagen pottery in finish. If
you have plenty of time on your hands, you couldn't
do a better thing than go out to see them making it
I think it would interest you."

" Thank you," said Helen ; her head whirled, but
she resolved to si)eak steadily if it killed her. " 1
shall certainly go. I *m glad you mentioned it. I
never saw any of it." She fumbled piteously at the
papers which she had taken off her vases, and
the dealer brought some softer stuff, and skilfully
wrapped them up for her.

"These things are quite worthy of Japanese
paper," he said, indicating the silky texture of the
fabric he had used. " I *m sure I 'm very much
obliged to you for letting us see your work, Miss
Harkness. 1 1 's charming. I hnyte you 11 keep on at

182 A woman's rbason.

it I'm interested business-wise, you know/' he
added, *^ in having you ladies take up these graceful
arts. And be sure and go to see tliat Cambridge
ware. We can get some of it for you, if you wish."
He liad followed her to the door, and now opened it
for her, with a bow.

" Thanks," said Helen. *< I won't forget. Good-
morning."

" Good-morning."

She got into the coup6, and put her vases carefully
back in the basket, and sat down on the seat beside
it She quivered with the intense and bitter disap-
pointment, and she burnt with shame, as every
particular of her interview blazoned itself upon her
consciousness, and she realised that she hud no one
but herself to blame for the precise result The
people had been thoroughly kind and sympathetic ;
they had praised her work, and had been far more
interested in it than she had any right to expect ;
but their taking her on her old social plane had
made it impossible for her to meet them on any
other. Apparently, they had never once imagined
that she wished to sell these things, and she had not
known how to approach the fact They had thought
she wished merely to show them as matters of
aesthetic interest, but if they had not supposed she
came for a^lvice, what could they think of her con-
ceit in making such a display, and of staying and
staying till she had all but to be turned out of
doors I All that about the Cambridge ware must
have been a polite ruse to get rid of her, — to spare

A WOMAN'S REASON. 183

her feelings while tliey relieved their own. What
had ke])t her from telling them honestly and bravely
what she had come for 1 Did she really expect them
to ask her if her work was for sale, as in her reverie ;
and then offer hor that fricxo to do in Newport t It
was intolorahle 1 She literally bowed hci*solf down
in sclfcontom[)t, while her heart ached with the
sickening defeat of her hopes.

" Where t^) !" asked a gruff voice.

Sho had been sitting still in her coup^, and this
was the voice of the driver, as he leaned over from
his scat, and projected the demand in at the win-
dow.

"Oh!** cried Helen. Then she hesitated in a
flutter. She had never thought where she should go
next; she had not taken any next place into account.
"Oh ! Drive — drive — " She hesitated again, and
then she gave the address of the street where she
harl bought her ]>ottory. She remembered the
decorated pieces there ; and they might like hers.
At any rate the people did not know her, and she
should have the courage to offer them her work.

Sho began somewhat as at the other place : '' I
thought you might like to see — ," and then corrected
herself, and sai<l, " I wished to show you my decora-
tion of some of the Beverley ware I got here the
other day."

" O yes," said the shopman, — warily, Helen
thought. But sho undid her vases, and saw him
smile in approval. " They 've come out very well,"
he added, as if they had been subjected to a process.

184 A WOMAN'S REASON.

'' Here are some new shapes, which we' ve just got
ill to-day."

Helen only glanced at the vases he indicated. " I
see you have some decorated pieces here/' she said
hastily. <* Would you like to buy these 1 "

The man's smile gave place to a look of something
like anguish. He took off his hat, and scratched his
head. " Well — well — not this mirtuing, I think.
The fact is, it 's a new thing, you know ; and these
decorated pieces are principally to show what may
be done with the ware. We do sell them, but we
don't — we don't buy. By and by, I hope we shall
be able to do so, but as yet we only ex|)cct to supply
the plain ware to ladies who wish to paint it. There
are places where — " He looked still more distressed,
and stopped.

Helen hastily wmpped her jars up again, and
turned to go. The man followed her a few paces.

" Your own work 1 " he asked.

" Yes," said Helen shortly, without looking round.
" Drive slowly along Washington Street," she
ordered, and as the coup^ started she blamed herself
for not re-opening the parley at the man's last ques-
tion, and trying to learn of him something about
those other places he had begun to mention. She
was too much bewildered to do that^ but it must
have looked like pride. Helen resolved now that
she would be not only bold but meek.

She had a plan of stopping at various little shops,
in whose windows she remembered seeing artistio
caprices, like pictures in birch-bark, and comic

A woman's reason. 185

designs jig-snwcd out of white>wood. They might
somewhere take a fancy to her vases. She stopped
accordingly wherever bricahrac showed itself in any
sort. The street was full of people, that is to say of
women, thronging in and out of the shop-doors, and
intent upon Rpiiding the money of tlieir natural
protectors. It is always a wonderful spectacle, and
in the circuit of a quarter of a mile, about the con-
fluence of Washington and Winter Streets, it enforces
itself with incomparable vividness.

There is doubtless more shopping in New York or
London, or Paris, but in those cities it is dispersed
over a larger area, and nowhere in the world per-
haps has shopping such an intensity of physiognomy
as in Boston. It is unsparingly sincere in its expres-
sion. It means business, and the sole business of
the city seems to bo shopping. The lovely faces of
the swarming crowd were almost fierce in their pre-
occupation, as they pressed into the shop-doors ; as
they issued from them, and each lady stooped and
caught the loop of her train in one hand, while she
clasped half-a-dozen paper parcels to her heart with
the other, those faces exhibited no relaxation of
their eager puq>ose. Where do they all come from,
and where docs the money all come from I It is a
fearful problem, and the imagination must shrink
from following these multitudinous shoppers to their
homes, in city and suburb, when they arrive frayed
and limp and sore, with overspent allowances, and the
hard task before them of making the worse appear
the better reason.

186 A woman's reason.

Helen was dismayed to realise herself the only one
of all her sex who wished to sell, and not to buy,
and at the shops which she entered they were
puzzled to conceive of her in that unique character.
They were busy with the buyers, and when she had
waited about patiently, and had at last found a
moment to show her work, they only considered it
in various patterns of indifference and refusal For
the most part they scarcely looked at it, and Helen
found her scantest toleration at those places where
she was obliged to deal with women. Commonly
they could not put her errand and her cou|)^ intel-
ligibly together; the conjunction seemed to raise
suspicion. In one shop it raised laughter, which
followed her from the young lady behind the counter,
who said quite audibly to the young lady at the
desk : ''Actually in a cou|>6 1 Think I should walk,
myself J " Helen, who had now hardened her sensi-
bilities to everything, took the hint, and let the
carriage come after her from shop to shop. But
that served no purpose except perhaps to excite the
fears of the driver lest she should try to escape from
him. When every place had been tried, she still
had her vases on her arm, which, when she got them
back into the basket, slie perceived was sore with
carrying them.

" Home," she said to the driver, and leaned back
against the cushions, and closed her hot dry eyes.
She was so benumbed by what she had undergone,
that she did not feel very keenly, and her physical
fatigue helped off the mental pain. Presently the

A WOMAN'S UEASON. 187

carriage 8to])p<1, mid she saw that they were in a
jam of vehicles in front of a large jewelry store.
There had been something the matter with her
watch, and now she thought she would have it looked
at ; and she dismounted and went in. She gave her
watch to a man behind one of the counters, and
while he screwed a glass into his eye, and began to
])ccr and blow into the works, Helen cast a listless
look into a window where there were some jars of
limoges and plates of modem majolica. A gentle-
man, who did not look quite like a clerk, came
forward. Helen carelessly asked him the price of
some of the faience. It seemed very little, and he
explained that it was merely earthenware painted in
imitation of the faience, and began to praise it, and
to tell who did it Helen did not listen very atten*
tively ; she was thinking of her own work, and
wondering if she should have courage to ask him to
look at it, and how, if she should, she couhl get it
from the coup6 without awkwardness, when he said,
" I sec you have something there in the way of our
business." Then she saw that she had mechanically
gathered up her three vases and brought them in
with her on her arm ; she had long ceased to wrap
and unwrap them. She looked at them stupidly, but
said, " Yes, this is something I Ve been doing;'' and the
gentleman |>o1itc1y took them, and admired them with
a civility that was so cordial to her after the ordeal she
had passed thrrtugh that the tears came behind her veil.
" Do you think," she asked very timidly, " you
M'ould like to buy something of the kind t "

188 A woman's rkason.

'*M — m — no/' said tho gentleman musingly, as he
turned one of the vases over in liis hand.

Helen's breath came again, and she turned to get
her watch, which the workman said was ready ; one
of the wheels had caught, merely ; and there was no
charga She took back her vase, and nodded to the
gentleman. He did not bow very definitively in
return, but followed her to the door.

''The fact is," he said, *' there 's very little sale for
these things now. The whole decoration business
has been overdone. However," ho addetl, after a
pause in which he seemed to take in the fact of
Helen's black, '' we might chance to dispose of them
for you. If you like, you can leave them hero on
sale." Helen promptly handed him the vases.

"You mustn't form any expectations," he cautioned.
"It will be a chance. //7m/ shall I ask for themt"

"Oh, anything — anything you can get," cried
Helen desperately. "Noboily wants them."

" Well, we 11 see," said the other, and he now set
the vases in the window between the jars of imitation
faience.

Helen timidly offered him her card, and she stole
a glance at the vases from the outside, and thought
they looked very common, and dreadfully pei*8onal.
Their being there gave her neither hope nor plea-
sure.

The door of the coup6 stuck fast, and while she
stood tugging at it, a policeman stepped up and
opened it for her. " See here, my man," he said to
the driver, " you 'd better get down and wait on your

A woman's reason. 189

I)as8engor8 decently, or give up tlie business. What 's
your number f' and, while the man mumbled some-
thing in explanation and excuse, Helen looked up
into the face of her champion. She failed at first to
i-ccognise the civil fellow who had come home with
her father the day of his seizure, and whom she had
met on the steps; but the officer knew her, and
touched his hat

Then she remembered him. " Oh, is it you t" she
cried, as if it were some old friend.

" Yes," said the officer, very much pleased.

" I 've always wanted to see you again and thank
you," began Helen.

" Oh, thai 's all right," answered the officer. " Your
father was a man, I can tell you. I — I — I was
awfully sorry for you, Miss Harkness." He spoke
with such simple and honest cordiality that Helen
felt it nothing odd to be shaking hands with a
policeman at high noon in Washington Street

* Thank you, you are very kind. Good-bye. I
shall never forget your goodness to him that day."

'* Oh, don't mention it," said the policeman. He
touched his hat again, and vanished in the crowd;
and she reflected that she had not asked his name.
As she looked in the direction he had gone, she saw
not him but herself. She saw herself standing on
the threshold of her old, lost home, and turning to
look after this man with the stare of amused, haughty
wonder, that a girl bred in ease and fashion, and
fondly shielded from all that was rude or was abrupt
in life, might fitly bend upon such a curious piece

190 A wobcan's reason.

of the social mechanism, unexpectedly and incon-
ceivably related to herself. Her attitude iuipli<.*d
secure possession in perpetuity of whatever mum
gracefully supreme in the world, of whatever w:i8
prosperously fastidious and aloof. It was enough
to remember this attitude now.

The coup6 stopped at Mrs. Hewitt's narrow door,
and the mim got down and hel|)ed her out *' I
guess the horse is tired enough to stand while I carry
this basket up for you/' he said.

Helen had no gratitude to express, and she did
not thank him for this service when she took out
her pui'se to pay him. She had kept the carriage
two hours and a half, and he said they never counted
less tlian an hour, but he would call it four dollars.
As he folded the bills, he said he hoped she did
not blame him for not opening the coup^ door for
her; she got out and in so often, and his horse
always started up so when he left the box.

" O no, no ! " cried Helen. " Only go, please."
She closed the door behind him, and she flung herself
upon the bed, and hid her face in her pillow, and
drenched it with her rushing tears. Hur head ached,
and her heart was sore in her breast. All that had
hap|)ened re|)oatcd itself with ceaseless itemtion in her
mind ; all the looks, all the tones, all the words ; they
burnt, and rang, and hummed in her brain ; tlie
long ordeal of her disappointment dramatised itself
to the inner sense in thousand-fold swift reverbera-
tion ; the disappointment was as bitter as if starvation
were before her, and the shock to her pride was even

A woman's reason. 191

greater. She had fancied, as she now realised, that
she should succeed because she was she ; while warn-
ing herself that she must not expect anything but
failure, she had secretly cherished an ideal of triumph
that made the future a matter of fortunate inspira-
tions and delightful toil. This was what she had
really hoped ; and now, to her defeat was added the
stinging sense of having been a fool. She had pro-
bably set to work quite in the wrong way ; and she
had l)ecn not only a fool, but such a coward as to bo
afraid to say that she wished to sell her work to
the only i>eoplo who could take a special interest in
it Yet they might not have cared for it either, and
if she had spoken she would have had only one
ignominy the more to remember. For, what puzzled
and surprised Helen most of all was that when she
had taken the humblest mien, and approached those
shop-people on their own level, as it were, without
pretension and without pride, they should have shown
no sonso of the sacrifice she had made, but should
have trampled upon her all the same.

The glamour was gone from her experiment She
was in the moml to accept any conditions of depend-
ence ; she wondered at the vain courage with which
she had refused the idleness and uselessness of the
homo ofTei-cd her by the Butlers.

The dinner bell rang, but she remained with her
face in the pillow ; after a while some one tapped at
her door, and then pushed it softly o])en and looked
in, but she did not stir. Whoever it was must have
thought her asleep, and so left her ; yet when Helen

192 A woman's reason.

opened her eyes there was still some one in her
room. A shawl had been flung over her, and Miss
Root was sitting at the window looking at her, and
apparently waiting for her to wake up.

''Not going to be sick, are you)" she asked.
** You Ve been sleeping ever since before dinner, and
Mr& Hewitt asked me to look in and see how you
were getting along. I guess you haven't taken cold;
she put the shawl on you."

'* O no !" said Helen, rising briskly, in the first free
moment of waking, when care has not yet dropped
back upon the heart '' I came in with a headache,
and threw myself on the bed to rest"

''That some of your worki" Miss Root indicated
with a nod the basket which stood in the middle of
the floor where the man had set it The paper had
come off one of the jars, and showed its decoration.

" Yes," said Helen. " I did them— I—" A thought
flashed into her mind: "They are for a wedding
present 1"

" May I look at it 1" asked Miss Root

" Certainly/' said Helen, feeling bolder, now that
she was protected by this little outwork of unreality
against the invasion of Miss Root's sympathy. She
unwrapped two or three of the jars and set them on
the window seat

Miss Root did not trouble herself to take them up,
but stood at a little distance and glanced at them
with an eye that Helen saw understood and classed
them, and that made her feel like the amateur she
was. The girl turned away without comment

A woman's reason. 193

" I saw some just like them in a window as I came
along Washington Street I pity any poor wretch
that expects to live by painting and selling them."

Miss Root could not have meant her equivocal
s]>ecch in unkindness, for she added, looking back as
slie went out, '* Don't you come down if you don't
feel just right ; I 'II bring up your supper to you."

Helen said she was going down, and arming her-
s(*]f with the courage of lier despair, she confronted
the question of the tea-table with gaiety even, and
made light of her long nap. She said she had been
shopping all the morning, and the irony of the phrase
in this application flattered her bitter mood. It was
a stroke of the finest sarcasm, could they but know
it; and in her heart she mocked at their simple
acceptance of her statement

Mr. Evans said he was surprised she could sleep
after shopping. When his wife went shopping it
kept the whole family awake for the next twenty-
four hours, and careworn for a week. Mrs. Hewitt
asked about the fashions, and said that she alwa}8
found things just as cheap and a good deal better at
the large stores, and you spent more time and laid
out as much money running round to the little places.
It seemed to Helen the height of the sardonic to
answer, " Yes, it was quite useless to go to the little
places."

" D'you find your letters all right. Miss Harknesst"
asked the landlady, when this talk had taken its
course ; " T put 'cm on the comer of your mantel"

"No," said Helen ; "I didn't look."

N

194 A woman's reason.

"Well, you'll fieo'em when you go back Tliey
came after you went to sleep. The most curious
stamps on / ever saw I"

Helen's heart stood still with fear and hope, and
** Oh, papa, get them for my collection," pleaded the
little boy.

'* Here," she said, rising, and making this opfior-
tune prayer her shelter, *' come up with me, and you
shall have them ;" and after due reproach from his
mother, he was suffered to go with her.

It was Robert Fenton's handwriting on the en-
velopes. " It 's my answer — it 's my sentence, — and
I deserve it," she said under her breath, as she stood
with the letters in her hand, trying to detach one of
the stamps with her trembling fingers.

"There," cried the boy, "you're tearing it I"

'< Never mind," said Helen; "they're bothalike.
1 11 cut this other off for you ;" but her hand shook
so that she chopped into the letter a little with the
scissors.

"If I couldn't cut better than thatl" roared the
boy, anxious for the integrity of his stamp. " What
makes you get so white, and then get so red 1 "

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" answered Helen, inco-
herently. *' Here's your stamp," she stooped to
give it. The child was pretty, with still grey eyes
and full lips. " Will you kiss me, Tom," she asked
in a very soft trembling voice, " for good luck 1"
It seemed as if her fate hung upon his will, but
when he hastily kissed her, and ran out, slie still
had not courage to open the letters. She flung

A woman's reason. 195

them on the bet], and locked the door, and then
came back and looked at them. She could see a
little of the writing in one thcough the hole where
she had cut away the stamp, and she tried to make
out the words ; thej were such words as " from," and
"for," and "with."

If there had been but one letter, she thought, she
should not have been afraid of it ; but this mystery
of there being two ! She tried putting one out of
sight under the pillow, but that did no good. Her
sole comfort was that while they were still unopened
she did not know the worst ; but in the meantime
she was consumed with a terrible curiosity. She
studied them hard, and then walked away to the
furthest comer.

" Oh, what is it in them Y Indeed, I couldn't bear
anything after to-<lay, indeed I couldn't !" she
whimpered. " I can't open them I" and then she
pounced upon one of them in a frenzy and tore it
open.

X.

Thb character of no man is fixed till it has been
tried by that of the woman he loves. Till then he
has only the materials of character, and they are all
to be shaped and ordered as newly as if he had
never had them before. The thousand and one
mysteries of Helen's girlish uncertainty, her fantastic
waverings, her esthetic coquetries with the idea of
being in love, were as unintelligible to Fenton as
his headlong and outspoken passion was to her.
But while she thought his bluntness charming, in a
way, and constantly trembled nearer and nearer
to him in her heart, Fenton was far too simple a
fellow to feel anything but trouble at the misgivings
and delays which she enjoyed. When at last he
made what he felt must be his last offer, and she
met it with all those freshly alarmed ideals and
metaphysical scruples, which a wiser and worse man
would have trampled under foot^ — tearing her from
herself, as she unconsciously meanj;^ and making her
his in her own despite, as she reluctantly wished,
Fenton lost his head in a delirium of angry and
wounded pride.

When he awoke from it, irretrievably committed

IM

A WOMAN'S REASON. 197

to three years' exile, it was in a self-abhorrence and
despair, and a sort of stupefaction that he should
liave done what he had done. His repentance came
before he had forgiven Helen, and long before he had
begun to conceive that the letter might have another
meaning than that which he had first taken from it
Of his own light, perhaps, ho never saw more in it
than it seemed to say. It was without reading it
again, without having the heart to look at it, that
he hated himself for what he had done, and loathed
himself for his futile desire to make reparation. It
was impossible to repair his faulty and if it were
possible, it would be despicable to attempt it.

He went haggardly about his duty, a machine that
did its work, but with no more mind upon it than a
machine. There came long spaces of time in which
he afterwards recognised that he had not known
what he was doing; that he had been altogether
aljsoTit without having been anywhere else; he awoke
from these absences as from a profound, dreamless
tor|H)r, and with a start of fear and amaze, to find
tlint nil had \roen going well in the meantime, that
ho had l>crn talking, eating, and drinking, and
shrewdly attentive to whatever immediately con-
cerned him. It would have been hard for him to
say whether the time when he was on duty, and no
one spoke to him, or the leisure in which he was
intimately thrown with his brother officers was the
more terrible : his solitude was dense with piercing
regrets, that stimg for ever in the same place ; his
association with others was tormented by an un-

198 A WOMAN'S REASON.

forgettable remorse, which, if it seemed to grant him
a moment's oblivion, awoke him presently, from
somebody's joke or story, to the consciousness that
it had only been more deeply and inwardly gnawing
his soul.

Some sort of action was indispensable, but action
which did not relate to Helen, was none. He began
to write letters to her. Ho, had no idea of sending
them, but it had grown insufferable to be perpetually
talking to her as he was in those airy dramas within
himself; and since his words could not bo ma^le
audible, he must lot them take visible shapa This
became his daily habit ; and before the ship reached
Bio de Janeiro he had accumulated a scoro of letters,
wliich he bitterly amused himself by reading over,
and considering, and putting by without destroying.
He kept them, and found a sort of misemble relief
in communing with them instead of his intangible
thoughts. His industry did not escape the idle
vigilance of the ship's comradery ; but at sea every
one must be suffered his whim, and after laughing
at Fenton's, they left him to it, in tlie feigned belief
that it was a book he was writing : a marine novel,
they decided. £ach thought it in the way of
his rightful joke to say, *' Don't put me into it^
Fenton," till Fenton, wlio worked up slowly to his
repartees, found presence of mind at last to answer^
"No; I can't afford to make it dull, you know," and
then they left him quite alone, with a roar at the
expense of the chance victim. Before the laugh was
over, Fenton had almost ceased to know what it was

A WOMAN'S REASON. 199

a1x)ut, and had wliolly ceased to cara He was quite
t/)o miserable to be glad of the immunity he had
won.

He went on with his letter-writing; but on the
eve of arrival at Uio de Janeiro he destroyed all his
work, and set about writing one letter, which should
bo his last It was his purpose to post this without
reference to conse^iuences, as an act of final expia-
tion. Ho was not without some trembling illusion
that there might be a letter awaiting him : he did not
dare to think from Helen, and he could not think
from whom else. But his letter was to go before he
know what was in that, or even whether it existed.
Ho had no reason to suppose it did exist; it was in
fact as purely a figment of his distem]>ered fancy as
a star^'ing man's visions of feasting ; and when he
had faithfully posted his letter before going to the
rnnsnl to ask if there were anything for him, he
could not make out that it was disappointment that
sickened him to find there was nothing. But a mail
was expected the following day, and he kept his
wrecked ho|)es adrift upon its possibilities during the
night

The mail brought him no letter, but it brought
the consul a copy of The Boston Advertiser^ which he
politely offered to Lieutenant Fenton unopened, not
having the leisure just then for the newspaper.
Fenton unfolded it with indifference, and mechani-
cally glanced at the marriages. The paper was of a
date four or five days after he had saile<1, and the
name of Helen Harkness did not appear in the mar-

200 A woman's rbason.

riage list He had not expected that it would,
nevertheless he had looked at the marriages on her
account; and he was about laying the paper aside
when the record of a single death caught his eye. It
was the death of Helen's fatlier, with a dozen lines
of mortuary praise. He dropped the paper.

''Nothing in the Advertiser V* asked the consul,
who was busy about some letters, without looking
up.

'' Too much 1" said Fouton, pulling his cap over
his eyes.

The consul thought this was a joke, and laughed
in a companionable, uninterested way. Fenton
looked at him and saw his innocence, and then he
sat a long time in silence, with his arms folded, and
his head down. At last he asked the consul if he
could give him a sheet of paper and an envelope, and
briefly wrote the second of the two letters which had
reached Helen together. In her desperation, she
had found no resource but to open them according
to the order of the dates in their postmarks, and she
had seized first upon that of the 9th. It began
simply, Helen, and it ran in this way : —

'* I hope you will have patience to read this letter
through, though I have forfeited all right to a hear-
ing from you. I am not going to make an appeal
for your forgiveness, because I know I ought not to
have it I have suffered, not all that I ought to
suffer, but all that human nature can suffer for that
letter I sent you from Portsmouth. But I shall not
try to work upon your pity ; I believe that I have

A woman's reason. 201

that already. I only wish you to nnderstand that in
again renouncing all pretensions to your regard, I do
it with a full approval of your conduct to me. I do
not blame you in the least thing. I see that I was
altogether to blame. I see what I did not see before :
that you never cared for me, and that you tried
with all your heart, to be kind to me, and yet not to
give me hope. I thank you for your goodness, and
I beg you to believe, when you have read this letter,
that my eyes are open at last, and that if I keep on
loving you, it is because my love of you has become
my life, and that I know I am no more worthy to
love you than I am to live. I cannot help one or the
other, but I can keep either from being troublesome
to you, and I will. So I do not ask you to admit
any of my former pretensions, but only to let me be
your friend, in whatever humble and useful way I
can. I consider myself a disgraced man, and I shall
expect nothing of you but the kind of forbearance
and patience you would show some repentant criminal
who was depending upon your countenance for
strength to reform himself.

"I know you have told Mr. Harkness of my
Portsmouth letter, and that he must be very much
incensed with me. But though I do not ask your
forgiveness, Helen, I do beseech you to try to get
me his. I owe him all the little good there is in me,
and I owe him all that I am and have done in this
world. I could not tell you how dearly and truly I
honour and love him. The thought that I came
away without trying to take leave of him chokes

202 A woman's reason.

me; but after writing you that fatal letter, every-
thing that was right and decent became imposaible.
'' Gk>od-bye, Helen.

" Robert Fenton.**

When Helen had finished this letter, which, in-
deed, she seemed instantly to divine rather than to
read, she not only kissed it but pressed it to her
breast and locked her arms upon it, clasping it close,
as if it were some living thing and could feel tho
wild, happy tumult of her heart. She wept long
and sweetly over it. It might not have been tho
perfection of reason to another, but to her all the
parts were linked together by an impenetrable and
infrangible logic. Nay, it was not that, it was not
eloquence; it was the sum of everything, it was
love, and however hapless love to the writer, it was
heaven-prospered passion to Helen, who seemed in
that fond embrace to implore, to foi^vo, to console
Robert, as if he were there present and she had
fallen uiK>n his neck. They were happy, and they
were happy together ; it was so much to know tlmt
she need never wish to know more.

For some time, in the rush of her emotion, she did
not realise that it was not an answer to her own
letter. But it was infinitely more. It forestalled
and anticipated her letter, as that, when it came
to his hand, would in its turn bo both appeal and
response to him. Best of all, his letter made the
first advance towards reconciliation, and assumed for
Robert the blame for what she had suffered. She

A WOMAN*S REASON. 203

know that ho was not wholly to blamo, bat as a
woman she liked to have him say that he was, and
nhe liked him to be generously first in owning him-
self wrong — that always seems a man's part.

She had almost forgotten the letter of later date,
tho letter of the 10th, which still lay unopened
before her. That, too, would be precious, but never
so dear as this of the 9th, which should always be
first in the history of their love; the other, no matter
how sweet it proved, must always remain second. It
was, in fact, not a fortunate inspiration. In his grief
at the news which he had just read, Fenton's mind
had reverted to the old relation in which he had
first known Helen, and in the presence of the
bereavement that they had both suffered in the loss
of one who had been no less a father to him than to
her, he addressed her as a sister, and signed himself
ns her brother Rol>ert These wortls, coming upon
tho different t*^nderness his other letter had evoked,
seemed to push her coldly from him, to disown their
love and to ignore it, to tike her at a certain disad-
vantage with resiKJct to the soitow in which they
humbly asketl a brother's share; they made her
jealous in a wild sort of her sorrow, they inde-
scribably wounded her so that she threw the letter
from her and wept bitter tears for the happy ones
she had shed. It was such a letter as no woman
would have written if she had been a man I She
should not know which letter to answer now, nor
how to answer either ; for if she answered the first
as she would have done, might not Robert think her

204 A WOMAN'S REASON.

bold and unfilial t and if she answered the second as
she ought, would she not a|)()ear reserved and cold
with him upon whom her heart had just thrown itself
with such tender abandon t The letters made two
Roberts of him, and left her to despair between them.

She passed a hapless night, and in the morning
she took the first train after breakfast for Beverley,
where she appeared at the Butlers' before ten o'clock,
asking in such a high hysteric key for Mrs. Butler,
who was not yet down, that they led her at once to
her room. There she threw up her veil, revealing
eyes tragic with tears and want of sleep, and gave
the two letters into Mr& Butler's hand while she hid
her face in Mrs. Butler's pillow.

''0 Helen, Helen 1" said the elder lady, when
she had spelled through these documents in the dim
light, '* how glad I am for you 1 Come, look at me,
my dear, and let me see your happy face ! This
makes up your quarrel, and you are — Why,
Helen 1" she cried, when the girl obeying, bent
those eyes of tragedy upon her, ** what is the matter!
Don't you — didn't you — "

'' yes, 1 care for him — all the world 1" Helen
broke out '* But the more I care for him the worse
it is, and unless you can help me out of this trouble,
Mrs. Butler, I shall surely go crazy. Oh, how in-
delicate it is of me to come to you I But I don't
know what to do — I don't know what to do ; I 'm
so horribly alone 1 And it 's such a very strange,
ridiculous thing 1" She did not suffer herself to
pause, while Mrs. Butler stared compassionately at

A WOMAN'S REASON. 205

hor, till she had put her in fall possession of her
perplexity, and explained how it had poisoned all
her joy.

Mrs. Butler did not laugh at her ; she was one of
those high spirits who porceive the sacred rather
than the alisurd, and amidst the girl's wild talk, she
saw the reasonableness of pain that to a coarser
sense would only have been ludicrous. " You must
not think of this second letter at all, Helen," she said
seriously. " Shall I tear it up 1 "

" Oh, oh !" said Helen, half-reaching for it, and
yet holding her hand. " It 's about papa, and — it 's
from him /'* She caught her breath, and trembled for
Mrs. Butler's decision.

I didn't think of destroying it," said the other,
but I 'm not going to let you have it back. This is
the only letter you've got, Helen, for the present,**
she added, handing the girl the firsts and putting the
second under her pillow. " The letter that you sent
him the other day — wouldn't that be a kind of
answer to thisi"

"Why, yes I" cried Helen with electrical perception.

" Well, then, answer the first I want you to let me
keep this till — till I can give it back to Sirs. Fenton."

" Oh ! " said Helen.

" And kiss me, my dear," said Mrs. Butler fondly ;
" and bathe your eyes yonder. And if you touch Uie
left hand-bell, Marian will come up."

"Oh!" said Helen in the same shaken tone as
before. " Shall you— shall you tell her f "

" No ; you shall," replied Mrs. Butler. But when

«
«

206 A woman's reason.

Marian came, it was Mrs. Butler who had to explain
the embrace in which Helen seized her, and which,
first returning with mechanical affection, she now
returned with rapturous intelligence.

*< Engaged!" she exulted. *'0h, Helen, Helen,
Helen !"

''Why," cried Helen, laughing fix>m her happy
heart, and pulling away from her friend, '' I don't
know what you call it. I 've written him a making-
up letter, and he's written mo one, and they've
crossed on the way."

''Oh, Hiai's an engagement," said Marian, with
the authority of a connoisseur.

"But he hasn't got my letter yet^ and I'm not
engaged till he has."

" That 's nothing. He *s engaged, because you 've
got his, and in an engagement the man counts for
everything ; the girl goes without saying." Marian
Butler was at that jjeriod full of those airs of self-
abnegation with which women adorn themselves in
the last days of betrothal, and the first of marriage,
and never afterwarda

They talked Helen's whole aflair over, in the
light of the full candour which she was able to bring
to bear upon it now for the first time. As to feelings
she must still have her reserves ; but as to facts, she
made them little by little all theirs ; it helped her tu
realise Robert to be talking of him by his name, and
to hear others doing so. At the sound of approach-
ing footsteps without, Marian said —

"Now mother, those children are not to know

A WOMAN'S REASON. 207

about tliis. They 're too forthputting now, especially
Jessie."

Ignorant of this supreme interest, the younger
sisters were riclily content with Helen's further
account of her boarding-house life, which she con-
tinued to them like an instalment of some intoxica-
ting; romance. When she came to the end of her
cli.'ipter, she stopped with a manner that roused their
woi^t suspicions.

" Oh, she 's keeping something back ! " complained
Jessie, and "Oh, oh !" went up from the others.

" Yesl" cried Helen, "I'm keeping back the best
of nil, l)ccauso it doesn*t seem as if I could tell it"

AVhile they all stared, she abruptly began the
confession of her experiment iu decorative keramica.
She was by this time in high spirits, and she poured
it nil out, illustrating, mimicking, not sparing her-
self in the minutest particular of conceited expecta-
tion or forlorn reality. It was all past now, far past^
and was part of a former existence which she had
suddenly outlived by an untraversable period of
time. It made them laugh, Marian with amusement,
and Mrs. Butler with a sort of grieving compassion ;
as for the young girls, it seemed to them the wildest
and most enviable adventure that ever was known
out of a book.

" And you didn t meet a soul — not a soul you
kncwl" asked Mrs. Butler.

" no ; fw one shops in Boston now, you know ;
nnd I was perfectly safe. But I shouldn't have
cnrcd."

208 A WOMAN'S REASON.

" I should have been glad of it 1" cried Jessie
Butler. " I should 'have liked to lug my basket up
and poke it into their carriage-doors, and offer to
sell them the tilings, and see how they would look/"

" Jessie 1" said her mother.

" Well, never mind Qo on, go on, Helen 1"

'' That 's all," said Helen, who had brought them
back to the period of her return to her room and her
long desperate slumber. '' No, the worst is to comet
Miss Root came in while I was asleep, and discovered
thorn ; and what do you think I told her t I told her
I had been doing them for a wedding present I "

There was fresh sensation at this, but Jessie ex-
claimed, ''Marian Butler shall never have those
vases in the world. They shall be sold / The idea 1
/ will go up and sell them \"

'' No," said Helen soberly ; ** she must take them,
Jessie, to save me from fibbing, if nothing else.
Besides, you suggested painting pottery, Marian, and
they're Beverley ware — all very appropriate, you
see. And some of them are not so bad. And I
can't give you anything better till — tny ship comes
home /"

At this idea of a ship, and of its coming home,
Helen and Marian simultaneously pressed each other's
hands, where they sat side by side on the lounge,
with delicious intelligence. Marian said that she
should prize Helen's present more than anything else
tliat could be given her, and that its history, which
could not be known out the family, would make it all
the more precious ; the legend would be something

A WOMAN'S REASON. 209

to tell tlie future age. It would be great to saj,
** Only think of your great-grandmother going about
the whole day with tliese beautiful things, and not
being able to sell them for a crust of bread to keep
her from starving."

'* Marian," said her mother, '' I can't let you make a
joke of it I can't help thinking how wretched it would
have been if poor Helen had really been in need."

" Indeed I was in need, Mrs. Butler," said Helen,
" while I was doing those things. I felt just as
destittUe / And I worked at them, early and late, as
if my life depended upon it"

''Oh, that's a very different thing, my dear," said
MfR. Butler. "It was only play poverty, after alL
Think if you had really been some poot girl, with
nothing, and had met with such a disappointment !"

" I don't l)clicvo 1 could have suffered more," said
Helen, confidently.

" I 'm glad you We no means of knowing certainly.
But now that you 've tried your experiment, Helen,
hadn't you better end this little escapade, and come
liock to ust Things have come about very fortu-
nately," she added quickly, at a look of refusal in
Helen's eye, " and your failure to earn a living makes
it easier for me to tell you something that's been
rather weighing upon my mind."

She spoke with a double sense to Helen, who
understood that it was not her failure, but the letter
from Robert which made it easy for Mrs. Butler to say
what followed.

" We have concluded not to wait a month after

o

210 A WOMAN'S REASON.

Marian is married, before we sail, but to go the next
week. We shall not try to run them down — Girls,"
she broke oflf, and speaking with the tone of authority
which they knew wlien they heard it, " go and see
where your father is," and when they were gone, she
resumed, — ''but we shall follow them up pi-etty
closely, and we shall meet them in Venice just before
they start from Trieste for Egypt. Now, Marian 1"

** And there," said Marian, " Miss Harkness, who
has come to that point with the biide's family, will
join the happy couple, and make one of their i>arty
up the Nile. It's to be a tiiisteeship, Helen,"
she cried, ''it can't be resigned; you must come.
Wo are going to take a dahabeiah at Cairo, with some
Philadelphia friends of Ned's, very quiet people whom
he took a great fancy to ; and I want you along to
do the correct, and elegant, and superior thing for
Boston, and leave me to uninterrupted enjoyment of
the sillies. Yes, Helen, you must come. Ned wishes
it as much as I, and I can't tell you how much that
is. We want to take you away from yourself, and
we promise to bring you back in a year — " She
hesitated : " I was pausing for want of an idea, but
say — improved in every way."

" Oh, I can't !" lamented Helen. She leaned back
upon the lounge, and bi-ooded upon the matter in a
silence to which the others left her unmolested. " It
isn't because it doesn't seem the loveliest and kindest
thing in the world, Marian, and I've no peasant-
pride that would prevent me from accepting it ; and
it isn't because I think I should do better to go on

A woman's reason. 211

•

trying to toko caro of myself, Mrs. Butler. I know
that I 'm a distinct failure in that way, and I haven't
any heart or conceit for further experiments. But —
I must stay 1 He will come back — I know he will
come back, as soon as he gets that letter of mine —
and he must fiml me here waiUng for him. It would
be a shocking kind of treachery if I were away."

" You could write to him now that you were going
with us," said Marian, a good deal shaken by the
heroism of Helen's position, '' and he could meet you
somewhere abroad."

Mrs. Butler said nothing.

" The second letter might miss,'* replied Helen, as
if the first letter could not

" You could keep writing," urged Marian, " before
you sailed, and then from Europe."

" No ; it wouldn't do. He must find me here
waiting for him ; and I mustn't stir from the spot
till he gets back. I don't know how to explain it
exactly. But it would look very queer and light-
minded, wouldn't it, if I went ofi* junketing up the
Nile, while he was thinking all the time that I was
forlornly waiting for him in Boston, and was as un-
happy as he till we met t Besides, I feel this way
about it, after what has passed between us : I oaght
not to be on a high horse of any sort when Robert
comes back. I feel that it is his right and his due
to be able to stoop to me a little ; and it would only
1)0 a just reparation for me to be in very humble
circumstances when I met him. Doesn't that seem
like a kind of reason to you, Mrs. Butler 1**

212 A woman's reason.

'' Yes," assented Mrs. Butler doubtfully ; " a little
romantic !"

"Do you think sot" asked Helen, rather hurt;
" I hoped you would think it sensible."

" I do, my dear, I do," Mrs. Butler hastened to
reply, " from your point of view."

''There's this, too," Helen added, not quite
appeased, after a hesitation. ''Robert hasn't any
money, but his pay ; and I only have such a very little,
that we couldn't begin living like ricl) people ; and
the question is whether I had better keep on living
as I used to do, or whetlier I hadn't better get
accustomed to sometliing very plain and simple at

once."

"Yes," said Mra Butler, while Marian fidgeted
in protest, but said nothing.

" I try to look at it quite dispassionately, and in
the light of common sense, without any foolishness,
and it seems to me that I shouldn't bo doing right
unless I were making some sacrifice for Robert^ and
suffering, don't you know, in some way; I should
not be happy unless I were. You know," she said
softly, " that I don't think I always used Robert very
well. I don't moan that I mcint to ; but I didn't
understand myself ; and now that I do, and under-
stand him, I should be detestable, if I went off to be
pleased and diverted, while he was hurrying home
with his mind burning upon the thought that I was
waiting here in perfect wretchedness till he came>
Don't you seel I must be here, and I must be
wretched, to be perfectly true to him 1"

A woman's reason. 213

" You are right, Helen !" cried Mrs. Butler, deeply
moved by this divine logic of the heart "Hush,
Marian, don't speak ! You know she is right
Come here, Helen !" The matron embraced the girl
in the fervour of that youth which women of all ages
have in common. " Wo won't say anything more of
this matter, Marian, and we will just tell your father
that Helen can't go. You won't mind my letting out
a little of your secret to him t"

" O no 1'* blushed Helen. ** I had expected you to
tell him."

Captain Butler would once have teased the girl
about her happiness. But since her father's death he
seemed not to have been able to treat her lightly ;
her loss and her uncertain future made her a serious
affair to him; and now that her father was gone,
Helen was startled at times to find how much his old
friend was like him. There were tones and move-
ments of strange resemblance ; perhaps the impression
came partly from Captain Butler's impaired health ;
he was certainly not well, and that made her tliink
of her father. He took what Mrs. Butler told him
very much as her father would have done, she thought^
and he expressed his satisfaction almost as quietly.
His only revenge was to ask : —

" Shall you answer in care of the Navy Department^
or would you like to telegraph a reply t"

<* Oh, CapUin Butler," cried Helen, " eauU I tele-
graph T

" Yes," said the Captain. " How would you word
your despatch 1"

2U A woman's reason.

"Mr. Butler 1'' said his wife in reproach.

" I — I don't know 1" gasped Helen.

''It wouldn't reach him, now, any sooner than
your letter of three weeks ago. He '11 find that at
Hong Kong when he gets there, and you wouldn't
know where to hit him with a telegram on the way.
If your letter was posted at Rio, the Muskingum — "

'* Messasauga," Helen softly corrected him.

" Was it Messasauga 1 — is going round the Cape
of Good Hope, and she must have passed that point
a week ago, and she won't stop at any other tele-
graphic port, probably. Here," said tlie Captain,
with rising interest, ** I '11 show you his course."

He got a chart out of the library, and Helen began
to study navigation with the imi)assioned devo-
tion which love lends to intellectual pui-suits. One
observes this ardour in two young persons of opposite
sexes who take up some branch of literature or science
together, which they might not perhaps have thought
of, if they had not thought of each other. It has been
known to cast a purple light upon metaphysica
Helen borrowed the chart and brought it away with
her.

It was a happy day, and its memory remained to
sweeten the days in the increasing bustle of pre-
paration for Marian's wedding, when Helen saw
lier friends less and less, and then the days when
she saw them no more.

XI.

Helen's letter, crossing the letter Fenton wrote
At Rio de Janeiro, reached him at Hong-Kong. It
added, after the first hours of rapture, the anguish of
a hopeless longing to the remorse he had been suffer-
ing. It was no longer a question of her forgiveness ;
but he did not find it easier, now that he had the
assurance of her love, to forgive himself for his rash-
ness ; he thought of her alone in her sorrow, without
the instant sympathy and support which she had a
right to expect from him, even if there had been no
tie but their common affection for her father between
them ; and his whole life centred in an impulse to
return to her somehow from the banishment he had
inflicted upon himself. But he had himself made
return impossible — for the present at least — by the
terms on which he had sought exile ; he must wait
and he must suffer— that would have been simple
enough— and he must also make her wait and suffer.
When he came to this conclusion, as he always must^
it was with a mental shock that was like a veritable
concussion of the brain, that left him weaker day by
day, and that broke him at last He fell sick of a
disorder that baffled the science of the surgeon when
he visited him in his room.

216 A woman's reason.

''What the devil is the matter with yout I
believe in my soul you 're trying to make a die of it/'
said the doctor, a cheerful, elderly man, tight in his
unifonn.

** No man ever wanted to live as I do," answered
Fenton.

'' Well, then, you must brace up. I '11 give you a
tonic. Make you up a bottle and send it to you."
The doctor felt his pulse again and said, "You're
either down with the climate, and that affects your
spirits, or else it 's your spirits that affect your health.
But in any case you must brace up." As Fenton lay
perfectly still with his face turned away. Dr. Simmons
passed his hand over the top of his head where a per-
spiration of perplexity had gathered in the scattering
down. "I can't minister to a mind diseased, you
know,'' he suggested.

" No," said Fenton.

'' You must go to some other shop."

He got himself with difficulty out of Fenton's door
into the ward-room, and presently sent him the
bottle. It seemed to make him worse, and the
doctor visited him again in renewed mystification.
After the usual inspection, he sat looking at Fenton
as before, and then said casually, " What a lucky
chap Nixon is, going home on leave so soon 1 "

Fenton sat up. *' Going hams / my Gh>d 1" He
fell back on his pillow, and the doctor nodded his
head.

**I thought so. You're homesick. Nixon isn't
going home ; but if you keep on in this way, fou are

A woman's reason. 217

— in a box. Tliis thing \^'ill kill you as sure as yon
live, if you don't fight it, and if youVe got particular
reasons for living, as you intimated the other day,
you *d better make the most of them. Get leave and
go off somewhere for a whila Amuse yourself ; try
to forget about it. You can worry it off somehow.
You mvst ; and so I tell you."

"Two days after I sailed the man Who had taken
care of me all my life, and been more than a father
to me, died suddenly, and left his only child alone in
the world,'* said Fcnton desperately. " How am I to
worry that off t I ought to be there — to help her, to
take care of her, to show the gratitude that common
decency — "

"Well, that is bad," assented the doctor. "But
she *s got friends, of course t"

"Oh,/n>firf*, yes!"

" And of course she 'H be looked after. You must
try to see the bright sirle of it," added the doctor.
"There 's a bright side to everything."

" Do you think so t Tl^ I 'II tell you the bright
side to this. I came away in a quarrel with them —
a quarrel where I was to blame — witlioiit seeing them
or saying a word to them ; and I can't ask leave to
go home, because I made a point of getting ordered
here. That's the bright side of it 1"

" It isn't very dazzling," admitted the doctor, with
the smile that men put on at other men's troubles
of sentiment "But it isn't a thing to be morbid
about You can write home and explain. You 're
a little under the influence of the climate here ; you 11

218 A WOMAN'S RSASON.

see all these things differently when you're used
to it I 'd better give you some quinine. There 's
no use in giving way ; you 'II only make bad worse."

1 he shame of having confessed to an anxiety that
another seemed to find so slight was a powerful
auxiliary in the effort of will that Fonton made to
overcome its physical effects. He succeeded so far
that he was able to go on duty again, after a week
or two, and to live doggedly on from day to day in
that double consciousness where tlie secret trouble
remains a dull, incessant ache underneath all the out-
ward conditions. It began to be a su]M'rstition with
him that something must happen, some chance of
escape must offer ; he could not yet bring himself to
the thought of the last resort, though the knowledge
that at the end of all ho could resign and go home
continually tempted him.

Helen's letters, as they came, were brave and hopeful,
and Fenton only wrote of the time when they should
meet; he instinctively wrote as if this time must be
near. Then the mei*e lapse of days and weeks began
to have its effect as it does in every human affliction ;
it lessened his burden by making it a thing of custom,
to which his life adjusted itself. Ho had not less to
bear, but he had learned better how to bear it ; and
the pride and joy which ho had felt in Helen's love,
even when he felt himself least worthy of it, seemed
more and more his right, and less and less his unlaw-
ful possession. Apparently she was pleasantly placed
in the house which she amusingly described to him,
and she was living quietly and trustfully on there,

A woman's reason. 219

waiting for his return. She wrote him very freely
about everything else, but she shrank from telling
him of her experiment in decorating pottery for
sale, because she would not let him know that she
had ever thought herself in need. She never spoke
of any need in her life except his return ; she only
spoke of that in answer to his letters saying that he
would use every effort to get back, and then she said
that they must both have patience, and that she
would be content to wait all her days for him, rather
than have him do anytliing that he would not have
done if she had not wished. She said something
tl)at made Fenton smile, about her knowing that he
would not dream of deserting his post of duty ; and
then she begged his forgiveness if she had seemed to
express any fear of such a thing ; and again she said
that she was very well and very contented, and that
he must not worry about her, and she only wished
that he could look into her litUo room at Mr&
Hewitt's, and see how comfortable she was.

To the next letter, which reached him a month
later, she put a postscript in which she offered to
give him back every word that bound him to such
a helpless and foolish creature as she was, but told
him that it would kill her if he consented. " If it
were not for thinking of you, * Robert, I should
hardly have the courage to keep up. If you were
ever to be unkind to me again, no matter if it were
entirely my faulty I could not forgive you, but I
should die in the attempt There are some things,"
she added, with subtle relevancy, "about my everyday

220 A woman's reason.

life, and its cares and difficulties, that make me wish
for your advice, but you are too far away for that;
and if you were here, I should not have the troubles,
and should not need the advice. It all comes from
my not having any head for figures, and not calcu-
lating beforehand instead of afterwards, when it
does no good ; and then I have to pay a poor girPs
penalty for flinging money away as no rich girl
ought''

The day she wrote, Helen had met in the street
one of the women whom she had put down on her
list of the things '*To be given away" before the
auction, for certain tables, chairs, and bedsteads,
which Captain Butler, in the use of a wise discretion,
had ordered to be sold for the benefit of the estate.
Mrs. Sullivan, though poor, was not proud, and she was
one of those who had formerly profited by the sums
which Helen saved from hack-hire. She now thanked
her for a small present of old clothes, which, being
sent her before Captain Butler's agency in Helen's
charities began, had really reached her. Helen
saw the ex|)ectation of future ol<l clothes in the
woman's eye, and thouglit it right to cut off her vain
hope.

''I'm afraid I shall not have any more clothes
for you very soon," she said coldly. " I must wear
my old things myself after this." Then, with some
exasperation at being invited to an impossible bene-
ficence, where she had already done so much, she
added : ** I hope you found the furniture useful,
Mrs. Sullivan r'

A woman's reason. 221

"What foornitoor, Misst" quavered the poor
woman, reduced to destitution by the idea of the
prosperity that had evaded her; and it came out
that she had never received the things intended for
her.

Helen did not pause to inquire how this had
liappened. " There has been some misunderstanding,
Mi-s. Sullivan," she said loftily ; " but I don't intend
that you shall be the sufTcrer by it" She gave Mrs.
Sullivan everything she had in her porte-monnaie
except some horsccar tickets. "It may not be so
much as the furniture was worth, but it's ready
money, and no doubt you can buy things with it that
you would rather have."

Mrs. Sullivan was apparently not inclined to this
opinion ; the loss because uncertain seemed greater ;
but she did not fail to invoke God's favour upon
Helen, and she asked for her washing, as an amend
for the unmerited deprivation which the Sullivan
family had undergone through her. Helen hurried
home, and found that she had given Mrs. Sullivan
all her money but ten dollars, and that now she
nuist encroach u]K)n her capital at last She must
go to the lawyer in whose hands Captain Butler had
left her money, and ask him for some of it She
could have wept for vexation at her rashness, and
shame for the necessity to which it had brought her;
but the sum of her varying moods was the mood of
self-pity in which she wrote that postscript to Robert
She was sorry for it as soon as she had posted the
letter, but even then she merely regretted it M the

222 A woman's rrason.

expression of a mood, which she had always said was
foolish in writing a letter.

Fenton had never imagined her poor, or in need
of any kind ; the fancy of a lover does not deal with
material circumstances; but he now made ample
amends for past failure. He took unsparing blame
to himself for the false delicacy that had kept him
from asking in what state her father's affairs had
been left, for not making her tell him how much or
how little she had. At this first vague hint of cares
and difficulties, — of the necessity of saving, — ^which
she had allowed to escape her, he saw her in a
poverty that scarcely stopped short of the municipal
soup-kitchen. With the distance which he had put
between them, how could he hope to help hert
How could he even intimate his longing to do so,
without wounding her t He wore himself out in vain
contrivance for getting his pay to her in some
secret and anonymous way.

Her next letter was cheerful and happy, with no
hint of trouble ; but he could see nothing in it but
a feint of gaiety, a pretence to keep him in heart
about her; and the effect of time and will were
undone in him.

'*I don't undei-stand all this bother of yours,
Fenton," said the doctor, to whom he applied once
more. " But I guess you 've got to go home. You 're
dying here."

" Going home doesn't follow," replied Fenton.

'^You're useless, and worse than useless, as you
are, here," continued the doctor. " I know how you

A woman's reason. 223

feel About it ; you feel that it 's a disgrace to give
up ; but you Ve sick, and you 're as irresponsibly
sick as if you had the consumption. You have got
to look at it in that light"

" I can't go," said Fenton.

"Oh, very well," retorted the doctor. "I can't
force ft man to live."

That night, as Fenton sat in the wardroom with
two or three others, who were smoking and reading,
while he pretended to read, the figure of Helen sud-
denly glided out of the empty air, and paused full
form before him ; it melted by slow degrees away,
her face vanishing last, and leaving him with a sense
of her strange look : it was neither sad nor reproach-
ful, but of a peculiarly sweet and gentle archness.

He turned a ghastly countenance on the doctor,
whom he found looking at him across the table. He
trembled to his feet, and the doctor ran round and
helped him to his room. " Well t" he impatiently
demanded, when they were alone in his room.

"She's dead I I saw her ghost!" whispered
Fenton. The perspiration, which stood in drops on
his forehead, bathed the clammy hand with which
he clutched the doctor's warm hairy fist

" I agree to the ghost," the doctor answered cheer-
fully, " but I guess she isn't dead, all the same."

" You think not t" queried Fenton with a childish
submissiveness. " But — but I saw her I"

" Oh, no doubt," replied Simmons. " If you keep
on at this rate, you '11 see a ball-room full of her I
It 's a phenomenon of your condition. Yon tarn in,

224 A woiian's reason.

now, and 1 11 make you up a bottle that will keep
her away till to-morrow night, anyway."

The surgeon had the professional humanity, and
he would have pitied Fenton as the doctor pities his
patient, oven if he had felt no personal kindness for
him. But he really had a liking for the young fellow;
he respected him as the most striking case of
nostalgia that had ever come under his notice. The
case was all the more interesting from the character
of the man, wliich was one of stubborn endurance in
everything; his pride was as evident as his quick
temper ; and yet here he was, beaten down, perfectly
broken up, by a purely moral disorder. " If I had
not got that man away," Doctor Simmons could say
in imaginable boastings that were to hold future
wardrooms in awe, ''he would have died, sir; died
of sheer home-sickness !"

Of any other sort of sickness with which the
nostalgia was complicated, no intimation seemed to
have penetrated to the doctor's thickened conscious-
ness ; it was long since he had had any love affairs of
his own ; the passion, as he had observed it later in
life, was not apt to manifest itself in any such con-
dition as Fenton's ; he ascertained that the apparition
was that of the lieutenant's adoptive sister, and he
rested in that knowledge. But the fact that patients
suffering from nostalgia were sometimes haunted by
visions of absent friends was an incident of the
malady noted in the books, and upon its occurrence
every possible means should be made to secure their
return home.

A WOMAN'S REASON. 226

It wan upon this authority and this conviction
that Doctor Simmons approached the Admiral in
Fen ton's behalf. He explained the case with scien-
tific seal, and then dwelt upon the peculiar circum-
stances which rendered it impossible for Mr. Fenton
to apply for leave to return, while he was at the
same time in such a condition of mind that to con-
demn him for service by medical survey, and send
him home in that way, would be simply sentencing
him to death. The doctor acknowledged the irre-
gularity of his own proceeding in making this appeal;
but he urged the extremity and the delicacy of the
case in justification : Mr. Fenton would certainly
not survive if he remained in the station; Doctor
Simmons staked his professional reputation upon
that, and without presuming to suggest anything, he
boggril the Admiral to consider whether some public
interest could not be served by Mr. Fenton's return
on duty. The next day Fenton received orders to
sail by the first steamer from Yokohama with de-
spatches for Washington. It was at the time of the
war l>ctween Japan and Corea, in which, as is well
known, certain eventualities threatened to compro-
mise American interests.

When Doctor »Simmons visited his patient after
the orders reached him, he was rewarded for the tact
with which he had accomplished his difficult task by
Fcnton's accusation that he had brought the result
about He expected this, and in the interest of
science, he met the accusation with lies so prompt
that they would have carried conviction to any mind

P

226 A WOMAN'S REASON.

less sore and disordered than Fenton's He told him
that his orders were a god* send, and advised him
not to trouble himself about how or why they had
been given. In fact the situation admitted of
nothing but obedience ; upon the face of it there was
no point that the most self-accusing scruples could
lay hold of; and Fenton discovered with helpless
shame that all the natural forces in him were fighting
against his broken will He was quite ready for the
steamer that sailed in a few days for Yokohama and
San Francisco; and he accepted his good fortune
upon the best terms he could. When it was too late
he began to realise his obligation to the man who
had saved his life, and given it back to him with
such hope as now rioted in his heart at every thought
of Helen and of homa He was a week out from
Yokohama, and he could do nothing but write a
letter to the surgeon, trying to make up for bis past
thanklessness by a vain and remote profusion of
gratitude.

He was, as he figured it, only a fortnight from
San Francisco, and unless he suffered some detention
at Washington, only a little over three weeks from
Helen. The possibility that he might be ordered
away upon some other service before he saw her
occurred to him, but only as one of those disasters
which each of us regards as too cruel and monstrous
ever to happen to himself. He bet on the highest
figures in the pools formed to guess at the run of the
ship from day to day ; and the lady who held the
pools was not long in divining the cause of his

A WOMAN'S REASON. 227

sanguine faith in a short passage. Miv. Bowers was
going to join her husband xu San Francisco; the
similarity of their objects gave them a natural
interest in each other, and a man of Fenton's ordi-
nary good sense and reserve was capable of confiding
in til is sympathising listener, with the lover's in-
genuous egotism, so incredible to us later in lifa
He talked continually of Helen to her, when perhaps
she would much rather have had him talk about
himself, as they walked up and down the deck to-
gether; he told her everything but Helen's name,
which she threatened she would have yet before they
got to San Francisco. In the meantime they always
s]K>ke of Helen as the Mystery. It was folly, but it
made Fenton transcendently happy; these confidences
brought Helen nearer, they realised her ; they almost^
in the spiritualists' phrase, materialised her. The
time came when, the moonless night being propitious,
he told Mrs. Bowers of the apparition of Helen, and
asked her what she thought of it She said that she
thought it the most wonderful thing she had ever
heard of : but she owned that she did not know what
it meant She added that she should always stand
in awe of a person who had had such a thing happen
to him ; and then she pressed the arm on which
she hung, and giggled; and the next moment she
shrieked There ha'l been a sudden, violent wrench
and shock ; her cry was answered, after a moment's
deathly silence, by a confused clamour from all
parts of the ship; and the passengers came rush-
ing up from below, where they had been playing

228 A woman's reason.

euchre, and singing hymns, and eating bacon and
Welsh-rabbit, and implored one another to say what
had happened. According to usage eyerywhere in
cases of accident^ there was no authority to turn to
for information ; the officers of the ship wero each
about his duty, and they severally and collectively
underwent severe criticism from the passengers for
their absence from the scene of the common dismay
and curiosity.

Fenton was the first, in virtue of his office and
mission, to learn that the ship had broken her shafts
and must put back to Yokohama. He received his
sentence with desperate fortitude.

*' I think we might get you back in time for the
' next boat," said the captain, considerate of the haste
of a bearer of despatches, '* but it would be only a
chance. This is a sailing craft now. With a fair
wind all the way, we might do it ; but that 's almost
too much to hope for. Of course we might meet the
next boat on her way home before we make Yoko-
hama, but that would be still more of a chance."

<*Well, I must go back with you, that's all,"
replied Fenton.

<* Yes, there 's nothing else for it, that I see."

The passengers in the saloon were divided between
two minds, and inclined in about equal numbers to
hold a service of song and thanksgiving for their
delivery from danger, and to organise an indignation
meeting for the adoption of resolutions condemning
the captain for snubbing a committee of inquiry,
which had presented a just jnterrogation as to his

A woman's rsason. 229

purposes, in view of the nrcident It appeared, from
the best inforraed, that the captain had at once put
his ship about, not only without consulting the pas-
sengers* wishes, but evidently without considering
whether it was not quite as feasible to push on to
San Francisco as to return to Yokohanuu There
were attempts to conmiit some of the stewards to
the former hypothesis.

About noon the next day, the captain spoke a ship,
which, under a full press of canvas, was making
speed eastward that mocked the laggard reluctance
of the steamer on her backward course. She proved
to be the clipper Meteor, bound for San Francisco,
for a freight of wheat to Europe. The captain invited
Fen ton on to the bridge.

"There's your chance," he said, "if you want to
risk its But you must be quick a1>out it."

" How much of a chance is it t" asked Fenton.

" Those clippers often make very quick runs. She's
bound stmight for where you want to ga I can't
advise, and I don't know whetlier they 'II take yon."

"I'll risk itl" said Fenton. If he had been
given more time to hesitate he might have refused
the risk ; but he was not given the time. Ho
scratched a line to Helen, tolling her what had
happened, for the captain of the steamer to poet
in Yokohama when he got back, so that she might
have some intelligence of him in case of further
delay; but, when he had finished his letter, he
decided that it would distress her with needless
anxiety if it reached her before his arrival, and that

230 A woman's reason.

it would in all probability come after him ; and so he
put it into his pocket, instead of giving it to the
captain. In the meantime, there was further un-
intelligible parley with the clipper; she shortened
sail and hove-to, and before the other passengers
had well realised the fact, Fenton and his baggage
were in the boat which the steamer had lowered,
and was rising and sinking on the long swells that
stretched between her and the other ship. Mrs.
Bowers had parted from him with effusion : *' I know
you'll find her alive and well," she whispered in
generous sympathy; and he volunteered to look
Mr. Bowers up in San Frandisco, and tell him all
about everything.

The other passengers received the adieux which
he waved and bowed them, in that awe which
Americans like to feel for any representative of the
national dignity : we see so little of it. Fenton luid
put on his uniform to affect as powerfully as possible
the imagination of the captain of the clipper, who
was quite master to refuse him passage, after all;
the captain of the steamer had not thought it best
to make too plain his purpose in sending out a boat
to the hasty stranger.

Both his precaution and Fenton's had been well
taken. When Captain Rollins of the Meteor came
to understand the reason why his ship had been
stopped, he discharged a blast of profanity of a range
that included nearly everything in animated nature,
except Lieutenant Fenton, who stood sternly patient
before him, until he should finish ; perhaps it devoted

A woman's rkason. 231

him the more terriblj by this exception. When the
captain stopped for breath, Fenton leaned over the
rail, and motioned off the steamer's boat which by
rocking on the sea by the ship's side ; he had taken
the precaution to have his baggage brought on board
with himsell

" I am bearer of despatches to Washington from
the flag-ship at Hong-Kong. Of course, you expect
to take me on to San Francisco^ and I expect to pay
you for the best quarters you can give me. I am
liientenant Fenton of the Messasauga. What is your
naraet"

" Rollins," growled the captain.

" Here, my man," said Fenton to one of the sea-
men, " take these things to Captain Rollins's room."

The uniform and the secure bearing had tiieir
effect ; few men knew just what is the quality and
the authority of a bearer of despatches; tiie sailor
obeyed, and the skip])er submitted. He was by no
means a bad fcUow ; he belonged to the old school
of sea-captains, now almost as extinct as the pirates
whose diction they inherited ; his furious blasphemies
were merely what in another man would have been
some tacit reflections upon the vexatious nature of
the case.

Fenton found himself neither uncomfortable nor
really unwelcome on the Meteor. Upon the hint
given him, the captain turned out of his room for
the lieutenant^ and he caused some distinct improve-
ments to be made in the ship's fare. There were a
number of Chinese in tiie steerage, and among the

232 A woman's USA80N.

passengers in the cabin a young American lady re-
turning with her mother from a visit to her brother
in China, and a man from Kankakee, Illinois, who
had been out looking up the sorghum-culture in its
native land. The sea-monotony which Fenton's
coming had broken for the moment promptly returned
upon this company. The young lady had not Mrs.
Bowers's art of making attentions to herself appear
an act of devotion to Helen, and Fenton offered her
only the necessary politeness. What companionship
he had was with the Kankakee man, a small, moagi*c,
melancholy figure, full of an uiieiubittei*ed discourage-
ment Continual failure in life had apparently sub-
dued him into acquiescence in whatever hap|)ened,
without destroying his faith in the schemes he pro-
jected ; he was disheartened with himself, not with
them, and he had the gentleness of a timid nature
which curiously appealed to the gentleness of Fen-
ton's courage. He confessed that the first encounter
between the lieutenant and the captain of the ship
had given him apprehensions, and he insinuated a
deep admiration for Fenton's behaviour in that
difficult moment He attached himself to the stronger
man, and accepted him in detail with a simple devo-
tion, which seemed to refer as much to Fenton's
personal presence as to his moral qualities ; and, in
fact, the lieutenant was then a gallant figure. The
oval of his regular face had been chiselled by his
sickness into something impressively fine ; with his
good nose and mouth, his dark moustache and im-
perial, and his brown tint, he was that sort of young

A woman's reason. 233

American whom yon might pronotmce an Italian,
before you had seen the American look in his grey
eyes. His slight figure had a greater apparent height
tiian it really attained.

" You see," explained the Kankakee man, whose
named proved to be GifTcn, " my idea was that if I
could go right in among the Chinese people, and find
out how the thing was carried on, and mebbe talk
with some of their leading agriculturists about it^ I
could do more to get the sorghum culture going
among us in six months than the agricultural depart-
ment of Washington could in six years. It 's bound
to come. It won't come in my time, nor through
anything I 've done, but that soi^hum interest is
bound, to be a big thing with us yet. We've got
the climate, and we 've got the soil for it I 'U allow
I 've had sorghum on the brain ever since I first saw
it ; but that 's no reason I 'm mistaken about it. I
know it 's got to come, and if I could have hit it the
way I expected, I could have done more good, and
made more money in two years after I got home
tlian I 'd known what to do with."

"And how was it you didn't hit itt*' asked
Fcnton.

" Well, you see," said the Kankakee man, whose
name was Oiffen, " I found I couldn't talk the lan-
guage, for ofi« thing. And then I couldn't seem to get
anybody interested. I did try to get into the country
districts, but I couldn't make any great headway:
such a prejudice against foreigners amongst the
Chinese ; and I hadn't very much money with me.

234 A woman's reason.

and I concluded to give it up. But I found out
enough to know that our people can't grow sorghum
on the Chinese plan and make it pay ; labour 's too
dear and we 've got to employ machinery. I Ve got
the idea of a sorghum-planter, that, if I can get any
one to take hold of it, is going to make somebody's
fortune. Have you ever been to Alaska V*

" No," said Fenton.

" They say there 's good soil in Alaska, and there 's
nothing to prevent it's being a great agricultural
country except the frost four or five feet down. Sua
can't get at it on account of the moss. But you
scrape that moss off once, and let the sun have a fair
show for one summer, — well, I believe the thing can
be done, if any one had the sense to gu about it the
right way. And I've got my eye on a kind of
cofice they grow on the Sandwich Islands, that I
believe can be introduced with us, if the right paities
can be got to take hold of it"

The good weather continued for another week,
with westerly winds that carried the Meteor on her
course till she had made nearly three thousand miles
since leaving ShangliaL Each day took him two
hundred or. two hundred and fifty nearer home, and
Fenton looked foi-ward to a prosperous run all the
way to San Francisco with hopes that he dutifully
disguised to himself as fears. Towards the end of
the week, the wind began to haul back to the south-
ward, and fell till it scarcely stirred a ripple on the
sea, but he did not lose courage. He explained to
the other passengers that they could afford to lose

A woman's reason. 235

a few days' time and still make one of the greatest
runs on record They heard him with the tmst doe
a man of his experience and profession, and when
the wind again sprang up in the west, they paid him
the honours of a prophet with the idle zeal of people
at sea, glad even of the distraction which respect for
another's wisdom afforded them. But the wind
suddenly backed from tiie west to the south, a
strange jrellow tinge spread over the purple sky,
and faded to a dull grey, tlirough which the son
burnt only Uie space of its rayless ball The
mercury fell, and the wind dropped again to a dead
calm, from which it rose in sharp gusts that settled,
as the day closed, into a heavy gale from the north-
west The ship drove before the storm for three
(lays and nights. When tho fourth morning broke
she seemed to have been blown beyond its track;
but one of her masts was gone ; the sails hung in
ribbons from the yards; the tangled and twisted
Khronds swept her deck, and all but two of her boats
liad been carried away. The first observation pos-
sible since the storm b<^an showed that she had
been driven nearly a thousand miles to the south-
cast; but she was put upon her course again, and
laboured on till night-fall. At nine o'clock the pas-
sengers huildled together in the cabin heard a cry
of " Hard down your helm !" and the ship struck
with a violence that threw them to the floor ; Uicn
recoiling, she struck again, with a harsh, grating
force, and ceased to move. In this instant of arrest
Fenton found his feet, and scramUed to the deck

236 A WOMAN'S REASON.

The Meteor hung upon a coral reef, that defined itself
under the stai'light in the curving line of breakers
on either hand. The seaa swept over her where she
lay on her beam-ends, and at every rush of the
breakers she pounded heavily on the reef. Beyond
it was a stretch of smoother water, from which
seemed to rise a low irregular mass of rock, forming
with the reef a inide quadrangle. There was no hoi)e
for the ship, and no hope for her people unless they
could somehow reach this rock. It was useless
to launch the boats in such a sea; they tried
one, bat it filled as soon as it touched the water,
and nothing remained but to carry a line, if it could
be done, to the island beyond the reef. The captain
called for volunteers, but the men hung back. It
was not the time to parley ; Fenton ]>assed one end
of the line round his waist, and ))lunged into the
gulf under the lee of the ship. When he reached
the rock, he found that two sailors had followed
him, and these now helped him to pull in the heavier
line attached to the cord, which he had made fast to a
point of the rock. A hauling rope was carried along
this line, and in the glare of the lights burned on
the ship, they began to biing her people away one
by one. A sailor mounted into the sling running
upon the rope, with a woman or child in his arms,
and was hauled to the rock and back again to the
ship; and all the women and children were set
ashore, even some poor creatures among the Chinese,
before any of the men were suffered to land. These
followed, till none of the passengers but the China-

A woman's rxason. 237

men were left They stood haddled together at the
bow, which had shifted round under the blows of
the surf, and was hanging seaward, and the lights,
burning now green, now crimson, now purple, showed
them tossing their arms into the air, as if in some
weird incantation, as thej tried to free tiie wet
joss-papers that clung to their fingers; their shrill
supplications pierced through the roar of the
breakers. The captain reported that he tried to
make them understand how they were to reach tiie
reef ; but they would not or could not understand.
He and his officers then flung themselves upon
the line, straining under the seaward lapse of the
wreck ; and at the same moment the vessel parted
amidships, and the bow where the Chinese were
grouped weltered back with them into the sea. The
lights died out, and the ship's bell, which had been
tolling dismally as ithe pounded on the reef, suddenly
ccasnl to sound. The broken hulk grew up once
more in the dark, and the roar of the breakers rushed
loud again upon the moment of horror that had been
like a moment of silence.

When Fenton first touched tiie rock where all the
survivors of the wreck were now gathered, it rose
scarcely a foot above the water at the liighest pointy
and by the time the captain reached it, they stood
kneedcep in the rising tide. An hour after midni^i
it was high-tide, and it was only by holding fast to
each other that they could keep their footing.

The moon broke from the clouds, and one of the
sailors whipped out his knife, with a cry of " Look

238 A WOMAN'S REASON.

out. for yourselves r' and made a cut at something
in the water. Fenton looked, and saw that the sea
around them was full of sharks. He helped the
captain form the men ahout the women and children,
and they fought the fish away with cries, and
thrusts of their knives, and blows of the splinters
and fragments of the wreck which the breakers had
flung them over the reef, till the tide turned, and
the most hideous of their dangers had passed for the
time.

With the first light of day came their first gleam
of hope. One of the ship's boats, which must have
been carried jiround the line of their reef, came
floating to them, bottom up, on the refluent tide from
the other quarter. It proved to be so little injured
that the captain and some of his men were able to
put off in it to the wreck, where they found tools for
repairing it, and abundant stores. When they
returned to the rock, they had a mast with its sail
ready to be stepped, lying in the boat, and several
pairs of mismated oars, which they had picked up
outside. But it was the smallest of the boats, and
the castaways counted each other with cruel eyes as
it drew near. The rock where they stood was one of
those dead atolls in which the Pacific abounds : a tiny
coral isle, once tufted with palms, and gay with per-
petual green, which the sinking of the ocean's floor
had dropped below tlie tide, and left lurking there
with its guardian reef, a menace and a deadly peril to
navigation. Somewhere within a day's sail there must
be other islands of kindred origin, but with a certain

A woman's reason. 239

aren of dry and habitable land, which the boat might
reach. But who should go, and who should wait
her uncertain return t It was not a question of the
women and children, nor of their husbands and
fathers, but when all these had crowded into the
boat, seven men remained upon the rock.

*' Captain Rollins, there isn't room for us all in
that boat,** Fenton heard his voice saying: "I ask
no mnn to share my risk, but I 'm goiflg to stay here,
for one."

" I don't ask any man to stay," said CapUin
Rollins. " I 've left sixteen thousand dollars in gold,
— all I Ve got in this world, — on the ship, so as to
keep the boat as light as I could ; but^ as you say,
lieutenant, she can't hold us all."

Tlicre wan a little pause ; then three sailors, with
a shamefaced nvoidnnco of Fenton's eye, pushed past
him toward the boat

One of the passengers — an Englishman — rose up.
" My good men," he said, " you 're surely not coming."

" Yes, we are," replied one of them surlily. •' Why
shouldn't we come as well as you 1"

** But the boat is too full already / " he exi)ostulated.
" You endanger the lives of the^M^ti^^* /"he cried,
with that respect for the rights of the travelling
public which fills the Englishman when he writes to
the Times of the inattention of the railway company's
servants.

" Let the passengers get out, then," said the sailor.
" IFe don't want 'em here." His joke raised a laugh
among his fellows. " Come along, John; come along,

240 A woman's reason.

Jake/' he called to the seamen who Btill remained
with Fenton.

'' No ; guess not," said one of them quietly.

The matter-of-fact, every-day character of the
details of the calamity, the unchanged nature of the
actors in this tragedy of life and. death, robbed it of
reality to Fenton's sense, and made it like some
crudely represented fiction of the theatre.

The figure of Gifibn interposed itself between him
and the captain who stood at the bow of the boat, in
the act of offering his hand in farewell. "Excuse
m^" he said, answering Fen ton's look, " I 'm going to
stay. But I want Captain Rollins, if he gets back,
to write to my brother, George Giffen, at Kankakee."

The harsh name, so grotesquely unrelated to any-
thing that was there or then, awoke Fenton from his
maze. AVas there a world beyond these seas where
there were towns and fields, chimneys and trees, the
turmoil of streets, the quiet of firesides 1 His heart
seemed to close upon itself, and stand still, as the
image of Helen sewing beside the little table in the
library, in the way he always saw her, possessed hiuL
The next moment, this in its turn was the theatrical
vision, and he was sUuiding on a point of rock in a
wilderness of waters, the boat at his feet, and the
broken wreck upon the reef a stone's-cast away. He
took from his breast the water-tight packet in which
he carried his despatches, and wrote upon the back
of one of them a line to Helen ; with her address, and
a request that it might be forwarded to her. " Here
are some letters," he said, handing the packet to the

A WOICAN'S REASON. 241

captain, witli a light-headed sense of sending them
to some one in another life.

"Why, bless you, manT cried Captain Rollins,
" I shall find land before nighty and I shall be back
for you here by this time to-morrow morning 1"

" Yes, yes !" returned Fen ton. " Don't stay, now,"
he added impatiently. " Good-bya''

The four men on the rock watched the boat till she
showed so small in tlie distance that they could no
longer be sure whether they saw her or not ; then
they turned their eyes upon each other. Whatever
the two seamen left behind with Fenton may have
thought of 1 1 is looks, he could not congratulate him-
self upon theirs. ' But he said, " You are the men who-
followed me with the line last night" -'^

" Yes, sir," answered one of them.

" You 're not afraid, any way," said Fenton, as if
this were the most that could be said for them.

" I guess we get along," said the man, " I rather be
on this rock, than that boat, with so much people."

" What are you t*' asked Fenton ; for the man spoke
with a certain accent and a foreigner's hesitation.

"I'm Fayal man; I live at Qloucester, Massa-
chusetts ; John Jones."

Fenton recognised the name under which most
Portuguese sailors ship. "And who are youl" he
asked of the other, who was as tall and fair as the
Portuguese was dark and short.

He grinned, and the latter answered for him. " He
don't speak much English. He 's some Dutchman ;
Icelander, I guess."

Q

242 A WOMAN'S REASON.

"Very well," said Fentoa "You know where
we are, and what the chances are."
"Yes, sir."

"I reckon," said Qiffcn, "we can make out to
worry along somehow till the boat gets back." Tlie
sailors had begun to breakfast on the stores the
boat had brought off from the wreck and left for them
on the rock, and Giffen turned to with them.

" It won't do to count too much upon the boat's
coming back," replied Fenton, suddenly hungry at
sight of the others eating. "They may find land
before night, and they may not find it for two weeks.
At any rate, the sharks will be back before they
are."

Giffen's jaw dropped, with a large morsel bulging
his cheek.

"Come, man!" cried Fenton sharply, "you'd
better have crowded into the boat with the others,
if you're sorry you stayed."

"I don't suppose I've got any great physical
courage," said Gifien, in his slow weak voice. " But
I 'm not sorry I stayed. I 'm ready to do whatever
you say. I 'm a bom high-private, if ever there was
one."

" I beg your pardon," Fenton began, ashamed of
his petulant outburst.

" Oh, that 's all right," said Giffen quietly. " But
I 'm in earnest, I 'd rather follow some other man's
luck, any time."

" I shall not ask you to do anything that I 'm not
ready to do myself," returned Fenton. "We must

A woman's reason. 243

get out to the \vrcck," he added, including the Portu-
guese, *' and see what we can make of it. And the
sooner we get to it tlic better."

''I*m ready/' said the sailor, closing the clasp
knife with which ho had been eating; and the
Icelander, who seemed to understand everything
through him, pocketed his knife also.

They waded into the shoal water, and swam round
the stem of the ship where it overhung the reef, and
tried to board her. But there was no means of
doing this, unless they passed the reef, and ventured
into the sea beyond, where they knew the sharks were
waiting. They returned to their rock, and began
to gather up the pieces of shattered spars and planks,
that the rising tide was bringing in, and with such
oddb and ends of cordage and rags of sail as clung
to these fragments, they contrived a raft, on which
they hopc<l ^.o float out to the wreck when the tide
turned once more. After the raft was finished and
made fast to the rock, they climbed upon it, and,
launching upon the elb, drifted out through a break
in the reef, and contrived to clamber up her broken
timbers. They could see that this fragment of a
ship must soon go to pieces, under the incessant
blows of the waves ; and Fenton and Oiffen made
nil haste in their search for tools and materials to
strengthen their float so that they might put to sea
on it if the worst came to the worst. The sailora
began ransacking the wreck with a purpose of their
own, and in the end, they all owed their lives to the
rapacity which left no part of the ship unsearched ;

244 A WOMAN'S REASON.

for it waa the Portuguese wlio found wedged in
among the shattered timbers of the hulk, where some
caprice of the waves had lodged it, the boat that
had foundered the night before. Every blow of the
sea had driven it tighter into the ruin, and it was an
hour's struggle in the dark, waist-deep in water,
amid the bodies of the drowned Chinamen, and just
within the line of the sharks that were preying upon
them, before the boat could be cut out When they
pulled it up on the deck at last, it was in a condition
that must have seemed desperate to less des|)crate
men; but in this extremity Oiffen developed the
shiftiness of a dabbler in many trades, and his rude
knack with the saw and hammer rendered the
battered boat seaworthy. Fenton found a bag of
flour, water-soaked without, but fresh and dry within ;
a few biscuit and some peas and beans, with which
he provisioned her; and a shot gun, with a store
of water-proof cartridges, with which he armed her.
With Oiffen's help he fashioned a mast out of
one of the broken yards, f«nd patched together
a sail from the shreds and tatters of canvas hang-
ing about it. The wreck was settling more and
more deeply into the sea when they kunched their
boat at sunset, and returned to the rock where they
made her fast

The last man to come over the side of the ship
was the Portuguese, who carried in either hand a
buckskin bag.

"That's Captain Rollins's money," said Fenton.
** Take good care of it "

A woman's rkason. 245

"All right I look out for it^" answered the
sailor.

With the refluent tide the sharks came back again.
The dead Chinamen came with them, and seemed to
join in beleaguering the castaways, crouching in
their boat, which pulled at her moorings, as if strag-
gling to escape the horrors that hemmed them round.
Tlicy had found no water on the wreck, and a con-
stiming thirst parched them. When the morning
broke it showed them the surf bcaUng over the reef
where the ship had hung, and the sea strewn with its
fragments.

"* We can't stay here," said Fenton. " We must
find land for ourselves somewhere — and water."

" That 's so," admitted Giifen, with feeble acquies-
cence.

" I know they never come back for us," said the
Portuguese. •* I goin' tell you that^ yesterday."

They cut their boat from her moorings, and ran
lightly away before the breese that carried them
where it would.

The sky was again of the blue of the weather thai
had prospered the first weeks of the Meteor^s voyage ;
again its vast arch was undimmed by a cloud from
horizon to horizon ; and it only darkened to a deeper
blue, filled with large southern stars, when the sun
dropped below the sea, and the swift tropical night
closc<l round them.

Tlie castaways, voyaging none of them knew
where, and trusting for rescue to whatever chance of
land or passing sail befriended them, with the danger

246 A woman's rkason.

of tempest, and the certainty of starvation after a
given time, before them, had already divided them-
selves into two camps, tacitly distrustful if not
hostile ; the sailors guanled between them the booty
that they had brought from the wreck, and Fenton
and Gifion watched by turns with the gun in tlieir
hands. But at daybreak, a common joy united
them. On the edge of the sea a line of dark points
printed itself against the sky, and, as they approached,
these points rounded into tufts, and then opened into
the feathery crests of cocoa palms, with broken
stretches of delicious verdure between the stems.
The long white wall beneath, that glistened in the
rising sun, like a bank of snow, expanded into a
smooth, sloping beach ; the deep surf iiashed and
thundered along the outer reef; and then the little
coral isle, encircling its slumbrous lagoon, took shape
before their eyes. They tacked and wore to find a
passage through the reef, and so, lietwcen the islets
of the palm-belt, over smooth depths of delicate
yellow and applo-gruen, they slipped into the still
waters of the lake, and ran across to the white coral
beach. They fell upon the sand, and scooped with
their hands a hollow into which oozed a little water
that they could drink ; and then they kindletl a fire
with some matches that Oiffen had brought from the
wreck, and roasted the shell-fish the sailors found
among the rocks.

*' I think this goin' to be nice place, Cap'n," said
the Portuguese, stretching himself face downwards on
the clean sand, when ho had eaten and drunken bis

A WOMAN'S REASON. » 247

fill. " Plenty to eat, plenty to drink, nothin' to do.
By-'n*-by some ship goin* to come here. We 're all
right, heigh I "

The little brown-faced man lifted to Fenton's face
his black eyes, sparkling like a rat's with the content
of a full stomach.

Tlic Icelander laughed as if he had understood his
shipmate, and while the Portuguese luxuriously
dropfied off to sleep, he wandered away, leaving
Fen ton and GifTen to pros|)ect for the best place to
put the hut they must build. " I don't like the way
those fellows take it, exactly," said the latter. " They
let themselves up' pretty easy when it comes to a
question of work," he added, with a mild sense of
injury in his tone.

But the Icelander returned after a while with a
large turtle he had caught, and with his hat full of
turtles' eggs, which he had found in the sand. The
Fayal man, when he nwoke, joined him in a second
foraging expedition, and they came back laden with
fish and birds. John Jones showed himself skilled
in primitive methods of roasting and broiling on hot
stones. He opened the bag of flour, and made a
store of bread, which he l>aked in the ashes ; and by
the time Fenton and Giflen had finished the rude
shelter they had been knocking together for the
night, in the cocoa grove, he called them to a supper
which a famine far less fastidious than theirs must
have found delicious.

•'Well, you are a cook," said Giflen, with the
innate disrespect for his art, which our race feels.

248 A wohan's reason.

*^ But you *ve got enough hera for a regiment," he
added, looking round on the store of provisions,
cooked and uncooked, which was heaped up on the
sand.

'< Oh, plenty more where that come from,'' said the
Portuguese. ''They all good cold. I don't like
cookin' to-morrow; want to eat and sleep for a
week."

The Icelander had strayed away again, and they
saw him climbing the palms, and strewing the earth
beneath with cocoa nuts. ''Jake seems to be laying
out for a week's rest too," said Giffen.

The Portuguese laughed at the joke. ** You better
take that money up to your house, Cap'n," he said
to Fenton.

'' Where is it 1 " asked Fenton.

The Portuguese showed the two bags, where he
had placed them, in a tuft of grass.

Fenton hesitated a moment ** You can bring it up
with you when you get through here," he said finally.

The Portuguese and his ship-mate came carrying
up the provision to the hut, after Fenton and Gi£fen
had stretched themselves on their beds of grass.

'*Cap'n," he said, waking Fenton, "here's the
money. What we goin' do with that boatl" ^

'' Let her be where she is ; nothing can happen to
her," answered Fenton, heavy in heart and soul, and
sodilen with sleep, as he placed his hand on the
bags the sailor had put down beside him.

'' Yes," chuckled the Portuguese, ** I guess nobody
goin' steal her."

A woman's reason. 349

The sailora did not come into the hut ; they b^^
to build a shelter of their own, and the noise of their
work followed Fenton into his sleep. He had
watched for three days and nights; he could not
rouse himself from the deathly slumber into which
he dropped again in spite of a formless fear that
beset him ; but he woke toward morning, with this
terror, which proved more potent than the fatigue
that drugged him. The money was still there;
the sailors were peacefully snoring in their hut ; and
GifTeii lay asleep across the gun. He staggered down
to look at the boat It was safe where they had left
it, and he returned to their shelter, where he watched
an hour, as he thought; then he woke GifTen, and
bidding liiin call him in his turn, when he could no
longer keep awake, he fell asleep once more. It
must have been his visit to the boat that suggested
the dream which seemed to begin as soon as he closed
his eyes, lie dreamed that Uiey were at sea again
in the boat, and that they saw a sail in the offing, so
near that those on boanl, who did not see them,
must hear them if they united in one loud cry. They
rose up together for the effort, but their voices died
in a gasp on their lips. Fenton burst into a groan
of despair.

"My Lord! what's the matter t" cried Giffen,
shaking the dreamer. Fenton scrambled to his feet ;
the money-bags were still there, but the sailors were
gone ; he tore open the bags ; they were filled with
shells and sand. He rushed down to the beach;
the boat had disappeared; (m the horizon a

250 A woman's reason.

no bigger than the petal of a flower, flickered and
faded.

It was sunset, and they had slept through the
night and the whole day.

Fenton turned a look on his fellow-captive, which
Oiffen met with a face of ghastly self-upbraiding.
" My God/' he said, " I fell asleep 1 I hated to
wake you, and I fell asleep before 1 knew it 1"

<<It doesn't matter," replied Fenton, with the
nerveless quiet of his despair. '* Sooner or later,
they meant to do it"

They turned blankly from the fact ; it was days
before they could confront it in speech ; and then,
with the conjecture that the sailors had set out in
search of some inhabited land, where they could
enjoy the spoil of the ship, their deseiiion remained
incredible, unimaginable.

XII.

It has been intimated that Helen entered upon
her now life at Mrs. Hewitt's with social pre-
occapations in her own favour which she was by
no means prepared to surrender; and she did not
think of yielding them, even in the abjcctcst
moments of her failure and humiliation. In the in-
terval of idleness that followed, she was again purely
and simply a young lady, not attached by any sort
of sympathy to the little 1x)arding-houso world, though
she had always meant to treat it with consideration.
]]ut it is impossible that one who has been bred to
be of no use should not feel an advantage over all
those who have been bred to be of some use; and if for
no other reason Helen must have confessed, wittingly
and unwittingly, by a thousand little recoils and
reserves, that her fellow-boarders and herself
could never meet on a level. It was perfectly easy,
however, to keep aloof. After the first necessary
civilities with the Evanses, she only met them on the
stairs or at the table, where the talk was mainly be-
tween Mr. Evans and Miss Root, the ari-stadeni It

253 A WOMAN'S REASON.

appeared from the casual confidences of the landlady
that Miss Root was studying to be a painter, and that
some of her work was beautiful Mrs. Hewitt owned
that she was no judge of painting, but she said that
she knew what she liked She told Helen also that
Mr. Evans was one of the editors of Saiu/rday After-
fiooi^ a paper which she praised because she said it
gave you the news about everybody, and kept you
posted, so that you could tell just where they were
and what they were doing, all the while ; she believed
that Mr. £vans was not connected with this admir-
able part of the paper : he wrote mostly about the
theatres and the new booka

Helen was amused by some of his talk at the table ;
but she was not at all sure about the Evanses. She
could not tell exactly why ; one never can tell exactly
why, especially if one is a lady. Mrs. Evans seemed
well enough educated and well enough dressed ; she
had been abroad the usual term of years ; she neitlier
unduly sought nor repelled acquaintance ; but from
the first, Helen was painfully aware of not having
heard of her ; and one is equally uncertain of people
of whom one has heard nothing, or heard too much.
As soon as she learned what Mr. Evans's business
was, she understood, of course, that they could never
have been people tliat people knew ; and, Were they
not a little Bohemian 1 she asked, rather tepidly, one
day, when an old friend of hers, whom she happened
to meet, broke into effusive praise of them, on hearing
that Helen was in the same house with them.

** My dear," said Miss Kingsbury, summing up in

A WOUAN'S REASON. 253

a word iho worst that a New England woman can bbj
of a man, '* he is easy-going / But he is very kind ;
and ske is the salt of the earth."

" And some of the pepper t" suggested Helen.

'' A little of the pepper, without doubt But not
a grain more than is good for him. He would be
nothing without her,** she added, in the superstition
ladies love to cherish concerning the real headship
of the family. " She makes up all her own things,
and teaches that boy herself. And you have another
person there who is really a character : Miss Root
If you see any of her work, you '11 see that she is an
artist ; but you'll have to see a great deal of her
before you find out that she 's the best soul in the
world. AVith her little time, and her little money,
she does more good / She 's practical^ and she knows
just how to help people that want to help themselves:
|K>or girls, you know, trying to learn things, and get
into occupntions. And m rectangular she is !"

Miss Kingsbury ran off, professing an instant and
pressing duty. '* I 'm coming to see you very soon.
Good-bye, Helen dear 1 You know how I feel for
you/' she added tenderly.

Many other people, returning to town, looked
Helen up, and left cards, and messages of friendly
interest She did not see any one that she could
help seeing ; she was doubly exiled by her bereave-
ment and her poverty from the gay and prosperous
world they belonged to ; she knew that tliey were
kind, and meant well, but she knew tliat hencefor-
ward she could have few interests in common with

254 A woman's reason.

them. She was happiest when she was quite alone
with lier sorrow and with her love, which seemed to
have sprung from it, and to be hallowed by it Their
transmutation gave her memories and her hopes a
common sweetness, which was sometimes very
strange ; it seemed as if Kobert were present with
her when she thought of her father, and that her
father came to share all her thoughts of Robert

Her old life had otherwise almost wholly dropped
away from her. After her return from Beverley, Mar-
garet came often to see her, but the visits were a
trial to Helen ; and perhaps Margaret saw this, for she
came at longer and longer intervals, and at last came
no more. Helen supposed that she had taken a place,
but waited patiently till she should reappear.

She spout a great part of each day in writing to
Robert and thinking about him, and trying to con-
trive their common future, and she made over all
her bonnets and dresses. She saved a good deal of
money by not buying anything new for the winter,
and after her benefaction to LIrs. Sullivan, she found
that even with these economies, she had nothing to
buy spring dresses. But that mattered very little ;
she had not cared, after she first put on black, to
mark the degrees of mouniing punctiliously; she had
always dressed quietly, and now she could wear
what she wore last year without treason to her grief.
The troublo was that she would soou need money
for other things, before any interest would be due
from the money in Mr. Hibbard's hands, and she
spent several days in trying to put into dignified

A woman's reason. 255

and self-respectful terms the demand she must make
upon him for part of her capital. She felt rather
silly about it, and the longing to do something to
cam a little money for herself revived. At the
bottom of her heart was the expectation, always
disowned and silenced, that Robert would somehow
soon return ; she had told Mr& Butler that she
knew he would come back as soon as he got her
letter ; but after the Rrst keen pang of disappoint-
ment and surprise with which she realised that he
could not at once ask leave of absence, or resign
witliout a sort of ignominy, she heroically accepted
the fact of a prolonged separation. She had caused
it, she said to herself, and she must bear it; she
must do everything she could to help him bear it
She idealijtcd him in his devotion to duty, and
worshipped him as if he had been the first man to
practi;;e it She was more than ever determined
not to l>e a bunlen to him in any way ; she deter-
mined to be a help to him, and she had planned a
pretty scene in which she brought out a little hoard
of eamings, in addition to her five thousand dollars,
and put them into Robert's hand the day after their
marriage. It would be doubly sweet to toil for
Robert ; in the meantime it was sweet to dream for
him ; and she had not yet decided how the sum she
intended to bestow upon him was to be earned,
when she found herself obliged to borrow of the
future rather than able to lend to it. But she
resolved all the more severely to replace with in-
terest what she borrowed; she would not leave a

256 A WOMAN'S REASON.

stone unturned ; and she forced herself, in going to
Mr. Hibbard's office, to pass the store where she
had left her painted vases on sale six months before.
She said to herself that they would be all in the
window still ; but when she dared to lift her eyes
to it there were none. Then she said that they
must have been taken out, and stuck away in some
comer as too hopelessly ugly and unsaleable.

The proprietor of the store came forward with
a smile of recognition, and of something more.
" This is really a coincidence," he said. '* We have
just sold your vases, and I was beginning to wonder
where I should send you the money; I find there
is no address on the card you gave me."

He filliped her card with one hand against the
other, and looked at her with friendly pleasure,
while she stayed herself against a show-case with
a faintness which he could not see.

" Sold them 1" she whispered.

''Yes, all three. Mr. Trufitt was looking at
them yesterday, and asked me who did them. This
morning he called and took them."

''How dared he?" cried Helen in a tumult of
indignation, none the less api)alling because wholly
unintelligible to the person of whom she made the
demand. At the mere name of Trufitt a series of
odious facts had flashed without sequence into her
thought: his obtuse persistence in love; his bald-
ness; his stinginess; the fit of his pantaloons; his
spintual aridity, and his physical knobbiness. She
hardly knew for which of his qualities she disliked

A wouan's reason. 257

liim the most, but she recognised with perhaps
superior disdain that after learning that the vases
were her work, he had turned over for a whole day
in his frugal mind the question of buying them.
After presuming to think of owning her vases, he
had also presumed to hesitato 1 It was intolerable.

"What right — " she began on the innocent
moans of the offence, but corrected herself so far as to
nsk instead, " JFht/ did you tell him who did them t"

" Really," said her victim, with just pique, " I saw
no reason why I shouldn't You gave me no chargea
on that |>oint, and I gave the matter no reflection.
T seized the first chance that offered to sell them
for you." lie looked hurt and vexed ; perhaps he
had made his little romance about serving this very
pretty young lady in her trouble and need.

Helen would not consider his kindness; in her
own vexation she continued to treat him de hatU en
bttx. "I can't allow him to keep my vases," she
snifl. " You must send for them."

"The vases were on sale," returned the proprietor,
" aufl I sold them in good faith. I can't ask them
Imrk."

"/ will ask tliem back," said Helen grandly.
" Good-morning." When she put her hand on the
bell-pull at Mrs. Hewitt's, she remembered that the
shopman had not given her the money for her vases,
and that she had again left him without her address.
This was some satisfaction, but it was not enough :
she would not rest till she had her vases back again,
and had broken them into a thousand pieces.

R

258 A woman's reason.

But she found that the first thing she must do was
to write to the people who had sold them, and
apologise for the strange return she had made for
the interest they had taken in her, recognising the
justice of their position and the absurdity of her
own. It was not an easy note to write, but she
contrived it at last, and that gave her courage to
tliink how she should get her vases back from Mr.
Trufitt, who had bought them, and had certainly a
right to keep them. She knew why ho had bought
them, and this enraged her, but it did not help her ;
she felt that it would be putting herself in an asking
attitude, however imperiously she demanded them
again. If ho yielded, it would be in grace to her ;
and he might refuse — very likely he would refuse.
She had not decided in her own mind what sho
should do in this event, when she received a reply
from Messrs. Pout & Lumloy, enclosing Mr. Truiitt's
money for her vases, less their commission. Messra.
Pout & Lumlcy regretted that their Mr. Lumley had
not clearly understood Miss Harkness's wishes in
regard to the vases she had left with them; but
finding themselves unable to ask their return from
the gentleman who purchased them, they had no
course open to them but to send her the money for
them.

Helen saw that she must have written her address
at the top of her letter of a|)ology, and that she must
have seemed to them to have repented of her mag-
nificent behaviour on another ground, and to have
tacitly asked for the money.

A woman's rkason. 259

She broke into a laugh at the hopeless oomplica-
tion.

" Really," she mused, " I don't know whether I 'd
better be put into the Home for Little Wanderers
or into the Insane Hospital,'' and for the present
there seemed no safety but in entire inaction. She
was so mnch abashed at the result of her yester
day*8 work, that she remained with Messrs. Pout &
Lumley's letter in her hand, wondering when she
should have courage to go out again and renew her
attempt to see Mr. Hibbard. At first she thought
she would write to him, but there seemed something
fatal about her writing to people on business, and
she hesitated. It was im|K>s8ib1e to use this money
of Mr. Trufitt's; she was quite clear as to that^
and, with various little expenses, her money had
dwindled to less than three dollars since her inter-
view with Mrs. Sullivan. She let the morning slip
away in her irresolution, and then she decided to
put the whole affair oflT till the next day. She felt
a comfort in the decision, merely as a decision,
and she began to enjoy something like the peace of
mind which moral strength brings. Perhaps the
weather had something to do with her willingness
to postpone any duty that must take her out of
doors; it was a day that would scarcely have invited
her to an errand of pleasure. For almost a week the
weather had been relenting, and the warmth of
yesterday had brought a tinge of life to the bare
slopes of the Common, where for three months past
the monumental dumpings of the icy streets had

260 A WOMAN'S RSA80N.

dismally accumulated ; and along the base of these
heaps, a thin adventurous verdure showed itself,
like that hardy vegetation which skirts the snow-
line on the Alp& As Helen walked across the
planking on her way to Mr. Hibkard's office, she
had heard a blue-bird in the blue soft air high
through the naked boughs of the elms, making
querulous inquiry for the spring; and there had
seemed a vernal respite even in the exasperation of
the English sparrows. The frozen year, in fact, was
awaking to consciousness, with secret pangs of
resuscitation that now declared themselves in an
easterly storm of peculiar spitefulness, driving
against the umbrellas, which she saw ascending the
narrow hillside street, in gusts that were filled from
moment to moment with sleet and rain and snow.

In the little grute in her room the antliracite had
thrown off its first gaseous malice, and now lay a
core of brownish- red under a soft, lurid blur of flame;
and she stood before it thinking to herself that,
rather than go out in that weather, she would spend
some of Mr. Trufitt's money, as she called it, and
smiling faintly at the demoralisation which had
succeeded her heroics, when some one i*apped at her
door. She turned away from the fire, where she had
stood smoothing the front of her dress in the warmth,
with a dreamy eye on the storm outside, and opened
the door rather resentfully. Mrs. Hewitt was there
with a card in her hand, which she liad apparently
preferred to bring in person, rather than send up by
the general housework girl. Before she gave Helen

A woman's reason. 261

the card, she said, with a studied indifference of
manner that might well have invited confidence —

" I heard him askin' for yon, and I showed him
into the parlour on the second floor, till I could find
out whether you wanted to see company."

Mrs. Hewitt made her own inferences from the
flush and then the pallor with which Helen received
the card ; and while Helen stood staring at it, she
added suggestively, '* Seemed to have some kind of a
passel, or something, 't he brought with him in the
carriage."

" Oh I " said Helen, as if this idle detail had
clinched the matter, " then will you tell him, please,
that I *11 be down in a minute."

She hastily made a woman's imperceptible changes
of hair and ribbon, and descended to the parlour,
with her line of behaviour distinctly drawn in her
mind. After a first impulse to refuse to see her
visitor, and then a full recognition of the stupidity
of such a thing, she saw that she must be frankly
cordial. Mrs. Hewitt had hospitably put a match to
the soft-coal fire laid in the grate, and it was now
lustily snapping in the chilly air of the parlour ; but
JiOrd Rainford was not standing before it He stood
with his back to the door, with his hat in his hand,
and his overcoat on, looking out into thd storm, whose
national peculiarities might well have interested him;
ho turned when Helen came in, and she greeted him
with a welcome which she felt must have the same
eflect of l)eing newly-kindled as the fire in the grate.
He did not seem to notice this, bnt began a huddled

262 A woman's reason.

and confused explanation of his presence, as if it
ought to be accounted for and justified upon special
grounds. Helen pulled the wrap she had flung on
tightly round her, and concealing the little shiver
that the cold air struck through her, asked him to
sit down.

*'The fact is/' he said, "that I was anxious to
put this little parcel into your own hands. Miss
Harkness, and to make sure that it had reached you
in safety." He gave her the package he had been
holding, and then offered to relieve her of it.

" Oh, thank you," said Helen, ignoring it as well
as she could, while refusing to give it up. She had
gathered from the fact that Lord Rainford would
not have felt authorised to present himself to her at
that moment, if he had not this commission from tlie
Rays, that the Rays had sent her the parcel by liim»
and she began to unravel the maze, in which he was
involving them both, by that clew. There had been
something in what he said about London, and Nice,
and Rome, and Alexandria; but whether he had
been with her friends at any or all of these points,
she had not made out

''Where did you see the Rays last t" she asked.
" Were the Butlers with them, or — "

Lord Rainford laughed. ** Why, the fact is," he
exclaimed, " I haven't seen them at all i They made
no stop in England, through some change of plans."

'' Yes, I know," said Helen.

'' And later, I gave up my winter in Egypt I
found that I couldn't go up the Nile, and get back

A WOMAN'S RKA80N. 263

in time, — in time for the yisit I had intended to
make to America ; and — and I had decided to come
to America, and — so I came I "

"Yes," said Helen, a little dazed still. She
added, to gain time for reflection rather than to
sc>nk information, " And you are fond of the Atlantic
in the middle of March t "

" It wasn't so bad We 'd a very good passage. I
found myself so well here, last year, that I Ve been
impatient ever since to come back."

"I'm glad America agrees with you," returned
Helen vaguely.

"Why, I'm not here for my health, exactly,"
said Lord Kainford. " I 'd some other objects, and
Mr. Kay asked me to bring the little box from his
wife for you."

'* O yes, I understand f They sent it to you
fiom Egypt"

"Precisely. I assure you it wasn't an easy
matter to get it through your Custom House un-
opened."

" How did you manage t By bribery and corrup-
tion !"

"No. I won't say I wasn't tempted to try it
But I don't altogether like that sort of thing even in
countries where they naturally expect it; and I
couldn't feel that the inspector whose hands I felf
into did quite expect it I told him that it con-
tained a present from one lady to another, and that
I would rather deliver it unopened, if he could trust
me to come back and pay the duty in case it proved

264 A woman's reason.

to be anything subject to duty. I gave him my
card and address, and I did go so far as to offer
to deposit a sum of money with him as surety."

" How very, very kind of you 1" cried Helen, begin-
ning to be charmed.

*' Oh, not at all," said Lord Bainford, colouring a
little. " I merely mentioned it because it led up to
something that interested me. He looked at my
card, and then he looked at me, and said, ' That it
wasn't necessary between gentlemen/**'

Helen laughed at the man's diverting assumption
of a community of feeling with Lord Rainford.
** You must have been edified," she said, " with such
an early example of American equality."

Lord Rainford looked rather mystified and a little
troubled. ** I don't know. I rather liked it, I believe,"
he said tentatively ; as one does who has not been
taken in quite the way he expected.

''You are easily pleased," cried Helen; and he
seemed still more perplexed.

But as if he set these speeches down finally to
some ironical intention in her, he went on : '' He
said I could 'take the box along,' and then he
looked at the address on it, and said, ' Oh, 't 's all
right 1 I know Miss Harkness.'"

" Who in the world could it have been t" wondered
'Helen. ^'I never dreamt that I had a friend at
court — or the Custom-House."

Lord Rainford took out his pocket-book, and, to
do this, he had to unbutton his overcoat " Won't
you lay off your coat 1" asked Helen. "I believe

A WOlfAN'S REASON. 265

we shall not freeze to death here, now. The fire is
really making an impression."

" Thank you," he said, obeying. " He gave me his
card. I have it here somewhere. Ah, here it is I"

llulcn received it and gazed at the name. " Nol"
she said, returning it with a shako of the head,
" it doesn't throw any light on my acquaintance, and
I don't exactly understand it"

"Perhaps it was some other lady of the same
name."

•* Perhaps. But I haven't asked you yet when
you arrived ; and that ought to have been the first
question."

He seemed willing to evade it ; but he said gravely
that he had arrived that morning. " The fact is,"
he added, " I had them send the luggage to the hotel,
and I — took the liberty of driving directly here."

" Why, this is zeal in stewardship 1" cried Helen.
She felt a girl's thrill of pleasure in it To see Lord
Kainford was like meeting an old friend ; she had
parted from the Kays and Butlers long since he had ;
but his coming on an errand from them seemed like
news from them, and she found herself at home with
him, and truly touclieil by his kindness. She had
IxM^n too little abroad to consider whether she was
behaving like an English girl under the circum-
stances, and she ended by behaving like an American
girl. " Now, Lord Rainford," she said, " I'm going
to do all I can to reward you, and if you were a
woman you would feel very lavishly rewarded ; I *m
going to open this box at once in your presence."

266 A woman's reason.

'' I 'm sure you 're very good/' said Lord Rainford.

She put the box on a little table near them,
and ''I hope it isn't the kind that opens with a
screw-driver," she continued, breaking the line of
barbaric seals which held the edge of the paper
covering, and then coming to a second wrapi)er tied
with an oriental cord of silk, for which she required
the aid of Lord Rainford's penknife. "What a
pity to break and cut such things 1" she sighed.

" Why, I don't know," said the young man, not
feeling the occidental strangeness to which the paper
and the cord were poetry. ''It's the way they put
things up, there. I dare say their dragoman had it
done at a bazaar."

'' Their dragoman 1 At a bazaar 1" cried Helen,
and now he dimly sympathised with her mood,
and said, "O yes 1 yes!" while she tore away
wrapper after wrapper, vaguely fragrant of musk
or sandal, and came at last to a box, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl in the Pei-sian fancy. She opened
this, and found, under a note from Marian Ray, a
set of gold jewelry, — ear-rings, bracelets and neck-
lace rich in the colour of the unalloyed metal, and
fascinating in their fantastic ndiveU of design; as
old as man, as young as childhood.

" Ah, yes," said Lord Rainford, smiling back her
rapture in the trinkets. '' Those goldsmith's things.
They 're very pretty. And it's amusing to see those
fellows work. They set up thoir little forge in the
street before their doors, and make the things you 've
ordered while you're waiting."

A WOMAN'S REASON. 267

" And the high, white house-walls, and the yellow
sun, and the purple shadows all round them t" cried
Helen, dangling the liecklace from her fingers.

"Well — ah — yes; you're quite right," said Lord
Rainford. But he added conscientiously, "There
isn't much sun, you know. The street is very
narrow; and I don't know about the walls being
white ; they 're apt to be coloured."

"Oh 1" deeply sighed the girl, as she dropped the
pretty things back into their box. " Marian has cer-
tainly outdone herself," she said, shutting the lid.
She re-opcned it, and took out the necklace again,
and one by one the bracelets and the ear-rings, and
stood absently regarding them, held a little way off,
with her head on one side. She was thinking of the
night before her father died, when she put on that
silver filigree of Robert's, and she had forgotten tho
young man before her. He made a little rooyement
that recalled her to herself. " Oh, I beg your pardon,"
she said softly. He had his hat in his hand, and she
saw that he had taken up his overcoat " Must you
go t I can never thank you enough for all the trouble
you have taken." She stopped, for she had a sudden
difficulty. It seemed savagely inhospitable, after
what Lord Rainford had done, in the way he had
done it, not to attempt some sort of return. But
she felt sure he must see at a glance that she was not
in her own house : the bare spectacularity of the keep-
ing ; the meagre decoration of the mantelpiece and
whatnot ; tlie second-hand brown plush furniture ; the
fire, burning on the hearth, as in a scene set for some

268 A WOMAN'S RBABON.

home of virtuous poverty on the stage, must all be
eloquent of a boarding-house, even to unpractised
eyes ; and Helen was in doubt what she ought to do
under all the circumstances. She decided upon a bold,
indefinite course, and asserted that they would see
each other again before he left Boston.

" Thank you," he said. But he did not go. He
looked vaguely round the room.

'* Your umbrella t" she suggested, joining actively
in the searcL

"Ah, I don't tliink I brought one," he said
speciously.

When he was gone, Helen put on the trinkets,
and found them very becoming, though, as she
frankly owned to her reflection in the glass, a dark
girl would have carried them off better. ''That
comes," she mused, "from Marian's want of feeling
for colour. I 'm sure she chose them." She smiled
a little superiority at the mirrored face, and then
she started away from it in dismay. Of course Lord
Rainford hod hesitated in that way, because he
promised the Customs' officer to come back and pay
duty on the box ; and she had not offered to let him
take it, and he could not ask for it There seemed
no end to this day's contretemps. He had not given
her his address, and there was no telling, after that
sort of parting, when she should see him again, if
she ever saw him again. She had placed him in a
cruelly embarrassing position, for he liad given his
card to that Mr. Kimball. The name was inspira-
tion; she could at least go to the Custom-House,

A woman's reason. 269.

and pay the duty herself, and tnist to some fntore
chance of telling Lord Rainford that she had saved
his honour with Mr. KimbalL Kimball 1 She only
wondered that she should have remembered the
name.

She had no idea where the Costom-House was, but
she wrapped herself against the storm, anl took
a carriage at the nearest hack-stand. The janitor
and messengers, who passed her from one to another
in the Custom-House, were of opinion that Mr. Rim-
Wll was on dnty in East Boston, but tlie last who
asserted this immediately added, "Oh, here he is
now l" and called after a figure retreating down a
corridor, " Kimball ! Here I You 're wanted T and
Helen found herself, box in hand, confronted wiUi
her old friend, the policeman.

" Why, is it yaut" she cried, as joyously as if she-
had met him in some foreign land.

** Well, I thought it must be you," he said, with
the half-shy, half-jocose respect of tliat sort of
Americans in the presence of a fashionable woman.
It amuses them to see the women putting on style,
as they would say ; but they revere them as ladies
all the same. Kimball touched his hat, and then
pushed it back on his head in token of standing un-
covered while they talked.

Helen could not wait till she had transacted her
own business before she said, " But I thought you
were a policeman T

" Well, so I was the last time I saw you," returned
Kimball. "I left the force about two months aga

270 A woman's rkason.

Got kind of sick of it myself, and my wife was always
in as tew about the danger, and bein' out so much
nights, and the new collector was a friend of mine,
and he gave me this place," said ICimball briefly,
putting the case uito Helen's hands. " That fellow
behave himself after that 1 "

" O yes," answered Helen, knowing that Kimball
meant the hackman whom he had rebuked in her
behalf; " he was very civil"

*'I thought I could fetch him," said Kimball. '*I
don't know as anything, while I was on the force,
done me so much good as a chance like that now and
then." He dropped his eyes suggestively to the box
in Helen's hands ; but he did not otherwise manifest
any consciousness of it, and he left Helen to take her
own time to say how glad she was to see him again,
and how grateful she had always been to liini.
When she arrived, in due course, at the box, he
merely permitted himself a dry smile. " I told him
I knew you," and this time Helen understood Lord
Rainford, and not the hackman. " I knew it would
be all right"

'* It was very kind of you, Mr. Kimball, and it 's
only a chance that it wasn't all wrong. Lord Kain-
ford told me all about it, and I forgot to let him have
the box to bring back to you till after he had gone,
and then I hurried off with it myself, at once. I
couldn't endure that you should think for a moment
he hadn't kept his word."

''Of course not," said Kimball sympathetically.
''Full of diamonds 1" he asked jokingly, as he

<c
(I

A woman's reason. 271

received it from her. He opened the Kd, and then
frowned regretfally at the trinkets. " Gold, do you
suppose t "

"O yes, they must be gold," said Helen. "It's
a present"

" Just so. And of course you don't know what
they cost Well, now, I 'm sorry, Miss Harkness,"
said Kimball, with a deep-drawn sigh of reflection.

I guess I 've got to have these things valued."
Of course," said Helen, with a beating heart,
at the bottom of which, perhaps, she accused tho
punctilious folly of forcing the jewels to official
knowledge. She had her feminine limitations of
conscience in regard to smuggling, and did not see
why it could be wrong to bring in dutiable goods if
the Customs' officers did not know it; she had come
out of regard to Lord Kainford, and not at all from
tenderness for the public revenue ; and she had a
sort of vague expectation that the Qovemment wotdd
|)olitcIy decline to levy any im]>ost in recognition of
her exemplary integrity. " You just sit here," said
Kimball, finding her a chair which one of the
messengers had temporarily vacated, "and 111 see
about it for you. 1 11 be back in half a minute."
He was gone much longer, and then he retamed
with an official paper in his hand, and a fallen coun-
tenance. " Well, I done everything I could. Miss
Harkness," he said in strong disgust He was a man
who had enjoyed official consequence largely as a
means of doing people unexpected favours, and he
was deeply morUfied at the turn this affair had

272 A woman's reason.

taken. "You've got to pay fourteen dollars and
aeventy-iive cents on this box. I wouldn't say.it to
every one, and I shouldn't want it reported, but /
think it's a regular swindle."

"0 no," said Helen sweetly, but with a deep
inward bitterness, and finding her pocket with Umt
difficulty which ladies seem always to have, she found
her pocket-book, and in it two dollars and a half.
** I shall have to leave the box with you and come
again," she said : after resolving to borrow Mr.
Trufitt's money for the payment of possible but im-
probable duties, she had come away and left it at
home in the letter enclosing it.

" No, take the box along," said Kimball, measur-
ably consoled at this unexpected turn. '' It 's just
the way with my wife. Never knows how much
money she takes with her, and comes bock with her
bank-bills balled up into little balls like gun-wadS|
and her silver layin' round all over the bottom of
her bag — what there is to ^ round. Never gets
home 'th more than sixty-two and a half cents.
Don't you fret, Miss Harkness ; /'// make it all right|
and you can make it all right with tne^ any time."

He would not listen to Helen's protests, but forced
the box back into her hands, and walked along the
corridor to the vestibule with her, largely waiving
each return of her self-reproach and gratitude, and
at the door resolutely changing the subject| as
he took a card from his waistcoat-pocket " Lord
jRainford / Curious chap. Lard Rainford t Don't
know as I ever saw many lords before," he wd with

A woman's reason. d73

Yankee caution. " Don't know as I erer saw on^f," he
added with Yankee conscientiousness. He pondered
the card with a sarcastic smfle, as if amused that any
fellow-creature should seriously call himself a lord, and
then broke out in a sort of repentance : " Well, he's
a genileman, I guess. Had his declaration made out
fair and square, and opened up all his traps, first ofi^
like a man. Farced 'em on to your notice, as you may
say. No hangin' back about hinu Well 1" he added,
after a Jnal inspection of the card, ''it toaVi quite
regular, as you may say, to let him take the box
along without openin' it ; but a man has some discre-
tion, I suppose ; and — well, the fact is, I took a
fancy to the fellow. Seemed kind of hnmaHf after
all."

" Oh, Mr. Kimball," cried Helen, deeply enjoying
the in8|HK;tor's condescension, but with a sudden
superficial terror at the thought that she had not
Lord Kainford's address, and should not know how to
inform him that his word had been kept for him,
" let me see his card, please 1"

" Why, certainly, Uke it along," said Kimball. <' Or
I don't know," he added sheepishly. "I thought
my wife might like to see it — kind of a novelty, you
know."

" Oh, thank you 1 I don't want to keep it," said
Helen, returning it after a swift glance. " I merely
wanted to look at it. Thank you, ever so much 1"

When she reached home she wrote two letters:
one to Kimball, enclosing the money he had lent her,
and another to Lord Rainford, tiling him what she

8

274 AWOICAN'S RKASON.

had done. She felt that finally the whole affair was
very funny, and she suffered herself to run into a
sprightly little account of her adventure, which she
tore up. She wrote It all out fully in the letter to
liobert, to which she gave up the whole afternoon ;
but to Lord Kainford she merely said that she
thought he would have been amused at Mr. Kimball's
remarks.

XIII.

The next day Lord Rain ford camo to acknowledge
her note in person, and ho excused himself for coming
ratlicr early on the ground of an intolerable im«
patience to know what Mr. Kimball had said.

"Oh, (lid I promise to tell youl" asked Helen,
not well remembering just what she had written.

" No, I can't say that you did," said he with a
candour which she began to see was unfailing. " But
I thought, perhaps, you nught"

'' I 'm not sure about that But I was thinking
that if you were disappointed when you were here
before not to find any of us aggressively American,
yon might bo consoled by studying Mr. Kimball ; he 's
so absolutely and wholly American, that he takes
cvrry other condition of things as a sort of joko."

'* Ah, yes," said Lord Rainford, " I understand.
I think I observed something of the sort in that
class of people. But I didn't meet it in — society."
He looked at her inquiringly, as if he spoke under
correction.

Helen laughed. "Oh, society has all been to
Europe, and has lost the old American point of view
— or thinks it has."

276 A woman's reason.

" Thinks it has 1 " he repeated with interest.

" Why, I mean that, with all that acquiescence
which you found so monotonous, there wasn't one of
those people — except a very few sophisticated in-
stances — who looked at you at all as people in Euro-
pean society would. You were hopelessly improbable
to them, no matter how hard they tried to realise
you, as a — nobleman. Excuse me !" cried Helen, *' I
diifCi intend to be personal 1"

'^ Oh, not at all, not at all. It's very interesting^
I 'm sure. It 's quite a new view of the matter. And

" Now y<m are personal I "

'* No, no, I don't mean that. Or, yes, perha^is I
did."

'* Well, then, even I, although I 'm able to lecture
so clearly and dispassionately about it, I 'm not sure
that I 'm able to take the social state of Europe
seriously, either."

''Really! I didn't find you such deeply-dyed
democrats."

''We're not — in our opinions; you found that
out ; nor in our practice, I suppose. But in our tradi-
tions and — I've been talking so bookishly already — ^"

"Oh, it's quite what they told me to ex()ect in
Boston 1"

" Then you vxifiii mind my saying — in our «fimnm-
fMffid^ said Helen, with a laugh, " we are. For in-
stance — and now I 'm going to be horribly personal —
as long as we supposed that Mr. Ray had introduced
you as Mr. Rainford, you were real enough ; but as

A woman's reason. 217'

soon as we found that you were Lord Rainford, you
yanisbed back into the stage-plays and the story-
books."

" Oh, I *m very sorry," he said, with an accent of
so much earnestness that she laughed again, and
now with A mischievous pleasure, which he must
have perceived : for he added more lightly, *' It 's
really very uncomfortable, you know, to be going
about as a fictitious character."

"You can't help it, and we can't," said Helen.
'' But I suppose if you were to live here a very long
while, and were to be very, very good, we might begin
to believe a little in your probability."

They talked of other matters, and she let her
visitor go, with an uneasy misgiving which haunted
her throughout the morning, and still lingered
about her when Clara Kingsbury came later in the
afternoon to beg her to lunch with her the next
day.

'*I know you've not been going out, but this will
be an errand of charity. Last night I picked up, of
all things in the world, a live lord, and before I
knew it, I had asked him to lunch with me, and he
had accepted. I suppose that lords are lunched
very much like other mortals, — if lords are mortal —
but really when he told me that he had met you, I
was ready to weep on the first person's neck for joy.
You do know him, don't you : Lord Rainford, whom
you met last fall at the Butlers 1 "

" O yes," said Helen, " he brought me a message
from them yesterday."

278 A woman's reason.

^' How very odd I " cried Miss Kingsbury, *' I
wonder he didn't mention meeting you yester-
day."

** He didn't mention going to lunch with you to-
morrow/' said Helen defensively, betraying Uie fact
that she had seen him since.

Miss Kingsbury ignored it " Then it must be his
English reticence. How droll they are/ I should
think it would worry them to keep things on their
minds the way they do. You must let me send the
coup^ for you 1 Lord Rainford, and Miss Harkness
for the first time in many months, as the play-bills
say : really, for a lunch in Lent — "

'* Oh 1 1 think you must excuse me, Clara," Helen
began. *' You know I can't meet people."

** I quite understand, dear," said Miss Kingsbury.
" There are not going to be people, or I shouldn't
have ventured to ask you. There are only to be
Professor and Mrs. Fraser : Lord Rainford wanted
especially to talk over Aztec antiquities with him,
and I promised to get him to come. But I must
have some other young lady besides myself; I can't
let it be all Aztecs and antiquities. You must come
to keep mo in countenance, sitting up there behind
the tea-pot like a — a — teocallis."

Helen laughed, and Clara immediately kissed her.
If it were to be such a mild little affair, she felt
that she could certainly go ; she could see how Clara
would hate to seem to have paired herself off with
Lord Rainford, and she said, " Well, Clara, I will go ;
but I believe that, so far as Lord Rainford is con-

A WOMAN'S RKASON.

ccrned, I shall go as an act of penance. He was
here this morninc again."

" Oh !" popped out of Miss Kingsbury's month.

" And I 'm afraid I said something inhospitable
to him — something, at any rate, that I 'd like to do
away the impression oL"

" Oh ! do tell me what it was, Helen dear 1 I 'm
always saying such Kideom things to people ! "

Helen explained, and Miss Kingsbury silently
reflected. '' I suppose my joking about it annoyed
him."

« What did he say t" pleaded Miss Kingsbury.

" He said it was very uncomfortable going about
as a fictitious character."

" But you didn't mdk€ him a fictitious character,
Helen !"

" No ; but I can see how he might misunder-
sUnd— "

"They're very sensitive," assented Miss Elings-
bury, with a sigh. '' Really," she continued more
briskly, " for people who have gone tramping about
the world ever since they could walk — and they
began to walk very early — and crushing other people's
feelings quite into the mire, they're extraordinarily
sensitive. One would think that they had alwajrs
behaved themselves with the utmost delicacy and
consideration, instead of scolding and criticising and
advising wherever they went"

" Yes," said Helen. " But all that doesn't excuse
fn^ if I said too much."

" Well, then," said Miss Kingsbury, ''come and take

280 A woman's reason.

some of it back \ or all Tell him thai the British
aristocracy is the one only solid and saving fact of
the universe I Good-bye, dear 1 Don't worry about
it I daresay he was delighted 1 "

Helen was afterwards sorry that they had not
dressed a little more. She was necessarily in mourn-
ing, and Lord Hainford was dipped in the gloom of
her crape, and of three black silks: Mrs. Fraser's
best black silk, Miss Kingsbury's Vermont aunt's only
black silk, and the bhick silk which Miss Kingsbury
herself wore, in sonic mistaken ideal of simplicity.
Helen longed to laugh, but remained unnaturally
quiet

Perhaps the black silks were too much for the
Azteca Lord llainford had the Englishman's stiff-
ness, and Professor Eraser had the professor's stiff-
ness; they seemed unable to get upon common
ground, or to find each other's point of view. They
became very polite and deferential, and ended by
openly making nothing of each other. The Frasera
were obliged to go early, and Helen shortly after-
wards made a movement towards de|)arture.

Miss Kingsbury laid imploring hands on her.
" DonH go 1 " she tragically breathed. '* Stay, and
try to save the pieces I " and Helen magnanimously
remained; under the circumstances it would have
been inhuman to go. She brightened at Miss
Kingsbury's imploring appeal ; and they had a gay
afternoon. When she said at last that now she
really must go, she was scared to find that it was
half-past four. She hurried on her sack and bonnet

A woman's reason. 281

and rubbers, and when she came down-stairs, Lord
Rainford, of whom she had deliberately taken leave,
was there, hospitably followed out of the drawing-
room by Miss Kingsbury.

" I forgive your not taking the coup^,** she said
subtly, seizing Helen's hand for a grateful pressure
at parting.

" I much prefer to walk, I assure you," said Helen,
" afler being mewed up in the house all day yester-
day. Good-bye."

Miss Kingsbury's man opened the door, and Lord
Rain ford stood aside for Helen to pass out But he
hurried afler her.

** If you 're walking, Miss Harkness," he said, with
an obvious effort to continue the light strain in which
they had been laughing and talking, " I really wish
you *d lot me walk with you."

" Why, certainly," said Helen. " I shall be very
glad."

But they walked away together rather soberly,
as people do after a merry time indoors. There was
a constraint on them both which Helen had to make
a little effort to break. Wliatever caused it on his
part, on hers it was remotely vexation that she had
allowed the afternoon to slip away without going to
see Mr. Hibbard about her money. She must wait
again till the morning.

" I 'm afraid," she said, "that yon found Professor
Frascr rather an unsatisfactory Aztec."

"O no. Not at all 1 He's extremely well in-
formed, I daresay. But we approach the subject

282 A woman's rsason.

from very different points. He is interested mainly
in the pottery, as the remains of an arrested indigen-
ous civilisation ; and I, as an amateur Egyptologist^
was rather hoping to — ah — hear something new
about the monuments — the architectural evidences.
But the ground has been pretty thoroughly traversed
in Mexico, and we can only look for fresh results
now in Yucatan and Central America."

He hurried off the statement without apparent
interest in the matter, and with something of present
impatience. The effect was to make Helen laugh a
little, at which he seemed grateful

"I suppose you have come over to look up the
ground for yourself," she began; but he hastily
interrupted.

'* No, I can't say I came for that, exactly. I can't
say I came for that I should like extremely to sea
those things for myself; but I didn't come for
that"

Helen was amused at his scrupulous insistence on
the point, and had a mischievous temptation to ask
him just why he had come, then ; but she contented
herself with saying, " I always wonder that English
people care to come to America at all. I 'm afraid
that if we had Germany and Italy at our doors, we
shouldnt care to cross the Atlantic for a run to
Colorado and back."

" The Continent is rather an old story with us,
you know. Of course the towns are a good deal
alike here, after you leavei Boston, and tliere is
nothing to see in the usual sight-seeing way; but

A woman's reason. 283

the conditions are all new, and they Vo interesting ;
yes, tlicy *rc interesting. But I can't say exactly^"

Helen felt a nervous inability to let him define, as
ho clearly intended, that it was not exactly the new
conditions either that had brought him to America,
and she turned a smiling face from the anguish of
sincerity that was urging him on, and looked about
her with the hope that sometliing in their surround-
ings would suggest escai>o for them both.

"I suppose," she said, "that you know Boston
very well by this time t"

"No, I don't know it very well," replied Lord
Ilainford. " But I believe I know sometliing about
this quart<5r of it. This is where your principal people
live — professional people, and large merchants 1"

"All sorts of people live everywhere, now," said
Helen, with a little touch of her superiority; "and
I can't say that Beacon Street is any better than
Commonwealth Avenue. Papa was in the India
trade," she continued, "and we lived just here in
Beacon Steps." She remembered what Captain
Butler had said of the India trade and its splendour,
and she had a tender filial pride in speaking of it.

Lord Ilainford had not caught the word. "In
trade t" he repeated.

" His business was with Indian products of all
sorts," Helen explainetl.

" Ah, yes," said Lord Bainford. He walked on
in a silence which Helen did not heed particularly.
He must have been pondering the complications of
American society, through which he was walking

284 A woman's rkason.

about the most exclusive quarter of Boston with the
daughter of a person who had bartered beads and
whisky to the aborigines for peltries ; for, ** Really,"
he said at last, *' I didn't suppose there wore enough
of them left in this region to make it worth any one's
while. But perhaps he carried on the business at a
distance— in the AVcstI"

They came to an involuntary pause together, in
which they stared at each other. <* What — do you
mean 1 ** cried Helen.

" Ui)on m^ word I don't know whether I ought
to say," returned Lord Rainford.

** You didn't — you didnU suppose," Helen con-
tinued, 'Hhat papa traded with our Indians!"
Lord Rainford's silence confessed his guilt, and she
added with a severity which she could not mitigate,
** Papa's business w/ls with India ; ho sent out shi^M
to Calcutta 1 "

** Oh — oh 1 " said her companion. " I beg your
pardon."

Helen made a polite response, and began to talk
of other things; but in her heart she was aware of
not pardoning him in the least; and she had an
unworthy satisfaction in leaving him in evident
distress when they parted.

The next morning, at the earliest permissible
hour, Mrs. Hewitt brought her his card, with a
confidential impressiveness that vexed Helen almost
to the point of asking Mi-s. Hewitt to say that
Miss Harkness was not well, and begged to be
excused; but she repented of the intention before

A woman's reason. 285

it was formed, and went down to receive her
guest

She received liim coldlj, and his manner confessed
the chill by an awkward constraint in the common-
places that passod before he broke out abruptly
with, " I 'm afraid I must have annoyed you, Miss
Harkncss. I 'm not ready — I don't suppose I Ve
any tact at all — ^but it would grieve me to think
that I had misunderstood you yesterday in a way to
vex you."

**0h, don't speak of it!" cried Helen, with the
generosity which his frankness evoked. "Tliere
was never anything of it, and now it's all gone."
She began to laugh at the droll side of his blunder,
and she said, " I was afraid that I must have seemed
very rude the other day, in openly reducing you
to a fairy prince."

"No, I rather liked that," said Lord Rainford.
"It interested me, and it explained some things.
I 'm sure ])eople get on better in the end by being
frank."

" Oil," said Helen, " there 's nothing like frank-
ness," and at the same moment she felt herself an
intricate and inextricable coil of reservations.

" I think the Americans particularly like it," he
suggested.

" We expect it," said Helen, with a subtlety which
he missed.

He went on to say, with open joy in the restorar
tion of their good understanding : " The distinctions
you make in regard to different kinds of trade rather

286 A woman's reason.

puzzle me. I don't see why cotton-spinning should
be any better than shoe-manufacturing ; but I 'm told
it is."

" AVhy, certainly/' said Helen.

\* But I don't see the ' certainly ' 1 " he protested,
with a laugh.

** Oh, but it is 1 " she explained.

" Ah/' he returned, with the air of desisting,
'* it 's my defective education, I suppose. But if
people go into trade at all, I don't see why they
shouldn't go into one thing as well as another. It
appears all the same to— us."

The little word slipped out ; and neither of them
thought of it at the time. He went away, happy
in having made his peace; she parted from him
with sufficient cordiality, and as soon as he was
gone, this word by which he had unconsciously dis-
tinguished between them and classed her, began to
rankle and to sting. When it came to herself, she
had the national inability to accei)t classification,
which seems such a right and wise arrangement to
Europeans, and which some Americans uphold — till
it comes to .themselves.

She could not get rid of her resentment by asking
herself what Lord Rainford's opinions and prejudices
were to her, and resolving not to see him if he came
again ; and sho was so hot with it, wheti she went out
in the afternoon to Mr. Hibbard's office at last, that
she must have seemed to the clerk, who told her ha
was not in, to have some matter of personal question
with the delinquent hiwyer.

A woman's reason. 287

Sho stopped a moment on her way home at the
>nndow of a picture-store, attracted by some jars of
imitation faience, and she went in to ask about tbem;
the sight of them suddenly revived her belief that
she could still do something of the kind, and spare
herself the shame of encroaching upon her capital.

A gentleman turned round from looking at them
on the inside of the window, and she confronted
Lord Kainford. "Ah, Miss Harkness!" ho said.
" Was it you who were spell-bound outside there by
these disagreeable shams 1 "

His words struck her new hopes dead. "They
are ghastly," she said, with society hardness. Then
Miss Root's words came involuntarily to her lips,
"I pity the jKwr wretch that expects to live by
painting and selling them." That door, she felt,
was for ever closed against her, even if she starved
on the outside. The shock brought the tears into
her eyes 1)cliind her veil, and she remained staring at
the fictitious faience without seeing it.

"Frankly, now," said Lord Rainford, "don't you
tliink that all effort in that direction is misdirected,
and that the world was better before people set
about prettifying it so much 1"

"Frankly," said Helen hysterically, "I don't be-
lieve I like frankness as much as you do."

He laughed. "If you have ever decorated pottery,
Miss Harkness, I take it all back."

"Oh, it isn't a question of that," said Helen
breathlessly. "It 's a question of what else the poor
girl, who probably did the things, shall turn to if she

288 A WOMAN'S RBA80N.

stops doing them." She had a kind of dire saticf ac-
tion in dramatising her own desperation; and Uie
satisfaction was not diminished by the fact that these
ideas had come into her head since she had denounced
frankness, to which they had no relation whatever.
She had meant — if she meant anything by that
denunciation — to punish him for the tone of his talk
in the morning. She had not forgotten his patri-
cian us. But the talk was now far from that, and
he had not been punished.

** Ah/' he said, with feeling that she respected in
spite of her resentment, *'I should be sorry if I
seemed indifferent to that side of the question. It
was only that I hadn't thought of it"

'* I didn't mean that," she returned, with an aim-
lessness from which she thought to escape by askings
'* Is there anything up-stairs t "

" Yes," he said ; " a very beautiful picture — I
fancy a very American picture."

** The two things ought to tempt me," said Helen,
passing on as if to terminate their casual inter-
view.

She mounted the thickly-carpeted stairs, which
silenced the stops behind her; but she was not
surprised to find the poriihre held back for her to
enter the pretty little gallery, or to find Lord Bain-
ford beside her, when she stood within. There was
a gentleman there with his hat off, after our fashion
in picture-galleries at home, and two suburban ladies
with a multiplicity of small paper parcels, in awe-
stricken whisper ; but they all presently i^ent out^

A woman's reason. 289

and left her alone with Lord Rainford before the
painting.

A yellow light fell rich into an open space in the
primeval New England forest, and revealed the
tragedy of an arrest for witchcraft, — an old woman
haled away in the distance by the officers, with her
withered arms flung upward in prayer or impre-
cation ; and in the foreground a young girl cower-
ing at the door of the cabin, from which her mother
has just been torn. The picture was an intense ex-
pression of the pathos of the fact, which seemed as
wholly unrelated to canvas or pigment, in the painter's
poetic treatment, as if it were his perfect dream of
what he had meant to do.

'' Yes i " said Helen, with a deep sigh of the
impassioned admiration with which she always
devoted her being for the moment to the book or
picture she liked.

"One of your Boston painters 1" asked the
Englishman.

" The one," answered Helen, and she launched out
in a fury of praise, while he continued attentive to
her rather than to her words.

"I sup|M>se you can't understand how it afflicts
me," he said finally, " to find any of the errors and
sufl'crings of Europe repeated here."

Helen laughed as people do at mysterious griev-
ances. "Why, no; as far as such things are
historical, I believe we're rather proud of them.
They do something to satisfy the taste for the
picturesque, though after all they're such a mere

T

290 A woman's rbason.

morsel that we land in Europe perfectly raven-

ous."

"If they were all historical, I shouldn't mind/'
said the young man. "It was finding our current
superstitions accepted here that surprised and dis-
appointed me."

"You don't mean to tell me that you find any
imperfections — domestic or foreign — in us now /"

" Ah, you get beyond my joking depth veiy soon,"
he protested. " I told you once that I was a serious
person."

"I didn't believe you could bo serious about it I"

" I was, I Assui-e you. I supixise it was my habit
of taking things very seriously that put me at odds
with matters at homo, and that puts me at odds
with matters hero, where I fancied that I might be
rather more of the regular onler."

"I don't untlerstand," said Helen; and being
curious, and being fatigued, she dropped into one of
the chairs that the suburban ladies had vacated.

" I meau that this morning I was trying to express
the feeling which has made me a sort of white crow
among my own i>cop]e, and which doesn't seem even
credible here. I wos very far indeed from wishing
to imply disrespect for any sort of usefulness — which
is the only thing I really resi)ect in the world. Did
you understand me to do so 1"

"Not exactly that," said Helen, with a reserve
which he must have seen was as yet inexpugnable.

*' I daresay it was one of the misfortunes of my
being a sickly boy, bred at home, apart from other

A WOMAN'S REASON. 291

hoys, and indulging himself in all sorts of fancies ;
hut I used to imagine that in America our distinc-
tions— criterions — didn't exist When I began to
know Americans, at home as well as here, it seemed
to me that they were often rather more subser-
vient—more eager to get on with ]>eoplo of rank,
than Englishmen even. I confess it baffled me, and
you *re the only American — if you *ll excuse my being
so iwrsonal, as you say— ^who has at all explained it
to nie. I can see now how they may have a romantic
— an historical — interest in knowing such people, and
that they are not merely tuft-hunters in the ordinary
sense."

Helen could not tell whether he was speaking in
irony or in earnest ; she dropped the glance she was
lifting to his face, in a little fear of him.

'* I darosay I 've been mistaken about other
matters — appearances ; and I *m vexed that I should
have said something this morning that I saw put
me further than ever in the wrong with you. I
assure you that I don't think better of myself for
belonging to an order of things that I believe to be
founded and perpetuated in ignorance and injustice.
I would really rather have l>een one of the pilgrims
who c^ame over in the May-Blossom — "

" Flower," said Helen, helplessly correcting him.

"Flower— I beg your pardon — than one of the
robbers who came over with the Conqueror I "

He seemed to think this a prodigious tribute ; but
Helen could not even make a murmur of grateful
acceptance. Those radical ideas, in which lie expected

292 A woman's reason.

her to sympathise, were ridiculous to her ; she had
always heard them laughed at, and she could not
imagine how an Englishman of rank could entertain
them, though she had heard that such Englishmen
sometimes did, for a while. To hear him talking in
that way made him seem not so much unnatural as
impossible ; it was so unexpected from him that she
felt a little unextsy, as if he were not quite in his right
mind ; but she had so far a compassion for his mania
that she could not find it in her heart to tell him
that he had totally misconceived her, and he went on
to explain further.

'* And I was merely trying to say that I thought
it odd in a society where you are all commoners
together — "

" Commoners 1 " cried Helen, in astonished recogni-
tion of the fact

He did not heed this effect in her, but went
on — '*That there sliould be any such distinctions
as ours. I '11 go further, and say that I thought it
preposterous; and the other day, when I fell into
that unaccountable blunder in regard to the India
trade, I had no such feeling as you — as you —
might have supposed. If I venture to speak of
something that Mr. Ray let drop in one of his
letters about your determination to trust to your-
self and your own efforts, i*ather than accept any
sort of dei>endence, it 's because I wish to tell you
how much I revere and — and — honour it It only
endeared you to me the more 1 Miss Harkness 1 "
he cried, while she began to look about her with a

A woman's reason. 293

wild hope of escape, ''it was for your sake that I
came back!"

Thoy were quite alone, and if it were to come to
this, it might as well have come to it here as any-
where else : Helen realised the fact with a superficial
satisfaction, following her superficial terror of the
publicity of the place. ** Ever since I first saw you — "

" Oil, don't say any more ! Indeed, you mustn't !
Didn't the Rays— didn't they tell you—"

" I haven't scon them. Before I went home I
knew that your father's circumstances — But I beg
you to do mo at least the kindness to believe that it
made no difference at all. God knows I never con-
sidered the circumstances or made them an instant's
question."

** You are very kind, Lord Rainford ; generous —
but—"

'' No. H pleased me to think yon had nothing.
I would rather have found you as I have than in the
best house in your town; I don't like people of
fashion at home ; and when it comes to what is called
position, or loss of it, here — "

Helen tried to interpose again, but he would not
let her Bpcak.

** What Ray told me only made me the more impa-
tient to see you again, and to assure you — to tell you
how wholly I sympathised with your — ideas ; and to
prove my sincerity in any way you choose. If you
dislike going to England — and I could very well
imagine you might, for some reasons — I will come
here. It 's indiflferent to me where I livOi so that I

294 A woman's reason.

honestly live out my opinions. I love you for what
you are, —for your courage, your sincerity, your truth
to youi-self ; and if you think that your having —
your being — "

" Oh, it isn't that at all 1" cried Helen piteously,
compassionately. To a girl who had never dreamt of
being loved for anything but herself, and, in her
quality of well-born and well-bred American, could
not imagine herself less than the equal of princes,
Lord Rainford's impassioned misconceptions con-
tained as many offences as could have been put into
as many words; but she forgave them all to the
pain that she saw that she must inflict. He had
misunderstood everything: all her assumptions of
equality, on his own plane, had been thrown away
upon him ; she had only been his equal as ho ordaine<l
it, and condescended to her level. lUit she could not
be angry with him, since she was to crush him with
the word she must s|>eak. She had never forgiven
herself for her reckless behaviour the first time they
met ; and now he must have taken all her kind suf-
ferance, all her hospitable goodwill of the past week
— which slie had shown in atonement — as invitation
for him to hope, even to expect. She hung her
head, but she must stop him at once, and, '* Oh 1
Lord Bainford," she murmured, '* I 'm engaged I**

He turned very white. " I beg your pardon," he
said, simply and quietly.

*' IVo been very greatly to blame from the begin-
ning; I see it now, and I ought to have seen it before.
But that first day, when I met you, I was very unlu^py

A woman's reason. 295

— I hardly knew what I did ; I 'm afraid I didn't care.
I had driven away the dearest friend I had hy my
foolishness ; and ho had left me, hating mo ; it made
mo desperate ! But it all came right very soon
again ; and it's ho— It 's cruel of mo, to be tolling
you this ; but I want you to bolievo that I do prize
your regard, and that since youVe been here this
time, I 've only tried to do what I could to remove
that first impression, and to — to — to — You musi
forgive me !"

** yes," said the young man with a bewildered
look.

"I do see liow good you are, and I respect — Any
girl might be proud and glad, if she were not
bound—"

"Good-bye," said Lord Rainford abruptly. She
took his hand in a clinging, pitying pressure; she
would have liked to detain him, and say something
more, to add those futilities with which women vainly
seek to soften the blow thoy deal a man whom they
value, but do not love. But the useless words would
not come to her lips, and she must lot him go with-
out them.

XIV.

Helen hurried homo, and ran up to hor room.
She had thought she wanted to hide ; but now alie
found that she wanted to walk, to run, to fly, to get
into the o|)en air again, to escape from herself some-
how. She was frantic with tlie nervous access of
which, now that Lord Rainford was gone, she had
fallen the prey. She was pulling on her gloves, as
she rushed down-stairs, and she almost ran over the
servant, who was coming up with a card in her hand.
She stopped short, and the girl gave her the card.

"For fne/" she cried in wild exas|)eratioiL ''I
can't see anybody ! Say that I 'm going out I
can't see any one !"

A little old gentleman, with his overcoat on, and his
hat in his hand, who must have overheard her, came
out of the reception-room, and stood between the
foot of the stairs and the street-door.

'* I wish to see you. Miss Ilarkness, on very im-
portant business."

'* I can't see you now. I can't see any one I I
don't know you, sir 1 Why do you come to me t"
she demanded indignantly, and quivering with im-
patience.

A woman's reason. 297

" My name is Everton. I bought your faUier's
houM when it wu sold Inst fall At auction, and I
came to see you in regard to some circumstances
connected with that purchase."

" I don't know anything about the circumBtances,"
cried Helen. " You must wait till Captain Butler
gets homo."

" I was sure," said Mr. Everton, with insinuation
that arrested her in spile of herscir, " that you knew
nothing of the circiimstnnces, and from what I knew
of your father, I felt certain that his daughter wonld
like to know of them."

" Please tell me what you meait," said Helen, and
with a glance at the gaping servnnt-girl she pnshed
open the reception-room door. Mr. Everton politely
refused to enter first, and he softly closed the door
wlicn tiicy were both within.

" ft is simply this, Miss Harkness," said Mr.
Evcrlon, who had a small, lianl neatness of 8j>cech,
curiously corrcJiponding to his small, hard neatness o(
iwrson, " f have reason to believe— in fact, I have
evidence — that I was the victim of a fraud on tlie part
of the auctioneer ; and that I was imhicod to outbid,
by five or si.t thousand dollars, bids that were cried
by the auctioneer, but that had never been made at
all."

" I don't understand," faltered Helen.

Mr. Everton explained, but she shook her head.

"This is all a mystery to me. Why don't yon
wait till CB]>tain Butler retumB 1 Why do yon come
to me 1" She suddenly added : " Or, no ! I am ^ad

298 A WOMANVaafMN.

you came to mc. I can't suffer any doubt to rest
in your mind for an insUnt : if you havo been
wronged, that 's quite enough. Thank you for com-
ing." She rose with a splendour which seemed to
increase her stature, and diminish Mr. Everton's.
" I was just going out, and if you will come with
me I will go at once to Mr. Hibbard's office with
you. He has charge of my affairs in Captain
Butler's absence. If there has been any mistake,
I am sure that he will have it con-ected imme-
diately."

She started out with Mr. Evcrton at her side, and
swept haughtily on for several squares. Then she
found herself trembling. " I wish you would call a
carriage, please/' she said faintly.

When they arrived at Mr. Hibbard's office, Mr.
Everton allowed Iut to pay for the carriage he had
shared with her. She could not quell her excite-
ment when she entered the lawyer's private room
with him. "Mr. Hibbard," she began, in a key
which she knew sounded hysterical, and which she
despised, but was helpless to control, '* Mr. Everton
thinks that he was cheated in the purchase of our
house ; and I wish you to hear his story, ple-ase, and
if it is so, I wish him to be righted, no matter what
it costs."

" Sit down," said the lawyer. He placed a chair for
Helen, and allowcil Mr. Everton to find one for him-
self, and then waited for him to begin. Mr. Everton
was not embarrassed. He behaved like a man secure
of his right, and told his story over again, straight-

A woman's reason. 299

fonrardly and clearly. Mr. Hibbanl smiled so lightly
and carelessly at the end, that Helen felt at once
that it must bo all rubbish, and that it would be
perfectly easy for him to undeceive Mr. Everton.

" Why didn't you como to me directly with this
story, Mr. Everton t" asked the lawyer.

'* I don't know, Mr. Hibbard," returned the old
man keenly, "that I'm obliged to account to you
for my motives. I don't know but that I should
have preferred to communicate with you through my
lawyer, if it had not been for this young lady, who
felt sure that you would see justice done."

The lawyer smiled at an assertion which was
evidently not made to weigh with him. " You ought
to know by tliis time, Mr. Everton, that justice is an
affair of the Courts, and that lawyers look after their
clients' interests."

"I don't want you to look after mine at the ex-
pense of justice, Mr. Ilibbdnl," said Helen nervously,
pulling herself back to the |K)int from which she had
lapsed at Mr. Hibbard's smile.

" Wo will try to do what is right," said the lawyer,
in a way that made her .feel rather silly. " But we
won't do anything rashly because two romantic young
people have decided that it is right without con-
sulting any one else."

If Mr. Hibbard expected Mr. Everton to enjoy
this joke ho was mistaken. " I am quite willing,"
said the old gentleman grimly, *' to leave the affair
to the Courts."

"If I hadn't your word for that, Mr. Everton,"

800 A WOMAN'S REASON.

returned the lawyer briakly, " I should doubt your
willingness to do anything of the kind."

"AVhyl"

"Because you know as well as I do, that you
have no case, that all your suspicions and impressions,
and conjectures and hearsay, wouldn't amount to
that in Court." The lawyer snapped his fingers.
** You know very well that you went to Miss Harkness
to fortify yourself at the expense of the weakness
you hoped to find in her, and that you have done an
irregular and ungentlemanly thing in annoying her
with this matter. I am sorry to say it to so old a
man as yoiu Did you expect to extort money from
hert Probably you were surprised that slie chose
to consult me at all. — Miss Harkness, I advise you
to go home, and think no more about this matter.
There's nothing of it!"

The lawyer rose, as if to end the interview, but
Mr. Everton remained seated, looking through the
papers of a long pocket-book he had taken from his
coat, and unfolded upon his knee, and Helen re-
mained seated too, fascinated by the old man's
quiet self-possession.

'*! have something here to show you," he said
tranquilly, ofTering the lawyer the pa|)er which ho
had found. '* And I wish you to understand," he
added, *' that I am not here to be instructed as to
the conduct of a gentleman, or to account for my
conduct in any way. I prefer that you should
not attempt to account for my ]>ossession of this
paper; and if you ask me any questions in regard to

A WOMAN'S hRASON. 801

it, I shall not answer them. It is sufficient for yoa
to consider whether it is worth while for you to
go into Court against it. I was willing, and am
still so, to spare the scandal attending such an affair
in Court, but I am detennined to have the sum out
of which I have been defrauded."

The lawyer was reading the paper without apparent
attention to what Mr. Everton was saying, but
when he had gone through the paper again, he
turned to Helen, and said reluctantly, " Miss Hark-
ness, it 's my duty to tell you what this paper is :
it's a confession from the auctioneer that ho did
invent a series of bids by which ho ran the price of
the house up from thirty to thirty-five thousand
dollars. I haven't the slightest idea that the case,
if brought into Court, would be decided in Mr.
Everton *s favour on any such evidence as this; in
fact, I think it would not be easy to bring the case
into Court at all. But Mr. Everton hasn't obtained
the paper for any such purpose. Ho has obtained
it with a view of frightening you into the pay-
ment of a sum — I don't know what figure he
has fixed on in his mind — to keep the matter still.
Now, I advise you not to pay anything to keep it
still — not a cent." He folded up the paper and
handed it back to Mr. Everton, who put it into his
pocket-book again.

"Will you let me see it, please t" said Helen
gently. He gave her the paper, and she read it,
and then restored it to him. After a while she said,
" I am trying to think what papa would have done.

302 A WOMAN'S REASON.

Wasn't Captain Butler at the auction — wouldn't he
have suspected, if anything had gone wrong t"

** Yes, certain!}'/' said Uie lawyer.

" And if he had had any misgivings — "

*'He would have come to me with them, and I
should have told him not to pay the slightest atten-
tion to them," said Mr. Hibbard promptly. " My dear
Miss Uarkness, the whole thing is preposterous. Tliat
fellow Mortimer is a scamp, but he isn*t such a scamp
as he professes to be. If Mr. Everton will excuse
my frankness, I will say that I believe this is purely
a financial transaction between himself and Mortimer.
The fellow had heard of Mr. Everton's suspicions,
and when he wanted money very badly, he went to
him, and sold out — for a sum which Mr. Everton's
delicacy would prevent him from naming ; but pro-
bably something handsome, though Moitimer has
been going to the dogs lately, and he may have sold
out cheap."

Mr. Everton, having folded up his paper and pot
it back into his pocket-book, and restored that to hb
breast-pocket, rose, and buttoned his coat over it
" I 'm sorry. Miss Harkness," he said, " that you
haven't a better adviser. I can't expect you to act
independently of him, and tliat's your misfortune.
I knew your father, and he was a very honest man.
Good- morning."

'*He was too honest," cried the lawyer, "to make
any difficulty about paying you your cut-throat
usury,"

*< My loan came at a time, Miss HarknesSy whea

A WOMAN'S REASON. 303

your father could get money nowhere else, and it
saved him from bankruptcy. Good-afternoon,"

He took no notice of the lawyer in quitting the
room, and when ho was gone the latter broke out
with, "I hope ho will press this to an issue 1 I
think I could give him something to think of if I
could got a chance at him in open Court The old
scoundrel, to come to you with this thing 1 But he
knew better than to come to me firsL I wonder he
dared to come at all ! Miss Harkness, don't be
troubled about it; there's nothing of it, I assure
you ; nothing that need give you a moment's anxiety
as to the result You may be absolutely certain that
this is the end of the whole affair ; he would never dare
to go into Court with that paper in the world. " It
was given to him, you may rest satisfied, for the sole
purpose of extorting money from us privately, and
with tho agreement — which Mortimer would know
how to make perfectly safe for himself — that it was
never to be used in any public or legal way. Mr.
Evcrton has made his attempt, and has failed ; that 's
all. You 'II hear no more of it"

"Is it true," asked Helen gently, and with an
entire absence of the lawyer's resentful excitement,
"that he lent papa money when he could get it
nowhere else t "

"In any ordinarily disastrous time your father
could always have got money. Miss Harkness. But
the time that Everton alluded to was one when it
could be got only of usurers like himself. He made
your father pay three or four times what any man

304 A woman's reason.

with a Christian conscience would have asked for
it"

*^ And did it save papa from bankruptcy t"

'* Everybody was in difficulties at that time;
and—"

''Do you think/' pursued Helen, as if it were a
branch of the same inquiry, '' that he really supposes
the auctioneer cheated 1 "

« Very likely he had his suspicions. He 's full of
all sorts of suspicions. I daresay he suspects that
you and I wore in collusion in regard to this matter,
and prepared for him if he should ever come upon
such an errand."

"Oil 1" munnured Helen.

''Why should you worry yourself about it^
Miss Harkness 1 As it was, he bought tlie house at
a ruinously low figure, and it 's worth now a third
more than he paid for it six months ago."

" But you don't think it is possible the auctioneer
could have done such a thing t"

" Oh, possible — yes^ but extremely improbable.''

"It makes me unhappy, very unhappy," said
Helen. " I can't bear to have any doubt about it.
It seems a kind of stain on papa's memory."

" Bless my soul, my dear young lady 1 " cried the
lawyer, " what has it to do witli your father's
memory 1"

" Everything, if I don't see the wrong righted.''

" But if there hasn't been any wrong t"

^'Ah, that's the worst: we can't find out. Mc
Hibbard, you never heard anyone el^e express any

A woman's reason. 305

misgivings about the salet" The la\Tyor shifted a
little in his chair, and betrayed a fleeting uneasiness,
which ho tried to hide with a laugh. Helen was
instantly upon him : ** Oh, who was it!"

** I haven't admitted that it was anybody."

" But it was I You mttst tell mo !"

" There 's no reason why I shouldn't It was as in-
nocent a person as yourself: it was Captain Butler 1"

"Captain Butler!"

'* And I can tell you, for your entire satisfaction, I
hope, that he went to the auctioneer and laid his
doubts before him, and the auctioneer solemnly
assured him that the bids were all bona fide, just as
he now solemnly assures Mr. Everton that they were
fictitious. But Captain Butler was not so shrewd as
Mr. FiVcrton — he didn't make the auctioneer put
himself in writing."

Helen pulled her veil over her face. " And is
— is there no wny of solving the doubt 1" she mado
out to a.sk. I

** There is no doubt to solve, in my mind," said
Mr. Hibbard. " I advised Captain Butler to dismiss
the matter altogether, as I now advise you. I tell
you that you \e heard the last of Mr. Everton in
this connection."

Helen did not answer. But presently she said,
** Mr. Hibbard, I was going to come to you for
some money. I understood from Captain Butler
that you had charge of what was left for me, and that
I could get it of you whenever I wanted it."

. "Yes, certainly."

U

306 A woman's reason.

*^ In such sums as I like t"

The lawyer laughed. '' In any sums short of tho
amount of Mr. Everton's claim."

Helen was daunted to find herself unmasked ; but
she only put on tho bolder front " But if I wish to
pay that claim t"

" Then I should intervene, and say the claim did
not exist."

" But if the money is mine V she urged.

" If you insisted upon taking up all your money,
I should, as Captain Butler's friend, and as the old
friend of your father, refuse to let you have it, unless
you explicitly promised me that you would not give
it to Mr. £verton. For it would literally be giving
it to him."

" And if I said that you had no right to refuse
it 1 If I told you that I was of age, and that I was
determined to have it without conditions t"

''Then I should make bold to defy you at any
risk till I had laid the whole matter before Captain
Butler, and heard from him in reply. Now, my dear
Miss Harkness," said the lawyer, " I know just how
you feel about this matter, and I want you to believe
that if I thought it was just, I should not only be
willing to have you pay Mr. Everton's claim, but
should urge you to pay it, even if it beggared
you."

'' Would it — would it take all the money t" faltered
Helen.

"Yes, alL But it isn't to be thought of; the
whole thing's in the air; it's preposterouii'' Tha

A woman's reason. 307

lawyer went carefully and judicially into the whole
case, and clearly explained the points and principles
to Helen, who listened silently, and to all appearance
with conviction. At the end he asked cheerfully, as
he prepared to write a cheque, " And now, how
much money shall I let you have to-day ! "

"None!" said Helen, "I couldn't bear to touch
it I know that you feel as you say ; and it seems
as if you must be right But if I spent a cent of
that money I could never be happy again unless I
knew absolutely that there was nothing in this
claim."

The lawyer smiled despairingly. ** But you never
can know absolutely 1"

** Then I will never touch the money."

'* Really, really," cried the lawyer, " this is too
bad. Do you want me to give 3'ou this money to
throw into the street 1 I honestly believe that the
first man who picked it up there would have as much
right to it as Mr. Everton.'*

" Yes, but nobody hwvcSy* said Helen, rising. " I *m
sorry to give you all this trouble, and take up your
time ; and I wish that I needn't seem so obstinate
and unreasonable ; but indeed, indeed I can't
help it."

"Confound the old rascal!" exclaimed Mr. Hib-
bard. " I wish I 'd indulged myself in kicking him
out of doors. Miss Harkness, I '11 inquire into this
matter, and in the meantime 1 11 write to Captain
Butler. Do you think that I can do more t"

"No"

808 A woman's reason.

** And novf I shall be glad to give you any money
on account"

''I can't take any/' aaid Helen; ''it would be
quite the same thing. I never could pay it baek,
and if it turned out that it belonged to him, I should
be either a beggar or a thief."

The lawyer gave a roar of expostulation. " But
if you are out of money what will you do t"

'' I have a little yet Captain Butler supplied me
with money before he went away, and I have still
some of it left" This was true. She had been
using what she called Mr. Trufitt's money, and she
had a dollar and seventy-five cents left of the sum
that Captain Butler had mode her believe was hera.

The lawyer, on his part, forbore to explain Uiat
the money Captain Butler gave her must have been
in anticipation of interest on the five thousand
dollars he held for her. He only said, "But you
will accept a loan from me t"

"No; I shouldn't feel that I was making any
sacrifice then."

"But why, under heaven, dundd you make a
sacrifice V* demanded the business man of the girl

" I must — to feel true to myself," she answered ;
and something like this absurdity she repeated in
answer to all his prayers and reasons, and went
away empty-handed at the end.

XV.

That evening Helen tapped at Miss Root's door,
and entered in response to the girl's invitation to
"Come in!" AVhen she showed herself within,
" Oh, excuse mo !** cried Miss Root, in the reedy
note which ladies make when they have pins in their
months. She had her lap full of sewing, and she
obviously could not get up. "I thought it was
Bridget"

** Bridget wouldn't bo coming to you on my
errand," said Helen with a bluntness which at once
made its way with Miss Root

"What ft your errand V she asked, taking three
pins out of her mouth for the purpose.

*' I must earn some money, somehow. I thought
I>crhaps you could tell me — advise me — "

" I can tell yon, but I can't advise you," said Miss
Root, bending over her work, and treating Helen's
extremity as one of the most natural things in life.
*' I earned money enough to come to Boston and
study Art" — she pronounced it with the conventional
capital rather disdainfully, as if she would have chosen
a homelier expression if she could have thought of
one — " by helpin' mother take boarders. We took

310 AWOICAN'S REASON.

'em our summers, and I taught winters. That's the
way / earned some money. But I 8up|)ose you don't
want to take boarders."

Helen hardly knew how to interpret the gleam in
Miss Root's eye. But, " No," she answered simply,
" I shouldn't know how to do that."

''Well, neither do most of the boardin'-house
keepers." She stopped here so definitively that Helen
was obliged to take the word if the conversation was
to go on.

** I thought," she faltered, " that perhaps you could
tell me how to do sometliing M'iUi my pencil that
would sell I can sketch a little."

" Yes," said Miss Root non-committally ; '' I re-
member."

" And it seems to me, that if I knew how to go
about it, I ought to be able to turn the study I have
given it to some account"

'* I suppose," said Miss Root, " that it 's for some
charity."

'' For some charity 1 " cried Helen. " No, indeed I
it's for myself."

''Oh," said the other. "Then if I were you, I
wouldn't throw my time away. You '11 never succeed."

" I don't want to succeed — as an artist," retorted
Helen with a little pique. " But I have really come
to the point where I must either earn some money,
or else borrow or beg it There are plenty of peoide
who would be ready to give it or lend it, but I can't
let them, and I hoped that you might be able to tell
me how to earn it"

A WOlfAN'S REASON. 311

Miss Root shook her head. "Of course, I like
your spirit ; it 's the right spirit ; but I can't help you
in that way. I've never sold a thing yet, and I
don't know when I shall, if I ever shall. If I didn't
love to paint, I should quit and go home by the first
train. But I do love it, and I 'm goin' to stick to it
till I begin to starve. I don't ever expect to get
married — ihalwM finished up long ago ! — and mother's
married again, and here I am without a chick or a
child to trouble me, or trouble about me. But if I
had a cat to keep, I shouldn't try to keep it on Art
Oh, I )>rcsume that after years and years, I can sell
a picture, maybe ; but I know painters in this city —
real artists " — she put the words unsparingly, as with
a conscience against letting Helen suppose herself
for a moment anything of the kind — *' that would be
glad to give all they do for a regular income of a
thousand dollars a year. If you 've a mind to paint
giin cracks," she added, and this was the only way in
which she deigned to acknowledge her privity to
Helen's previous performance, " you can sell 'em if
some simpleton sets the fashion of buying 'em, or if
people know you did 'em. But I presume that ain't
what you want"

" No, indeed," said Helen, shuddering at the
thought of Mr. Trufitt, and helplessly loathing her-
self for being at that moment a pensioner on his
bounty ; " it would be better to starve."

**0r," pursued Miss Root, "you might teach
drawing. People have to throw away their money
somehow. But, if I understand, you don't want to

312 A woman's reason.

go to people that have money to throw away for that
any more than the other thing."

"No/' murmured Helen. She knew that Mias
Root had at once divined that she had come to her
instead of going to any friends of her former life
because she did not choose to let them pity her, and
help her to any sort of trivial work out of pity. In
the girl's straightforward sincerity she felt the com-
fort that the feminine soul finds in the frankness of
a man, and she subtly perceived that^ for all her show
of indifference, Cornelia liked her, and was touched
by the advance she had made in coming* to her. In
fact. Miss Hoot prided herself on .her large-minded-
ness, a quality which she applied more impartially
to people about her than is generally done. Ilcr
liberality was not merely for people of her own origin
and experience, but for others who had known better
fortunes, and had lost them, or who had them still
and were unhappy in them ; and the severity which
accompanied her large-mindedness began with her-
self, and extended only to envious and detracting
spirita If the secrets of Miss Root's soul could bo
unveiled, it would be seen that she had been obliged
from the beginning to discipline herself into accepting
Helen as worthy her esteem and regard, in spite
of her beauty, her style, and her air of a finer world
than Cornelia Root had known, except at a distance.
The struggle was sharp, but it had ended in tlie
interest of large-mindedness. When Mrs. Hewitt
assumed, in Helen's absence from dinner, while she
was lunching at Miss Kingsbury's, to be confidentially

A woman's reason. 313

speculative about the English lord who seemed to be
coming to see Miss Harkncss pretty often, and
spending a good deal of time when he did come, and
so tittered, Cornelia led off a generous opposition.
" I don't know," she said, "how much a lord's time
is worth ; but if it ain't worth anj moro than some
of the fellows' time that used to come flirtin' round
with our summer boarders, I don't see how he could
put it in much better. I guess he ain't after her
fortune, any way ; and / guess ho ain't goin' to find
much more of a lady anywhere. If he wants to
marry her, I shan't object, even if they don't ask
mo to the weddin'. I shouldn't want much to marry
A lord for my own pleasure ; but I don't believe
but what if Miss Harkness does she 'II be a credit
to him."

Cornelia had steadfastly set her face against know-
ing or caring anything about the affair, and such was
now her discipline that she believed she could keep
it up till the end, whenever that was. She had not
only snubbed Mrs. Hewitt the day before, but this
evening, when Helen early withdrew from tea, pale,
and with the evidence of having passed a day of great
nervous excitement, she refused even to enter into
discussion of what Mr. Evans called the phenomena,
in the light of philosophico-economic speculation.

"Here," he contended, "are a most interesting
series of facta I suppose that never, since the
earliest settlement of Boston, has a member of the
British aristocracy called three times, on three suc-
cessive days, upon a young lady resident in a board-

314 A WOMAN'S REASON.

ing-house, even of such acknowledged gentility aa
oura. If Mrs. Hewitt will excuse me, I will aaaume
that it is not the merits of her establishment which
have attracted him, but that he has been drawn here
by that cliarm in Miss Harkness which we all feel. Ho
knew het in other days — in better days — and nobly,
and like a nobleman, he has sought her out in our
humble midst — if that is a connect expression — and
laid his coronet — if it is a coronet — which he keepa
somewhere concealed about his person, at her feet.
As no human girl of the American persuasion was
ever known to refuse a lord, if she got the chance,
the inference is irresistible that our noble friend was
instantly accepted, and has already written home to
have his ancestral halls whitewashed up for the recep-
tion of his bride."

'* Well, you may twist it and you may turn it as
much as you please, Mr. £vans, and call it philosophico-
economic speculation, or anything you want to," re-
turned Miss Eoot " / call it gossip ; and I never
did gossip, and I never wUl. I don't care if she
was goin' to marry twenty lords; it's none of my
business. All I know is that she has behaved her-
self like a perfect lady ever since she 's been in the
house."

"New Hampshire for ever I" cried Mr. Evans.
** The granite ribs of your native State sjieak in every
syllable, Miss Root. But you will acknowledge that
you did hate her just a little, won't you, for her
superiority to us all — which she can't conceal — and
that you would recognise the hand of Providence in

A WOMAN'S REASON. 315

the dispensation, if his lordship had jilted her to-
day ? "

" No, I wouldn't I" retorted Cornelia, all the more
vehemently for her perception of the malicious truth
in the insinuation.

"Why, that's exactly what my wife said, when I
taxed her with the same thing. It must be so.
Now don't," said her tormentor, as Cornelia rose from
the table, "let her see any change in your manner
because you think she's going to marry a lord."

It was the insinuation in this charge that made
it extremely difficult for Cornelia Root to adjust her
behaviour to the occasion: if Miss Harkness was
going to marry that lord — and Cornelia Root was
principled against inquiring — she was not going to
make the slightest change, and yet she was aware
that some extra internal stiffness, which she must be
careful not to show, would bo requisite for this uni-
formity. When it appeared from Helen's application
that she could not be going to marry the lord, at least
for the present, Cornelia had to guard against self-
betrayal in a too precipitate relaxation. The note of
dcsp.iir in Helen's confession that she could not go to
people to ask pupils for the same reason that she could
not ask them to buy her gimcracks, touched Cornelia,
or as she would have said, it made her feel for the
girl. But feeling was the last thing, according to her
belief, that any honest person ought to show. She
was going to help her, but she was not going to let
her see that she was capable of any such weakness
as sympathy ; and she had before her the difficult

'316 A woman's reason.

task of treating Helen just as she would have
treated a girl who had always been poor, and of not
treating her any worse. '' There are a good many
things that women take up nowadays," she said,
with an aspect of hard indifference. " Some of 'em
learn telegraphin' — that must pay almost a cook's
wages ; some of 'em go into the hospitals, and learn
to be professional nurses — that takes you about two
years before you can get a certificate, and then it 's a
killin'life ; there are the public schools, but tliore are
so few vacancies, and you have to wait and wait for
months, even after you 're prepared."

She looked at Helen as if she thought that Helen
was probably not prepared, and Helen shook her
head assentingly. "No/' she sighed, ''I couldn't
wait. But perhaps I shouldn't want to do anything
for a great length of time," she said innocently, with
the thought of Robert's return in her mind. " It
might only be for a limited period."

"That's what I supposed," said Miss Root
'' That 's the great trouble. H a man takes a thing
up, he takes it up for life, but if a woman takes it up,
she takes it up till some fellow comes along and tells
her to drop it. And then they 're always complainin'
that they ain't paid as much as men are for the same
work. I 'm not speakin' of you. Miss Harknoss," she
said, with a glance at Helen's face, "and I don't
know whether I want to join in any cry that '11 take
women's minds off of gettin' married. It 's the best
thing for 'em, and it 's about all they 're fit for, most
of 'em, and it 's nature : there 's no denyin' ihoL

A woman's REASON. 317

But if women are to be helped along independent of
men— and I never was such a fool as to say thej
were — why, it's a drawback. And so most of *em
that can't wait to prepare themselves for anything,
because tlicy don't expect to stick to anything,
they turn book-agents, or sell some little paytcnted
tiling ; or they try to get a situation in a store."

Cornelia began to sew furiously, as if in an exas-
peration with her sex, that she could not otherwise
express. " And you may bo sure," she said, after a
silence, " that every one of 'em tries to do something
bettor than she's fit for, and that she despises her
work, and thinks she ain't paid half enough for it."

Helen did not heed this last outburst. She was
trying, with a sickening chill at heart, to realise her-
self in the character of those resolute young women
who had sometimes won a furtivo access to her by
asking at the door for Miss Harkness, and sending
up their names as if they were acquaintances, and
then suddenly developing their specimen copy of the
book for which they were taking subscriptions, or
the needle-threader or thimble-case, or convertible
pen-wiper and boot-buttoner which they were selling.
She could as little imagine herself behind the counter
of a Washington Street fancy or variety store, stand-
ing all day in the hot, dry air, and shrilly piping
<'Ca-ishI" as she had heard those poor shoI^girl8
doing, while thoy rapped on the counter with their
pencils for the cash-boy, and munched a surreptitious
lunch of crackers and chocolate creams. If it must
come to this, she did not know what she should dow

318 A woman's reason.

She waa as firm as ever that she would not touch the
money in Mr. Hibbard's hands as long as the least
doubt tainted it ; but she began to be frightened at
herself, and at the prospect before her.

" And is there— is there nothing else t" she asked,
in a voice which she tried to make steady, and only
succeeded in making almost as low as a whisper.

"Oyes," said Miss Root; ** there's the theatre."

Helen's heart gave a throb of hope. She used to
play a good deal in private theatricals ; she had acted
a French monologue once, and she had taken a part
in a German vaudeville ; everybody had praised her,
and she had unquestionably borne the palm from all
her dramatic competitors. A brief but brilliant
future dazzled before her : an actress who was
evidently a lady, and carried tlio air and tone of
good society with her on the stage ; triumphs and
gains in cities distant from Boston iu an incognito
strictly preserved ; and then a sudden but inexorable
retirement after a given time : it was easy work for
Helen's lively fancy to contrive all this, witli a
shining amplification, as rapid and full as if she had
dreamed it in sleep. " Yes 1 " she said with an interest
which she could not at once forbid herself.

** I had a friend," pursued Miss Root, ''a friend —
well, she was a kind of connection, — and she came up
to Boston the same time I did — crazy to go on the
stage. . She used to act in the school exhibitions,
and I guess she got her head turned; anyway
nothing else would do her. But she was real modest
about it ; they all are ; she only wanted to play little

A woman's reason. 319

parts like Juliet, and Ophelia, and Lady Macbeth.
Well, she went to a manager, and he was very kind
and pleasant, and I guess he saw what a simple
goose she was, and he told her he would let her
have a chance to show what she could do, and he
gave her a place in the ballet."

"In the ballet 1" palpitated Helen. The colours
had already begun to fade from her vision of his-
trionic success, and the crazy structure now trembled
to its fall.

"She thought," resumed Cornelia, "just as I
presume you do, that it was dancin'. She said she
couldn't dance any ; her folks had always been
strict orthodox, and wouldn't let her learn ; and he
laughed and said most of the ballet never danced at
all. She 'd have to go on as a peasant, or something
like that, with a lot of others, first off; and as soon
as he could he 'd give her a few words to say, and
she could sec how she got along. It wa'n't playing
Ophrlia exactly, but she was dead set on going on
to the stage, and so she took up with his offer, and
glad enough, and she got six dollars a week from
the start."

" And has she ever — ever got on t " asked Helen
faintly.

"Well, the only time I ever saw her was one
night when she had the part of a page. I guess she
must have been on the stage as much as a minute,
and she said at least a dozen words. But I couldn't
seem to stand it, to see any friend of mine up before
all those people in boy's clothes; and she seemed

320 A WOMAN'S REASON.

pretty long for a page, and kind of bony, and I went
away after the first act; I was afraid she might
come on again."

Helen smiled and shuddered; the idea of boy's
clothes was final, even in a reverie, and she hung her
head in innocent shame.

" Now," said Cornelia, with a keen glance at her
abasement, and apparently convinced that she had
brought her low enough, " if you really do want to
do something, I can get you a chance to try."

Helen started. '' In the theatre t Oh, I couldn't"

Cornelia laughed. '' No, not in the theatre. But
there 's a friend of mine —well, he's n kind of a con-
nection too — used to have a i)liotograph saloon down
in our place ; used to have it on wheels, and got it
dragged round from one village to anotlier ; and he *$
got Boston-bit too ; and so he 's come up, and he 'a
opened a gallery down in Hanover Street; well, it 'a
pretty far down. Well, he hain't got a very hig^
class of custom, that 's a fact ; and if he had he
wouldn't have this work to do, I presume."

"What is it 1" asked Helen.

'* It 's colourin' photographs."

" O yes ; I 've seen tlicro," said Helen, remem-
bering some examples of the art, hung aloft in oval
frames, in country parlours, of which they were
cherished ornaments.

" It ain't a very high kind of art," said Miss Boot^
as if she found something to reprove in Helen's tonei
" but it ain't every one that can do it, low as it is."

'' I 'm sure I don't depreciate it," returned Helen.

A woman's reason. 321

" I should be only too glad if you thought / could
do it."

" I guc88 I can get you the chance to try," said
Cornelia; and now, as if she wished to leave the
subject and prevent the premature acknowledgments
which she felt she had not yet earned, she unpinned
her sewing from her knee, and stood up holding it
at arm's-length from her.

"The trouble is," she mused aloud, "that you
can't tell how it's going to hang, after all your
worry."

" Why don't you let me drai>e it on you !" asked
Helen.

Cornelia dropped the lifted arm, and let the skirt
trail on the floor. " Well, if you think^ Miss Hark-
ness, that I've been hintin' round for anything of
that kind I"

" I don't," sai<l Helen. " Honestly 1 But I like to
fit dresses. I used to help our cook with hers."

Cornelia Root had to discipline with uncommon
severity the proud spirit that revolted at having the
same hands drape its corporeal covering which had
draped the person of an Irish cook. She subdued
it, but it was not in human nature that she should
yield gracefully. " I guess 1 better go to a dressmaker
with it," she said. " I don't want to trouble you."

"It won't be any trouble, indeed," said Helen,
taking the dress from her.

Aft4;r fifteen minutes of lively discussion, of pin-
ning back and pulling forward, and holding up and
letting drop, during which Cornelia twisted her neck

X

322 A woman's rkason.

half off, as she said, looking at her own back, she
mounted a chair and surveyed herself in the glass.
** Well, you liave got a touch, Miss Harkness," she said.

" O yes," returned Helen simply. '* I know tliat"

"Well, why in the world — " Cornelia began. But
she checked hei-self.

<' Why whatt" asked Ilelea

" Oh, nothing," returned Cornelia, with the outward
hauteur which was apt to mark a spiritual struggle
with her. " I *\\ see Zenas Pearson to-morrow about
those photographs."

" That will be very kind of you," said Helen.

The next day Cornelia brought her three of the
unsparing likenesses in which the art of photography
sometimes unmasks its objects. One was a gentleman
in what he would have called chin> whiskers, with
his hair gathered in a puff over his forehead, and
a gold watch-chain wandering across his bulging
shirt-front The other was a lady in middle life,
with her small features losing themselves in the
obese contour out of which her eyes looked over
little cushions of fat. The gentleman was to be
painted of a fair complexion, and the lady as a
brunette. The third picture was the likeness of this
lady's child, which was to be coloured in accordance
with her present appearance in the spirit-life as
reported by a writing-medium.

*' I don't envy you the job, any," said Cornelia
Root. " Zenas apologised for not havin' any place
for you to work in his gallery, but I told him I
guessed you 'd rather work a while at home first**

A woman's reason. 323

"0 yes," murmured Helen, lost in a heart-6ick
contemplation of her subjects.

"He can allow you two dollars apiece for 'em.
It 's better than nothing and it ain't much better, and
so I told him," said Cornelia.

** Oh, it *s quite enough ; quite," returned Helen.

After her first despair, she resolved to be very faith-
ful and conscientious in her work, and try to make
the poor things look as well as she could. She had
finished them all by the end of the week, but when
Cornelia carried her work to Mr. Pearson, he was
critical of it " Of course," he said, " she 's done her
best, and so far forth she 's earned her money ; but
anybody can see with half nn eye that she ain't a
natural artist There ain't any tattch about it"

"Good gracious, Zcnas Pearson 1" cried Cornelia.
" Do you expect to get an artist to paint up those
scarecrows of yours 1 "

She put Zcnas down, but ho offered her no more
work, and she was too proud, in Helen's behalf, to
ask for it. She was more deeply hurt and dis-
couraged than Helen herself appeared. The latter,
in fact^ professed a sense of relief when Cornelia,
with a blunt reluctance, owned the truth.

" I couldn't do any more, if he had given them to
you for mc. I know that I don't do them well, and
tlicy 're so hideous, that if I were the greatest artist
in the world I couldn't help making them wooden
and staring. I vuist try something else ; and I 've
been thinking — I 've been wondering — if I couldn't
write something and sell it Do you know any

324 A woman's rkason.

people — women — who write for the magasinet, or
the iiew8pa))er8, rather t"

"Well, I know one girl: she's an art-ttudent»
and she helps herself out hj correspondin'; writes
for two or three papers up-country, and out West ;
hut I never saw any of her stuff, and I don't want
to ; for of all the perfect simpletons — I " Cornelia was
expressively silent ; she added thoughtfully : " YeSi
1 guess it must be pretty easy to do, if thai girl can
do it I wonder I didn't think of it before. Wliy
don't you ask that ridic'luus Mr. Evans t He 's tlie
literary editor of Saturday Afternoon, and I guess he
could tell you all about it"

** I don't like to trouble him," said Helen.

"Well, / do, then," retorted Cornelia. "What's
he here fori"

" I can't lot you," said Helen, thoughtfully folding
the dollar-bills that Cornelia had brought her.
" This money will last a little while, and perhaps —
perhaps," she concluded rather faintly, " I can think
of something to do by the time it 's gone. I know
I 'm very weak and silly," she said, lifting her suf-
fused eyes to Cornelia's.

"Not at all!" cried Cornelia; and that evening
she cornered Mr. Evans, as she said, and attacked
him about some sort of newspaper work for a friend
of hers.

He was sitting before his fire in a deep chair,
with his feet on the hearth of the open soai>-stone
stove ; Cornelia assailed him from a higher diair at
a little distance. " Some young man you 're trying

A woman's rbasok. 325

to help along t" he asked, smiling up into Cornelia's
eyes.

" You know it ain't any young man 1" cried the
girl

" Oh 1 You didn't say," returned Mr. Evans
coolly. lie asked presently, '* Why does Miss Hark-
ness want to write for the papers t"

" Mr. Evans I I think you 're too bad 1 I never
said it was Miss Harkness."

"But you won't say it isn't"

" I won^t say anything about it There I And if

you can't give me any advice without askin' who

H* If
18 —

** Oh, that isn't necessary now. But what I do
wish to ask, Miss Root — and I think you owe it to
yourwjlf to answer frankly — is simply this : are you
sure that you are tr3'ing to l>cfriend Miss Harkness
from tlie highest motive t "

*' Highest motive t " demanded Cornelia, whom such
an api)eal must always arrest " What does the man
mean 1" She was on such terms of offence and de-
fence with Mr. Evans, that she often cast aside all
formalities of 8]>eech in dealing with him and came
down to sincerities that seemed to afford him the
purest delight

" What do I mean 1 Why, I mean this — and a
person who pretends to keep such a conscience as
you do, always dusted off and ready for use in any
emergency, ought to be able to answer without pre-
varication. Are you sure that you are not doing
more to help this Miss Harkness because she is a

326 A WOMAN'S RKA80K.

lady of fallen fortunes, than you would do for some
poor girl who was struggling up, and trying to bu|>-
port inebriate parents, and pay a younger brother's
way through college 1" Cornelia opened her mouth
to protest, but he hastened to prevent her. ** WaitI
Don't commit yourself! Are you sure tiiat her
being visited by a lord has nothing to do with your
beneficent zeall Are you sure that you are not
indulging a native disposition to curry favour with
worldlings and vanities, generally t Are you certain
that at the best you are seeking anything better than
the self- flattery that comes through the ability to
patronise a social superior 1 I merely ask you to
reflect"

These were precisely the doubts which Cornelia had
already exorcised ; but they all sprang into new life
at the touch of the laughing malice that divined
them.

*' I declare," she said, '' you are enough to provoke
a saint 1"

*' I 'm glad to see it^" said Mr. Evans. " Now,
I 'm no/ a saint, and I can be frank and open about
a great many things that I observe saints like to
fight shy of. A saint — especially a female one — is
about as difficult a party to bring to book as any I
know. Now / don't mind acknowledging all these
shameful motives which you feel that you must blink.
/ don't mind saying that the notion of tlirowing
something in the way of a young lady who has
moved in the first circles, and still associates with
lords and ladies on equal terms, is quite intoxicating

A WOMAN^S RRASON. 327

to mo, and that I will help yon in this work with far
more pleasure than if she were a mechanic's or farmer's
danghter." He smiled at the rueful misgiving painted
in Conic) la's countenance. " Come, Miss Root, what
kind of newspaper work does your patrician pro-
Ugie think she can do t "

" I don't know as I want to talk with you about
it," said Cornelia. '' You had no business to find out
who it was."

'* I know — I know. It was my fatal gift of divina-
tion. A random guess, and your own guilty soul
did the rest Well, go on. Miss Root You know
that you 're not going to let a selfish pique interfere
with an opportunity to do good — to one above us,"
he added.

" I should suppose," said Cornelia grimly, ** that yen
would know a great deal better than I do what she 'd
best try. I presume she could do most any kind of
writin'."

" That is the presumption in regard to all refined
and cultivated people till they prove the con-
trary, — which they usually do at the first oppor-
tunity."

'* I should think," pursued Cornelia, whose courage
always rose in view of any but moral obstacles, " that
she could write notices of books. Seems as if almost
anybody could write them,**

" Yes," assented the journalist " It seems as if
anybody did write the greater part of them." He
took up some books from his tables. ''Here are
three novels, if she wants to try her hand on them^

328 A woman's reason.

and she can review the batch together. That u the
way we da There 's quite a range in these : one is
an old writer of established fame, one has not quite
proved himself yet, and one is unknown. Yoa
would naturally think that if such books are works
of art they would go to people of experience and
reflection for review, but that is a mistake: they
go to people who can be the most flipiMuit and im-
pertinent about them, and we find, as a general rulci
that the young ladies who write for us con be more
flippant and impertinout than the young men." He
laughed as he handed the books to Miss Root, and
watched her faca

" If I could ever tell," she said, taking them from
him, '^ how much you believed of what you said, it
would be one satisfaction."

''No, no, that isn't it. Miss Root: what you
would like to know is how much you believe of what
I say. Very little, I imagine. The philanthropist's
ability to reject any truth that tells against him — or
her — is unbounded."

" Well," said Cornelia, *' I don't know as I care, so
long as you give her this chance."

" Oh, it 's perfectly safe : she '11 be sure to fail,**
said the editor. " Tell her I want tlie notices next
week, sometime. In the meantime, / don't know
who 's writing them."

He did not betray himself in any way during the
ensuing week, and he left Cornelia unmolested with
a secret which she did not know whether she ought
or ought not to keep. Helen worked very hard at

A Woman's reason. 329

tho criticisTTis; she had it on her conscience to do
them very fairly and justly, because when she had
read tho books carefully through she perceived for
the first time how much thought and labour must
go to the constniction of even indifferent stories;
and she felt that it would be a sin not to do justice
to all this in the case of novels which were certainly
not first-rate. She thought that she ought to be
careful about her style, and not say anything in a
slii>sliod or slovenly way. She wrote out her
reviews in her neatest hand, and then she copied
them all, so that there was not one blot or erasure.
She determined that if Mr. Evans accepted them,
Miss Root should tell him who had done them, for
there were some points which she was doubtful
about, and on which she would like his instruction.
She was very simple and humble in the matter, and
in her own mind looked up to the journalist in his
professional quality with an awe that she had not
hitherto felt for anything connected with Saturday
yf/iernoon. Her father used sometimes to buy that
])a})er, and send it to her when she was away from
home, and she had read its social goasip with a high-
minded disapproval of the entertainment it gave her.
She never thought of looking at the notices of books
in it, and when she first heard that Mr. Evans was
connected with it she had resolved to be very careful
what she said before him, and she had partly with-
drawn from anything like intimacy with Mrs. Evans
for that reason. It was very well for Clara Kings-
bury ; Clara Kingsbury was a kind of public character

330 A WOUAN*S REASON.

herself, witli her cliarities aud enterprises, her Homei
and her Fairs, which were always needing newspaper
mention ; but for Helen it was another affair. Even
now, while the question of the acceptance of her
work was pending, Helen asked herself whether she
would like to have the Butlers know that she wrote
for the Saturday Afternoon^ and was quite sure that she
would not " If he should take them, and you tell
him who did them, please ask Mr. Evans not to
mention it to any one," she said in giving her manu-
script to Comelia Root, who had sulTored everything
in the guilty consciousness that he knew idready
who had d(ine them.

" I ain't afraid," she said to Mr. Evans, in discharg-
ing herself of the business, "that you'll mention it;
but if you should have to refuse them, and then if you
should show out any way that you knew, it would
about kill me."

*' Rely upon me, Miss Root," returned tlie editor.
*' I have I'ejected such loads of young-lady literature,
that I have become |)erfectly hardened, and never show
out in any way that I know there are young ladies or
literature in the world. Ah 1" he added, carelessly
opening the manuscript, " the bold, free hand of
fashion ; \n\^Q9 neatly pierced at the upper right-hand
corner, and strung wi^w a narrow red riblion with
notched edges; faint odour of the young person's
favourite perfume. Yes, this is the real tiling!"
He laughed in the way that Comelia Root had more
than once said she could not stand when talking with
him about serious things.

A woman's reason. 331

Sho went out after leaving the manuscript with
liim in the morning, and shortly aderwards Helen
icceivcd the card of Mr. Ilibbard, who was waiting
for her in the rccoption-room. It was rather a shock
at first, and then she found a sort of relief in the
second anxiety, as people do in playing one care off
against the other. She said to herself, in putting
her ear-rings in before the glass, that he must have
heard from Captain Butler, and that if Captain Butler
sided with Mr. Hibbard, slie shouhl not know what
to do ; she would have to yield, or at least let the
whole matter rest till she had heard from Robert, to
whom she had written all aliout it

" Good-morning, Miss Ilarkness," said the lawyer,
absently dropping her proffered hand, "I have a
cablegram here from Captain Butler."

"Oh, I thought you must have," said Helen,
in the pause which he suffered to take place before
he went on, with a frown at the pa[)cr in his
hand.

"He telegraphs me from Naples, in answer to my
IcttcT, and directs me to obey your wishes as to pay-
ing Mr. Everton's claim."

The lawyer lifted his eyes and looked into Helen's
face, as if to wait her orders ; and her heart sank.
This was what she had been eager and urgent to do
when they last met : it had seemed to her then that
she could not rest till Mr. Everton's claim, just or
unjust, was paid, since its existence involved a doubt
of fraud. But, in fact, she had, not being able to
he!]) herself, rested very well, and she had begun to

332 A woman's reason.

hope that the doubt could be somehow cleared away
without the cost of everything to her.

''Is that all he sayst" she asked feebly.

" No ; he says he will write." Ho handed her the
despatch, which slie mechanically road, and then
twisted round her finger.

<< What do you think, Mr. Hibbardl" she asked
at last pitifully.

The lawyer must have seen so many people halt
between their interest and their sense of abstract
right, and gladly take advantage of any doubt in
their own favour, that he could not have wondered
at her hesitation. But he was obliged to say, " I
can do nothing now but receive your instructions. I
will contest the claim to the last, or I will pay it"
lie again explained the matter, and put the points
clearly before her.

*' And there must always be this doubt about it^
even if we gained the case 1 " she asked.

** Always. Even if that scamp himself were to
declare in our favour, and acknowledge that ho had
played upon Everton's suspicion, the doubt would
remain."

" Then, I can't bear it 1 You must pay Mr.
Everton 1 " cried Helen. " Anything, anytliing is
better than living ui)on stolen money !" At the
same time that she pronounced tliis heroic truth,
which indeed came from her inmost heart, she burst
into human tears for the loss of all that she could
call her own.

".Miss Hai'kucss." said the old lawyer, ** I would

not let you do this — ^I would take the responsibility
of disobeying you and Captain Butler both ; but — but
I must tell you that my inquiries into the matter have
not been satisfactory. I have talked confidentially
with several of the gentlemen who were present at
the sale, and I find that they all carried away the
impression that there was something queer about the
bidding towards the last Now, as I said before, I
don't believe that Everton's understanding with
Mortimer will ever allow him to press the question
to an issue, and that you could rest legally secure in
the possession of this money ; but this, as I conceive,
isn't the point with you."

" O no, no, no 1 And thank you, thank you,
Mr. Hibbanl, for letting me decide the matter — and
thank God for helping me to decide it rightly — before
you told me this. Whatever happens now, I shall
have the consolation of knowing that I wasn't
influenced by the fear of what people would think
or say. I know that I should have been, but I know
that I wasn't." 8he dried her eyes, and controlled
her quivering lips. '* Don't lose an instant, please,
about paying him, and pay him every cent And
oughtn't I — oughtn't I — to say something, do some-
thing to show that I was sorry that he was kept out
of the money so long t"

"I don't think Mr. Everton will care for that,**
said Mr. Hibbard. " The money is what he wants.
I will pay it; and then what will you do, Miss
Harkness t You were coming to me for mose/, you
said ; you mustn't allow any mistaken feeling — "

. A ivoman's reason.

"Ono, I won't**

" I am sure that Captain BuUer will wish me to
be your banker till he comes home."

" Yes, certainly ; but I have a little money yet^**
said Helen, following Mr. Hibbard to the door.

XVI.

The lawyer was mistaken in supposing that Mr.
Ererton cared for notliing in the affair except the
money. He came that afternoon to make his ac-
knowledgments to Helen, who felt it her duty to
receive him when he called, and he showed himself
capable of responding generously to her own action.

'' I am well aware," he said, " that I owe this
reparation to you, Miss Harkness, and I wished you
to understand that I could appreciate your conduct
The original claim is now fully satisfied, but the
interest on the money (hat I have been kept out of
would have amounted during the past seven months
to something like two hundred dollars — a little short
of two hundred dollars. I have written to your
attorney that we will say nothing about this sum,
that wo will consider it paid."

"Thank you," said Helen blankly. It was not,
perhaps, that she was insensible to Mr. Everton's
magnanimity, but just then she was studying his
personal appearance with a strange fascination.
She found something horrible in the neatness of this
little old man's dress, in the smug freshness of his
newly-shaven face, which had the puckered bloom

336 A woman's rkason.

of an apple that hangs upon the tree far into tho
winter's cold, and even in tlie smoothness and clean-
ness of his conspicuous linen.

lie returned her absent gaze, winking his little,
red-lidded eyes. He presently said, " I have liad to
lay out a great deal of money on the house, and I
thought this might as well go into the general account.
The structure was very good, but there were many
things that needed going over, the plumbing espe-
cially. I have had the plumbing put into perfect
order. Mrs. Everton was veiy particular about it —
the ladies are, I believe. I think you would be
pleased to see the improvement."

" Yes," said Helen.

" I have had brass pipes put in nearly everywhere ;
Mrs. Everton had heard that they were very much
superior, and I was willing to do anything to gratify
her : she was very low at tho time."

He coughed behind his hand, and Helen awoke
from her daze to say gently, ** Oh, I hope she's better."

'* Thank you," returned the old man. " But she
is dead."

"Oh!"

" Yes, she was so far gone that she could not be
moved from our old house. I never expected she
could, but I made the changes to please her, and
she went over them all in the architect's plans. I
spared no expense. I don't suppose," said Mr.
Everton, with a sort of brisk appeal to Helen, '* tluit
you would know the place now : the old cornices all
down, and fresh paint and paper everywhere."

A woman's reason. 337

Helen did not reply ; but she looked at the man
with a pathetic wonder, which he apparently did not
feel.

** I think," ho continued, with a certain insinuationy
" it would interest you to see the changes."

"0 no!" Helen broke out

Mr. Everton looked at her and passed his tongue
over his red lips, fringed with dry cuticle at their
edges, in apparent perplexity. " I don't mean to say,"
ho resumed, " that the general plan of the house is
c1iange<l ; that couldn't be done ; Mrs. Everton saw
that herself. In many respects she was a woman you
couhl reason with. It was a great blow to lose her."

*' It must have been," said Helen, relenting again ;
but wondering a little why Mr. Everton should speak
to her of those matters.

Ho explained for himself. " Your burying your
father such a short time before I buried Mrs. Everton
— it seems a sort of coincidence, a kind of bond, as
one may say, and makes me feel as if — as if — you
could appreciate my feelings."

" I am sorry for you with all my heart," said Helen.
" I didn't know," she added vaguely, " that you had
met with any bereavement"

'* Yes ; she 's dead," sighetl the old man. " It isn't
as if I were broken, or hadn't kept my health. I 'm
as well as ever I was. And as strong. I'm as goo<l
for busincfis as any two young men I know of. But
it's when I come home from business that I feel it;
that's where the rub comes in ; it's lonely. Yes, it's
lonely."

Y

338 A WOMAN'S REASON.

" yesy** said IIoIod, surprised into sympatheUo
eonfidence by tho simple words. " I often felt it in
my father's case, especially towards the end, when
ho seemed to live so much in the recollection of the
past, and I knew that I was scarcely any companion-
sliip for him."

''Your father/' said Mr. Everton dryly, "was a
much older man than I am, and he was all broken
up before he died ; I used to notice it. I don't be-
lieve," he went on, ** but what you'd like the house
as well as ever, if you saw it I should be very sorry
to think I'd done anything to it that you didn't
lika"

** It's very, very kind of you to say so, Mr. Everton.**
retunicd Ilolon cordially. "And you mustn't
think at all about it When I made up my mind to
part with it, I made up my mind never to care what
became of it"

" Well, that was the right spirit," said Mr. Ever-
ton.

"And if tho changes you have made in it gratified
your wife in her last days, I can only be glad of them.
I shall always think of my old home as it used to
be ; if it were burned to the ground, it would remain
there, just as I loft it, as long as I live."

" Well, I 'm pleased to hear you say so," said the
old man. " I like to see a young lady sensible—"

" Oil, I 'm not sensible," protested Helen ; " but I
like what you Ve done because you did it to gratify
your wife in her last days ; that makes it sacred."

" I was always on good terms with her," said the^

A WOBIAN'S REASON. 339

widower; " and I always determined to waitn proper
time, if I should want to marry again. But if you
believe you 've found the right one, there *8 no sense
in waiting too long."

lie looked inquiringly at Helen, who was some-
what mystified at the turn the conversation had taken.
But she said politely, " no."

" I should want you should like the house on your
own account," ho continued, still more irrelevantly.

" On my own account t ** faltered Helen.

" Because I want it to be yours," cried the old man,
with a sort of violence. " I appreciate the course you
have taken in regard to the fraud that was practised
upon me at the sale, and I say that you have acted
nobly. Yes, nobly I And I should wish to give the
house to you as a mark of — of — my esteem ; that, and
everything rise I have. I 'm alone in the world, and
nobody has any real claim on me, no matter what
her relatione may expect, and I will deed the house
to you to-day, if you say so I "

It all seemed like a dream of romance to Helen ; it
was fabulous, it was incredible, it must be impossible.
She began to think that the old man was insane, and
involuntarily left her chair. But there was nothing
abnormal about him, unless it was the repressed
excitement in which he sat blinking at her, as he went
on : " The house can be your home to-morrow — to-
day, if you like. You have only to say the word."
He seemed to form some sort of hope or expectation
from her continued silence, and now he rose. " If
you *re willing, there 's nobody to interfere, and I

340 A woman's reason.

should soon teach them to attend to their own busi-
ness if they attempted it. My mind is as clear and
my health is as good as ever it was, and I would do
everything I could for you. I admire you, and I
respect you. I think you have right principles, and
that 's a very important thing. I should be ]>roud of
you. To be sure, we haven't been much acquainted ;
and I suppose it 's only reasonable you should want
time to think it over. I 'm in no hurry; though, as
I said, my own mind is made up."

'* I don't understand what you mean," gasped
Helen. "What do you meani Why should you
give me your property 1 and why — "

Her eyes dwelt hopelessly upon his face, in which
a smirk of cunning hisinuation struggled with an
anxious perplexity. He again passed his tongue over
his dry, red lips, and then cleareil his tliroat, and
breathed hard : "I mean — all I have ; not that houses
but half-a-dozen houses, and everything I 'm worth.
I 'm not afraid of what i)eople would say. If we 're
both of one mind, the difference in age is nothing."
At a sign of renewed im^wtience from Helen, ho
added desperately : '* I want you to be my wife 1 **

She recoiled, with a shudder, and her teeth closed
in a nervous paroxysm. " Oh 1 " she uttered, in
abhorrence far beyond rejection ; and, creeping aofUy
by the wall to the door, with her eyes fixod warily
upon him, as if he were some nightmare spider thai
might spring upon her, she vanished out of it» and
il(Hl up-stairs to her own room, where she bolted her-
self in.

A woman's reason. 341

Tho lialMio'ir of sclMoatliing that she passed, with
her biirniii;;^ face in licr pillow, could not have l)een
more cruel if what had happened were some shame-
ful (Iced of Iter own. She searched her soul for cause
of blame, but she could find nothing worse there
than tho consciousness of having suflerod herself for
one inappreciable instant to dream of her home com-
ing back to her by the wild poetic chance which the
old nmn*s words had intimated. Tliis point of time,
fine and tenuous as it was, had been vast enough for
her to paint a picture on, where she and Itobert, dim
figures of grateful reverence, had seemed piously to
care for the declining years of their benefactor, and
to comfort his childless solitude at their fireside.
But the silly vision, for which she grieved and blushed,
was innocent, as she felt even in the depths of her
self abasement, and the thought of it ended in tho
reaction through which she rose from the bed, and
daslicd oir a letter commanding Mr. Hibbard to pay
the interest on the money due Mr. Everton, to the
last cent, and not to accept any sort of concession
from him. But the horror of his offer survived, an
increilible fact, which she could not reject His age^
in asking to mate itself with her youth, had seemed
to dishonour both, and had become unsi)eakably ugly
and revolting to her. She wondered what kind of
young girl it could bo that would marry an old man,
and what ho had seen in her that made him think
she could be such a girl. Nothing, she was sure ;
and tlH;rcfore this humiliation, when she was so
blameless, must be her punishment for sins from the

342 A woman's rsason.

consequence of which she had seemed to escape ; for
the way in which she liad tortured Robert ; for her
flirting, as she did that first day, with Lord Rainford ;
for liking to be admired, and for, perhaps, trying to
make people admire her. Yes, that must be it; and
as soon as she had fitted the burden to her spirit^ she
rose up with strength to bear it Whatever men
have contrived to persuade themselves, in these latter
days, as to the relations of cause and effect in the
moral world, there are yet few women who do not
like to find a reason for their sufferings in their siiia,
and they often seem still to experience the heroio
satisfaction in their penalties, which nothing but the
old-fashioned Christian's privity to the designs of
Providence can give.

When Cornelia Root came home to tea she
knocked at Helen's door, and passed in round tlio
jamb a hand with which she produced the efiect of
rejecting all resi)onsibility for the letter it conveyed.
** I guess it 's from Mr. Evans," she said, refusing to
look in. " / don't know what 's in it"

Helen was ready, in her penitence, almost to wel-
come the worst ; but the envelope only conveyed a
printed slip from the publishers of the Saturday
Aftenwon, in which they thanked her for her
contribution, and begged to enclose their cheque in
payment She rap|>ed in her turn at Miss Itoot'a
door. '' Just to tell you the good news," she ex-
plained to Cornelia's inquiring face, while a hiugh
fluttered out of her throat, which just failed of being
a sob. '' They 've accepted them 1 " She esc^ied

A WOMAN'S REASON. 343

again into her own room, before Cornelia could
formulate that strictly truthful expression of her
feelings without which she would not speak at all.
She joined Helen a little later, and underwent the
pangs of remorse in arranging with her to call on
Mr. Erans that evening and confess the authorship of
the reviews preparatory to asking his candid criticism
and his advice about future work. Cornelia's heart
smote her in the presence of Helen's unsuspicious
rejoicings ; she langtiished for the moment when she
could own that Mr. Evans hafl wickedly divined their
secret from the first, and she found no relief, but
rnilier an added anguish in the skilful duplicity with
which ho received Helen's avowal.

He was alone when tliey knocked at his door, for
Mrs. Evans was putting their boy to bed after the
usual conflict with his entreaties and stratagems.
'* Is it possible r* he demanded with a radiant deceit
" Wliy, this is delightful, Miss Harkness. We are
quite an esthetic colony here, under Mrs. Hewitt's
hospitable roof — with Miss Root's art-work and your
literature and my journalism. Really !" He deepened
Cornelia's sense of nefarious complicity by the smile
aside which she could not reject '* Have you written
much for publication t "

" I 'm afraid you must see that I haven't," said
Helen, with a straightforward honesty that Cornelia
felt ought to have made Mr. Evans ashamed of him-
self; "and I wished you to tell me just where I
have failed in my work, and, if you will be so good,
how I can improve it"

344 A woman's reason.

This seemed to Helen a perfectly simple and natural
request, and she was not, perhaps, altogether without
the feeling that Mr. Evans ought to be gratified at
her approaching him for instruction.

** Well, there you set me rather a difficult taak.
Miss Harkness," he said evasively. "We usually
expect the fact that we are willing to print a con-
tribution to suffice as criticism in its favour."

" Yes/' pursued Helen, ** but you want beginners
to do better and better, don't you t I 'm not saying it
to fish up a compliment from you ; but I wish really
and truly that you would tell me what my faults
are. Please specify something," she said with an
ingenuous sweetness which smote Cornelia to the
soul, but which apparently glanced efiectlessly from
the editor's toughened spirit He laughed, as if
other ladies had said the like to him before.
''Indeed, I shall not be hurt at anything you say I"
cried Helen.

"It's a little academic," said the editor. "But
that 's a good fault. It hod better be that than be
smart."

"0 yesl I detest smartness in everything."
She wondered just what Mr. Evans meant by
academic, but she did not like to ask, and she
consoled herself by reflecting that he had said it
was a good fault to be academic.

"I don't know," he continued, "that it is the
best plan to tell the plots and explain the char-
acters so fully as you've done; but that can be
easily remedied."

A woman's reason. 345.

•*I see," said Helen. "It destroys the reader's
interest in the story."

" Yes," assented the editor, " and in the review a
little And I don't think it 's best to sum up very
dc]i1)oratc]y at the end, and to balance considera-
tions so formally.**

" No r* said Helen. She had thought it was well ;
and she began to wonder why it was not

'*Bnt that part can bo easily omitted. And I
shouldn't quote from the book unless I could give
something very significant or charactcristia Your
sentences are a little long. And it is rather late in
the day to ojwn with an essay, however brief, on the
general effect and tendency of fiction. I think I
should always begin directly with the book in hand,
and let those ideas come in incidentally."

" Yes, to be sure,*' said Helen eagerly.

Mr. Evans put down her manuscript, which he had
taken up from the table, and added lightly, " I shall
have to work it over a little before it goes to the
printers, and then when you have it in the proof
you will see what I've done, and get a better
notion of what I mean than I could give you in
words."

" Oh, thank you very much. That will be so
kind of you ! " exclaimed Helen. She added :' " I
was careful to write only on one side of the paper.
I heard that the printers preferred it"

"Quite right/* said Evans with a smile at this
innocence. Cornelia Root felt the irony of it, but it
was simply amiable to Helen. "They do, very

346 A WOMAN'S REASON.

much. It *B beautiful copy. By the way, here is the
Afternoon for this week, if you want to look it over.
You're one of us now, you know."

''Thank you, I shall be very glad of it^" said
Helen, taking the paper ho offered her.

Mr. Evans seemed to have all his work about
him, and she thought that she ' ought not to keep
him any longer. She said good-night, but Cornelia
lingered a little ; she could not help it ; she could
not rest till she know from the eilitor, taken alone
and defenceless, whether he thought Helen would
ever be able to help herself by writing, and she told
him so in as many words.

" I saw you attempting to pierce my inmost soul
all the time. Miss Koot," said the editor. '* And I
tell you frankly, you won't get the trutli out of me.
Miss Ilarkness is a very cultivated young lady."
He bent over her MS., which he had again drawn
towards him. " She possesses a neat and polished
style. I could imagine that in letter-writing she
would have all the charm that tradition attributes
to your sex in that art In addressing the object
of her affections" — Cornelia gave a start of indignant
protest and disclaimer, which had no effect upon Mr.
Evans, who went smoothly on — ''she must be
fascinating, and I have no doubt the fashionable
friends to whom she describes our humble boarding-
house minage think she writes delightfully. But
in appealing to the general reader tlirough the
medium of the public prints. Miss Harkness seems
to think it advisable to present her ideas and im-

A woman's reason. 347

pressions in the desiccated form. Her review has
all the fixod and immovable grace, all the cold and
dignified slipperiness, of a literary exercise." He
looked up, and laughed out his enjoyment of the
righteous despair in Cornelia's face.

She dropped upon the comer of a chair. "She's
got to do something," she said.

" O no, she hasn't," returned Mr. Evans cheerily.
" She hasn't kept her secret so well as you have, Miss
Root ; and yesterday a fashionable friend of hers
stopped her coup^ at the pavement, and called me
up to the window to say that she was so glad I
was giving Miss Harkness a chance to write for
Saturday Afternoon^ and was sure that I would find
her very clever. She was always such a brilliant
girl, and said such delightful things 1 Miss Kings-
bury asked me if I didn't think it was dreadful, her
having lost everything, and being thrown upon her
own resources in this way, and I said I did ; but
I don't And then Miss Kingsbury explained that
of course she, and numerous other persons of wealth
and respectability, wotild l>e only too glad to havo
Helen Harkness come and sj>cnd her days with them,
but she could not bear the idea of dependence ; and
wasn't her trying to do something for herself splen-
did 1 And I said that I thought it was ; but I
don't And Miss Kingsbury said she knew it would
appeal to me, and I said that it did ; but it doesn't
^Vhy should it appeal to me, — why should I think it
splendid that a healthy young woman refuses to bo
a loafer and a pauper t ^Vhy, under heaven, shouldn't

348 A woman's reason.

she do something for herself t The town is full of
young women who are obliged to do something for
themselves. That's the kind of splendour that
appeals to me — the involuntary kind, — like my own.
Is it any worse for Miss Harkness to work for ft
living than for the tens of thousands of other girls
who are doing it t You have worked for a living
yourself. Miss Root Do you want mo to regard you
as splendid 1 "

Cornelia examined her just spirit in silence for ft
moment. ''It's different with us," slie answered,
" because wo were brought up to work. We never
exi)ected anything else, and it isn't so much of ft
hanlship for us, as it is for a girl like her who is used
to being taken care of, and never had to do or think
for herself."

" Ah, my dear Miss Boot, it is Uie princess in exile
who api)eals to us both 1 But is she more to be
praised for refusing to eat the buttered roll of others'
prosperity than the peasant-maids who have never
had the chance of refusing 1"

" She 's more to be pitied !"

** Bight again. Miss Boot 1 You are always right
By the way, wliy didn't you urge Miss Harkness to
attempt something in arti Miss Kingsbury asked
me if I couldn't get her some book to illustrate 1
She said that Miss Ilarkness's sketches were exqui-
site, and she asked mo if I had ever seen any of
them. Have yout"

" Yes," Cornelia reluctantly admitted.

" Well 1 "

A woman's reason. 349

"They're hopeless!" cried Cornelia, with an in-
voluntary vehemence that dch'ghted Evans.

" And you tliought that if she coaldn't draw she
could write ! That was quite natural."

" It was her own idea," urged Cornelia.

** And it was your idea that she should write for
mo I Very good, very right, very like a philan-
thropist !"

" Now, you know well enough, Mr. Evans," b^;an
Cornelia, " that you were perfectly free to refuse
Miss llarkness's writin' ; and I ain't goin' to praise
you up for Ukin' it, if that 's what you 're after."

" That 's what I 'm after ; but I knew I shouldn't
got it before you told me. Who praises an editor
for anything t You and Miss Kingsbury will only
tliink I Ve done my duty when I 've sat up
till midnight ]mtting this pretty rubbish into
filiapc."

" Is it so bad as that t " asked Cornelia, aghast
" Why didn't you give it back to her, and tell her it
Mas rubbish t It would have been the best for her
in the end !"

" Because I have a timid and truckling spirit. Miss
Root, and you know it Because I have scarcely the
heart to refuse the rubbish of ladies who tell me they
have produced it in the interest of some worthy
charity, or for the purpose of eking out their pin-
money ; and I 'm naturally helpless in the presence
of a lady who has written it for bread — as I am given
to understand." Cornelia was silent, and the editor
continued gleefully: "A wnnan can sometimes do

350 A WOICAN'S REASON.

something without damaging others. Bot when a
lady undertakes to help herself, some man haa to
suffer for it ; and why shouldn't I be the victim f I
usually devote Saturday night to working on a little
play I 'm trying to write, but I daresay the time will
be much better employed in rewriting Miss Hark-
ness's reviews"

He watched the travail of Miss Root's soul in her
honest eyes with a smile of unrelenting enjoyment.
<< Besides, I like to befriend gentility in adversity as
well as you do, Miss Root The thought that I am
actually earning money, without her knowing it^ for
a young lady of Miss Ilarkness's condescension, does
my mean and servile little soul moi'e good than I
can well dcscriba"

Cornelia burst forth with a sort of groan, " Oh, it 's
all wrong, I know it is I But what is a girl fit Air
that 's been brought up just as a lady t If there 's
anything under the sun that she can honestly do,
without imposing upon other people, and putting
them to twice the trouble she takes for herself, for
goodness' sake, let her do it 1"

"Very just sentiments; but what is itt"

" Well, one thing it isn't ; and that 's writing for
the papers, and I shall tell her so 1"

" You have no right to abuse my confidence, Miss
Root," said the editor with superficial gravity,
through which liis laughter broke when slio turned
desperately upon him. " Miss Harkness's failure it
my secret. If it u a failure. / supiK>sed it was a
shining success! There are very few young ladies

A WOHAN'S REASON. 351

who can get editors to write their articles for them,
and tlien let them pocket the proceeds. ** «

*' I should think," said Cornelia, *' that yon wobld
1^ ashamed to make fun of everything the way you^
do. It seems as if you didn't have a morsel of com-
passion for the poor thing/'

" Ah, there it is again I Accept her inefficiency
and applaud her failure because yon pity her ! Do
you think the ladies arc ever going to do anything
for tliemselves as long as the world is asked and
expected to take that attitude t Did yon tell her that
she was an artist, and then work up her sketches for
hort Have a morsel of compassion yourself, Miss
Root ! I 'm going to liave large masses of it I 'm
going rewrite Miss Harkness's whole review I"

His laugh followed Cornelia as she climbed the
stairs in slow and heavy pcrj»lexily to her room.

Helen in her room was light-heartedly writing to
Robert, and telling him that though she had now
absolutely nothing in tlio world, she had never felt
so happy since her father died, for now she had
found at last that she could do something and be
of some use. She could not grieve, even for his sake,
for the loss of the money paid back to Mr. Ever-
ton ; the thought of it now was such a perfect horror.
She said that some thne she should tell him why,
but not now ; and she turned from the odious sub-
ject to describe her interview with Mr. Evans, who
had been so frankly kind and encouraging. She had
not said anything to Ro1>ert about Lord Rainford
yet, and she wondered whether she ought Some

352 A woman's reason.

time, of course, she must do so ; but she was afraid
it n.ight be difficult to make the whole aflair clear to
Robert at that distanca It was something that could
be much better spoken tlian written; she resolved
at least to leave her letter open till morning, and
decide then what she should do.

She was not sleepy, but she felt a pleasant languor,
such as comes after the fortunate close of a periotl uf
strong excitements, and she sat down before the firo,
which was giving out its last delicious glow, to
indulge her fatigue a little more luxuriously. She
looked back over what had happened during the
week with satisfaction, now that it was past; alie
was glad not only that she had paid that horrible old
man his money, but that she had been rights and not^
as she had sometimes feared, morbid and conceited
about wiuliing him to be paid. Sho folt that alio liad
behaved in a sensible and business-like manner ; that
Captain Butler's action proved this; and that all the
events sustained her in her first instinctive impulse.
At this safe removal in time and space, Mr. Evcrtou's
profMisal did not seem so simply horrible ; it began
to reveal some amusing aspects; she broke into
a little murmur of laughter when she tliought of
certain moments of perplexity for him.

As for the money, it was a little matter: it M'as
five thousand dollars in the abstract, but in reality
it was only six dollars a week; and witli Uio pro-
spect of literary work from Mr. Evans, and perhapa
other editors, she could easily make that up: she
had earned ten dollars by her pen already.

A woman's kkason. 353

S]ie unfolded the paper that Mr. Evans had given
her, and tlie crepitation of its leaves sent a light
shiver through her. What would the Butlers say
when she sent them the next number with her
reviews marked in it? S1)0 knew from her own
fine rehictanco that it would surprise them disagree-
ably ; and she fancied Jessie Butler supporting, and
Mrs. Butler forgiving, while Marian Ray denounced
her new attempt. But, she reflected, she would
often have to disagree with Marian Ray ; and what-
ever people said of the society gossip in the ScUurday
yffUrnoon, it was a gof)d literary pa|)er ; everybody
acknowledged that She heard herself defending it
to Marian, and, in the rapid process of reverie, it
had come to her saying plainly to Marian that she
saw no disgrace in writing for the newspapers, and
that the only disgrace could Ih) in writing dishonestly
niid vulgarly for them. She had said she had Clara
Kingsbury's approval, and Marian had laughed and
answered, "Oh, if she had Clara Kingslmrtfs ap-
proval ! " and had retreated again to Naples ; for
Helen now had the newspaper quite open, and
was looking for the book-reviews occupying the place
which hers would have the next Saturday. They
were rather ap))allingly well written ; she could see
that they were indefinitely better done than hers;
she wondered if they were Mr. Evans's, and she gave
a little sigh of dismay ; while her eye wandered idly
to the next column, where a name arrested it

The name was Fenton*s ; and the paragraph in
which it occurred seemed to become alive and sentient

z

354 A woman's 1(I£AS0N.

under her oyes. It was a despiitch from WaahiugtoD,
rohcarsingy with telegraphic brevity, the facta of
the wreck of the Meteor, as furnished to the State
Department by the Consul at Tahiti, from the state-
ments of the survivors.

Five days after the disaster the French ship
Belle Paysanne, which brought them to that port, hail
fallen in with an open boat containing Captain BoUiua
and a number of the Meteor's crew and passengerSi
who reported that Lieutenant Fenton and three
others had volunteered to remain on the reef where
the Meteor struck till the overladen boat could find
land and return to them. The Belle Faysanne
altered her course, and visited the scene of the
catastrophe; but the wreck had then disappeared,
and there were no traces of the men left behind.
A week later, however, the ship picked up another
of the Meteor's boats, with the two sailors who had
remained with Lieutenant Fenton. From the narra-
tive of these men it seemed that the wreck had
broken up the day after Captain ItoUins abandoned
her, and that Lieutenant Fenton, who had lingered
on board after helping to launch the boat^ was
caught in the wreck and carried down with her. His
companion, a jxassonger named Giflon, was rescued
by the seamen ; but he had been so badly bruised by
the floating timbers that hd died the following day.

They confirmed the statements of Captain llollius
and all the other survivors, concerning the heroic
behaviour of Lieutenant Fenton, who had chosen to
remain on the rock rather than imperil tlie Uvea

A woman's reason. 355

of tlio iKosseiigers in Captain Rolling's boat, and
who had been most efficient throughout the events
that followed the striking of the ship. The boat
in which the men were found was in a ruinous
condition, and was set adrift after their rescue. A
large sum of money, belonging to Captain Rollins,
which they had recovered from the wreck before
it broke up, was restored to him.

xvn.

Helen did not come down to her breakfast, and
Cornelia Root, who was finishing hers about the
time there began to be question at Miss Hark-
ness's absence, said she would step in and see what
the matter was after she got on lier things. She
found Helen sitting before the empty grate ; the gas
was burning, and the bed untouched ; and a thrill
of terror went through her lest Helen should be
bitting there dead. When, after bidding her good-
morning in vain, she ventured to touch her on the
shoulder, Helen looked round, with a stare that, for
the moment, made Cornelia repent being so bold.
*' For the good Lord's sake 1" cried the girl, ** what u
it, Miss Harkness t "

<'Oh,nothing,"said Helen. She began to laugh, and
tried to hide under her hands the news^iaper she liad in
her lap, and then, as if at her failure in this, she b^an
to weep piteously. " Look 1" she exclaimed, opening
the paper, and pointing to the story of the shipwreck,
" he 's dead I And those men killed him. Oh, I 've
thought it all out 1"

Cornelia took the paper, and, after a swift glance
at the paragraph, put it aside without questioning

A woman's reason. Zpi

f

]icr. "I guess you bettor lie down, Miss Hark-
ness, and try to get some rest I 'm going to have
your fire made up."

She got her to bed, and then she conferred with the
landlady outside the door ; she ended by sacrificing her
own preference for a female physician, and calling in
the doctor who, Mrs. Hewitt recollecte<l hearing Miss
Harkness once say, had taken care of her father.

She sent a note to Miss Kingsbury telling her
that she was afraid Miss Harkness was going to
be sick, and asking her to come to see her; but
word was returned that Miss Kingsbury was in New
York, and would not be home till the latter part of
the week. It was then too late to move the sick
girl to her friend's house.

It did not need the light which Miss Kingsbury
threw on her relation to Lieutenant Fenton to enable
Heloirs fellow-boarders to understand what had
happened. Cornelia Root had understood it at
once, with austere resolution not to recognise her
own privity to the fact even to herself ; Mrs. Evans
had divined it, and talked it over with her husband,
who halted between remorse for having laughed at
Helen's contributions and secret question whether he
would not be justifiable in using a parallel incident
in his play ; Mrs. Hewitt guessed it out, in a hungry
inability to talk it over with anybody, and got her
first real comfort out of the expansive desolation in
which Miss Kingsbury confided to them all her
grief for what had happened, and stated the facts
fully as she knew them.

358 A woman's reason.

"Well, it didn't stand to reason," said Mrs.
Hewitt, ** that she would care so much for a brother,
and an adopted one, at that"

" O no 1" cried Clara. " It was much more than
that 1"

She got a professional nurse to relieve the devotion
of all Helen's volunteer nurses ; and from this young
woman Mrs. Hewitt at (mi hoped everything, but
only to be the more keenly disappointed ; for, so far
from reporting the tenor of Helen's delirium, the
nurse wholly refused to talk of her ])atieut. She
would sit at Mrs. Hewitt's own table, and blink at
Mrs. Hewitt through her glasses, and never say a
word, morning, noon, or night, until Mrs. Hewitt did
not know whut would become of her. Mrs. Hewitt'^
disgust with the nurse authorised the first full laugh
which Evans had i>ermitted himself since Helen's
sickness began. It was after a favourable turn had
taken place ; nevertheless Cornelia Root bent upon
him a look of keen reproof.

*' Oh, come now, Miss Root I " he protested, "I 'm
not going to stand that I 've just succeeded, after
infinite pains and argument, in convincing Mra
Kvans that / didn't cause ^liss Harkuess's fever by
laughing at her literature whilst I was putting it into
shape that night ; and I still believe that if slie had
died my wife would have required me to deliver
niyself up to justice. But I am an innocent man,
and I won't have you going round and looking as
though this never would have happened if it hadu*t
been for |ue."

A woman's reason. 359

Cornelia opened her month to deny the accusation,
but Evans hastily interposed. "Do you mean to
say that you haven't thought — that you haven't fdt —
that I was somehow to blame for the whole thing t"
iSho refused to answer, with a dignity that did not
avail her. "Don't fall back upon the fact that I
lent her the newspaper I I didn't invent the facts,
at any rate; but I've suffered under the ban of
public opinion quite as if I had, and now I 'm going
to stop it"

"What nonsense!" said Cornelia. "But if your
conscience pricks you for anything, / 'm not going to
comfort you."

" Oh, it isn't my conscience that pricks me 1 It 's
ymtr conscience, and Mrs. Evans's conscience, that
have goadcfl me to desperation. I can get on very
well with my own conscience."

As soon as Helen could be safely taken away,
Clara had her carried to her house, where she com-
])lctcd Iter convalescence amidst every superfluity of
luxury. For many weeks she remained gathering
strength, and listlessly accepting service and favour
that she never could repay ; but at last the day came
when the tide of life rose high enough in her veins
to beat in feeble revolt

"You know," she said, "this must end some
time, Clara. I 'm not your mother or sister. You
can't keep on taking care of me, as if I belonged to
you."

" You do belong to me, Helen dear," cried her
friend, with a rush of generous tenderness. " Don't

360 A WOMAN'S REASON.

talk of anythiDg ending, but just stay on and on.
AVhy shouldn't you t AVhat would you do 1"

"Ah, that's the old question I"

*^ I didn't mean that 1 I meant, why should you
try to do anything 1"

" I suppose, because I 'm not a lily of the field, for
one thing." Clara laughed gratefully for the gleam
of gaiety from Helen, whose sadness had been heavy
on her heart. ** I should be glad enough never to
do anything, or even be anything again. You
understand, Clara, what I've been through t" slio
asked.

"You hinted something once, and I could guess
the rest"

" Then we won't speak of it It 's such a mere/
we needn't ! But you can see that all the past is
swc[>t away from nie. There 's notliing loft ; 1 hsvo
to begin everything new, with new ideas and neir
objects. I used to be ambitious about helping my-
self, but I 'm not now ; even my pride in that is
broken." The tears of self-pity started to her eyes.
" Yes, I would be humbly grateful if I needn't do
anything. But I must. And the old question comes
back ; whatl"

*'0h, Helen," said her fiiend devoutly, "if you
would only stay and be a companion to me —
anything 1"

Helen smiled. " To cheer you up — read to you —
keep you interested — go pleasure journeys with you 1
Yes, I should be a gay companion."

"Well, then, my housekeeper, if you mil insist

A WOMAN'S REASON. 361

upon usefulness — and I don't blame you for it; I
should myself. Why shouldn't you be my house-
keeper 1 I have hcanl of girls trying that !"

" I should be glad to learn housekeeping of yaUf
Clara. You know I don't know anything about it,
and that you know everything. I used to pretend
to keep house for papa ; but Margaret really did it
all. I must be fit for something ; but I can't tell
what it is, yet"

" I can't bear to hear you talk so, Helen. Why
don't you try writing again t I 'm sure Mr. Evans
would be glad to have you."

" Don't 1" cried Helen. " I couldn't think of any-
thing I tried before — that." She touched her
calamity with the woiti, and then struggled to get
away from it with a curious effort of her broken
spirit, which Clara said afterwards made her think of
a crippled bird trying to fly. "I 'm a fearful problem,
Clara. But don't worry over me any longer, now.
There must be some vnry simple answer to mo if wo
take time to think it out ; and I 'm afraid I 'm willing
to take all the time you 'II let me. I '11 accept any
sort of disguised charity at present ; and if you want
to start a subscription for me, Clara, you may. Only,
don't let me know about it."

A thought seemed to strike Miss Kingsbury,
which kept her silent for a moment " There was a
Hungarian lady here last year, who had a plan of
gardening for girls — vegetable and flower gardening.
I wonder if you met her."

" No," said Helen.

362 A woman's rkason.

" She was at tlie Kelloggs'. She was Mrs. Kellogg's
religion for the time being." Helen did not catch
hopefully at the gospel of the Magyar prophetess,
but looked with a rueful surprise at her friend, who
went on : " Then there has been a good deal of talk
about farming for women, — small fruits, and poultry."
She threw out the suggestion diffidently, but
gathered courage when once it was projected from
her. ** I suppose one becomes interested in it^ and
gets very fond of the poor little things"

" Which, Clara — the berries or the chickens f "
asked Helen, with a lifeless laugh. " I should want
to cat the berries ; but I can't imagine eating poultry
of one's personal acquaintance."

" Oh, I meant having an affection for the chickens ;
you 'd have to let other people eat them." She
joined in Helen's laugh at the futility of her sugges-
tions ; but she added : *' Well, we must think out the
answer to you. There 's no hurry."

" no."

That afternoon Margaret came with a heart full
of proud contrition to blame herself for having been
in Ireland for the past three months, and for having
just learned of Helen's sickness and whereabouts.
She wept over Helen's sorrows, and over her wasted
looks and hollow eyes; and the girl was freer to
talk with her of what had hapiiened than she had
yet felt witii any one else.

She told her about the shipwreck, of which
Margaret had not heard before, and she showed her
a scrap of paper, the cover of an official despatch.

I

A woman's reason. 363

** Here are his last words. Ho wrote them to mo
while ]ie was standing on that rock in the middle of
the sea, and they came from Washington after I was
taken sick."

" Oil, Miss Helen, Miss Helen, how did you ever
live to tell the tale 1"

Helen did not answer. ** We were engaged, and
he was coining home,** she said, with a sort of crasy
satisfaction in the poignancy of Margaret's Bym-
pathy. She threw the hurden of suffering uixm her
for the time, and talkcfl with nn unsparing hardness
for herself. " But I deserved it — I deserved it all."
Her thin hands tremhled in her lap, and her head
shook. "Where are you living now, Margaret t*'
she broke off abruptly.

" Why, Miss Helen," answered Margaret, with a
bluRh, " I *ni living in the Port, in a house of my
own."

•• In a house of your own t"

" Yes, Miss Helen." Margaret hesitate<l. "You
sec, there was an old fellow on the ship coming
hack, that had l)cen out to Ireland too, and he kept
talking so much about it all the way, and never
leaving me a moment's peace, that I thought maybe
I 'd Iwttcr. And so, I did — three weeks ago."

"Did whatt"

" Married him. Miss Helen." Margaret seemed
douhtful of the effect of the intelligence upon Helen;
she hastened to add in excuse, " He 's a very qttiet
IkkIv, and he works at the glass-works in East
Cambridge. Wc hnve a nice little house, and I

364 A woman's reason.

should be much pleased to have you come out some
day and see it, Miss llolen. The worat of it is, that
there isn't enough to keep a person busy, and I 'm
tliinking that maybe I '11 take a loardcr. There 'a
a spare room. He'd like to see yoa, Miss Helen.
I 've told him a good deal about you."

'* Thank you, Margaret, I will come out some day.
I should like to see your husband."

" Oh, he 's no great tlungs. But he 's a very quiet
body."

Helen was looking at the bonnet on Margaret's
head, and she answered rather absently, '' Yes."
The bonnet was a combination of purple fruits and
magenta flowers, caught in a net of lace, as if to
protect them from the depredations of birds and
insects. ** Where did you get your bonnet^
Margaret 1 "

** In Hanover Street, Miss Helen," said Margaret.
" I don't think it 's very good ; do you t I |MU(l
enough for it ; but money won't buy the like of the
bonnets that you used to make me, Miss Helen."

'* You'd better let me see what I can do with tliia.
The shape isn't bad," said Helen critically.

'*0h, I couldn't. Miss Helen. After what Tvo
said to you 1 I should feel as if I 'd hinted."

''You needn't 'be under a compliment' for it,
Margaret," said Helen, with a sudden inspiration;
" You may pay me for making over the bonnet 1"

" Oh, Miss Helen 1"

" Yes. I need the money. I must work for my
living now."

A WO»LA.N*S REASON. 365

** How good of yoii !" said Clara, when she found
Helen with the bonnet in her hands the next day,
and learned whose it was.

"It 's good Jot me," returned Helen. "Margaret
pays me for doing it Perhaps ih\$ is the solution."

Clara permitted herself a silence in which her
imagination kindled with the idea. " Helen/' she
cried, " it is splendid I Why shouldn't you do some-
thing of the sort I There 's nothing disgraceful
about it, and with your taste, your genius^ you could
make every bonnet a work of art — as they do those
picture-dresses in London."

They talked the scheme over, and as soon as
Helen was strong enough to attempt it, they put it
in practice. Clara wanted her to set up a shop in
her drawing-room, b»it they devolved upon some-
thing more modest in the end, and Helen took Mrs.
Hewitt 8 parlour floor. Clara advanced the capital ;
a tasteful and richtrchi stock of frames and feathers
and ribbons was chosen, and Helen embarked in the
enterprise under the favouring smiles of a world at
once fiishionable and sympathetic and high-minded.
It would not bo easy to say just how the scheme
came to final ruin. But when once a lively lady
had said Miss Harkness's bonnets had so much touchy
and another had answered, "0 yes, they were all
touch,*' and both had then tittered in tacit recogni-
tion of a certain amateurish lack in them, it was
well on the way to failure. By the time Uiat a
visiting New York lady had said Miss Harkness
seemed to bo quite a Boston fashion, and had

3G6 A woman's reason.

been answered, "0 no ; a fioston passion^* she was
no longer so. Clara Kingsbury wore her Harkness
bonnet to the bitter end (as some one phrased
it), but she was notoriously interested, and her
heroic devotion counted for nothing. All Helen's
gains went to pay the assistant whom slie had taken
from a well-known milliner's shop, with a just
conviction of her own unfitness for practical details ;
and when her stock was exhausted, and the ladies
had given away her bonnets to their second-girls,
she had nothing but her debt to Clara for her pains.
They cried over the failure together when Uiey had
to face it at Itist, and Clara inveighed against Uio
hoUowness and ingratitude of the world. But Heleu
took the blame upon herself. '* It was arrogant in
me to suppose that I could succeed in any business
without serving un apprenticeship to it — without
beginning at the bottom. It was like those silly
women who go ou the stage, and expect to begin at
the very top, over the heads of people who have
faithfully worked all their lives learning to be actors.
It 's just 1"

''That doesn't make it any the easier to bear,"
Clara repined.

'* It does for me," said Helen. " If the things that
have hapi>eued to me were not just, I couldn't endure
them"

Clara took her in her arms, vowing that she was
the best and bravest creaturti in the world, and that
she h<id never done anything except suffer unmerited
wrong. She would not hear any talk of the money

A woman's reason. 367

she had advanced ; she professed that if their under-
taking had succeeded, she had always intended to
take her share of the profits, and that she was more
than wiHing to take her slmre of the loss. How
little it was, compared to Helen's, who had lost time
and labour, and everything but courage I She did
not understand how Helen kept up.
• "Because I wt«/," Helen explained. "You can
bear things that you mnsi bear. I suppose that's
what makes death endurable to those that have to
live on." Clara was silent in awe of her sad wisdom,
and she went on more lightly : " Besides, this hasn't
btfcM altogether a loss to me, this experience. I 've
learnt a good many things. I 've really learnt how to
make bonnets, for one thing, and I believe I can be
of some little use to others as well as myself. I 've
got a new idea, and I 'm going out to talk with
Margaret al)out it."

" With Margaret ! Oh, Helen, dear, what is it t
I 'm afraid—"

" That it 's something foolish 1 It isn't It 's only
sometliing distasteful — something very humble. It's
something Miss Root suggested."

Clara was only partly comforted. " Miss Root is
terribly severe. She doesn't know how to spare
people's sensibilities."

" She 's had to do with people who have no business
to have any sensibilities — like me. I *ve thought it
all out, Clara." A woman instinctively respects
another woman who says this, and believes her;
Clara listened attentively. " I 've thought it all out^

368 A woman's reason.

aiid I see that I haven't talent enough to bo fint-rate
in anything. I couldn't endure to be a aecond-rnte
artist or writer ; but I don't mind being a second-
rate milliner ; and that *b what I 'm going to be, if I
can. And now I won't tell you anything more about
my scheme till I see whether it 's practicable. People
will laugh, but they won't sneer, and if they pity mo,
I shall bo glad and grateful for their pity."

Clara tried to get from her some details of her
plan, but she would not give them ; she would not
leave her any comfort but the fact that she could not
say or do anything to prevent her trying to carry out
her plan.

She went out to Margaret's in the horse-cars, and
walked down the little side street to the end of the
row of French-roof cottages^ in the last and poorest
of which Margaret was so proud of living. Helen's
sickness and convalescence, and her subsmpicnt ex-
periment in (esthetic millinery, had carried her through
the summer and the early full ; the young elms along
the side walk had dropped their last yellow leaves,
and the grass in the narrow door-yanls lay limp and
Hat after the heavy Novemlier frosts; around, the
open lots stretched brown and bare, swept by an east
wind that brought the salt savour of the bay rank
across them. A few slatternly goats, lank and
heavy- uddered, wandered over Uie dismal expanse,
as if to crop the battered tomato-cans and old boots in
which it abounded.

Margaret's house had never had more than one
coat of pinkish-brown paint, and it looked ratlier

A woman's reason. 369

thinly clad for the season; but within, a pungent
heat from the furnace, which did more than anything
else to make Margaret feel that she was an American
householder, struck into the parlour where she re-
ceived Helen. It was curious and amusing to see
how little Margaret had profited by her life in
Beacon Stei)s, in arranging and decorating her best
room. There were no evidences of the better tiisto
to which she had been accustomed half her days ; she
had simply tried to make her parlour as like all the
other parlours in that row as she could, with a wood-
coloured ingrain carpet, tan tciry furniture, and a
Tn:irbie-tx)pi)cd centre-table ; if she had been a Pro-
testant, she would have had a large gilt-edged Bible
on this ; as it was, she had an infant Jesus in wax
under a glass bell.

Helen stopped her in hor ceremonious preparations
for making company of her. ** Margaret," she said
abruptly, **I want to come and live with you, — if you
think you can trust me for my board a while.**

'* Indeed, Miss Helen," said Margaret with a splen-
dour that M'as worth more than money to her, **I
don't know what you mean, exactly ; but if you do
mean to come and live with me, there '11 bo no talk
of board.**

"Well, well,*' returned Helen, "we'll talk of that
later; we're both pretty headstrong.** Margaret
deprecated this, as far as Helen was concerned, with
a flattered simper. " But now 1 11 tell you what I
want to do. You know I 'vo been trying to set up
for a fashionable milliner in Boeton.**

2 A

370 A WOBfAN'S REASON.

'' Yes, Miss Helen/' sighed Margaret

" And I Ve made a failure of it The fashionable
people don't want my bonnets."

'* They 're a set of hateful things, Miss Helen," cried
Margaret, '* and the best of them isn't fit to scrub
your floors for you."

Helen laughed at the unmeasured ceal of Mar-
garet's loyalty, expressed in terms so little fit for tlie
polite ears of those they devoted to condemnation.
'< No, no, Margaret ; they were quite right, and I was
all wrong. I didn't know how to make bonnets
when I began."

''Miss Helen, if thei-e 's been one |)erson spoke j^g
me on tliis very street about that last bonnet you
done over for me, there 's been a hundred 1 Every-
body says it 's the becomingest bonnet, with more
real Beacon Street style to it tlian any tliey ever saw
me have on 1 "

"Well, I 'm very glad," answered Helen patiently;
** and that brings mo to what I wanted to say. ^ If I
didn't know how to make bonnets before I began, I
did know when I got through — perhajM by spoiling
so many." Margaret sniffed a disdainful denial of
the premises, and remained with inflated nostrils,
while Helen went on. '' And what I think is this :
that if I could come out here, and take your spare
room, you might tell your friends — those ^loor girls
that sometimes waste so much on bonnets — tliat I
could do their work for them just as well, and a
great deal cheaper — "

*^Yau work for them good-for-nothing hussies. Miss

A woman's reason. 371

Helen! -ATo, indcrd ! It's bad enough having you
work for ladUs — if they choose to call themselves
such after they throw your bonnets > back on your
hands — but as for them trollops of general house-
work and second-girls, let them fling their money
away ; they *rc soon enough ))arted from it ; but you
shan't take a stitch for them."

" Margaret, Margaret !" cried Helen. ** I 'm not
strong enough to talk to you, if you go on in that
silly way. I haven't a cent of my own in the world,
and I must work, or I must beg. The question is
whether you will let mo have your spare room to
live and work in, or whether you will turn me out
of doors."

"Oh, Miss Helen, how can you say such a thing 1"

"Well, then, don't talk so I"

** You can have the whole house, and all that wo
can do for you, and you shall not pay a penny
for it"

Helen rose. " Very well, then, I shall not take it
You don't want me to have the room, and that *s your
way of putting me off. I understand yon, Margaret
])ut I did supi>oso that after all these years you 'd
lived with us, you xconldrCi turn me into the streeta."

She sank weakly into her chair again, and Mar-
garet called to all the saints to witness if she did not
wish to do in every particular exactly what Helen
desired.

"Well, then," demanded Helen tragically, "will
you let me pay you five dollars a week, and make all
your bonnets for you I"

4

\

\

372 A woman's reason.

'* Yes, yes 1 Indeed I will, Miss Helen 1"

''And never let your horrid, wicked, foolish old
pride interfere with your taking the money — if I
ever get it to pay you 1 "

Margaret solemnly promised, and Helen saiil,
*'Let mo go to the room at once, then. I'm m
tired 1" and suffered herself to be helped up-ttain to
the little chamber, which Margaret had adorned in
the worst taste of Limekiln Avenue, with chromot
over the chimneypiece, and a set of painted furni-
ture, grained to match the oak-pajier on the walL
It was like the inside of an ugly box ; but Helen
fell upon the clean bed, and slept a sleep wliich
carried her well through the afternoon, and left her
refreshed and encouraged to begin the long fight^ in
which she forced Margaret from one stand after an-
other in her determination to treat her as a lady
guest But she understood Margaret well enough
to know where to hold her hand, and when Margaret
sent him to eat his supper in the kitchen, and sat stiflBy
down in fresh linen cuffs and collar to pour the tea
for her in the dining-room, and would not touch
anything on the table herself, Helen knew better than
to interfere.

When work began to come to her, she resolutely
set her face against the indignant majesty with which
Margaret would have treated the poor girls her
customers. It was clearly Margaret's intention to
make them feel that it was an honour and a privilege
to have their bonnets made by her Miss Helen ; at
first she remained present at their interviews, brow

A woman's reason. 373

beating them by her haughty silence into acquiescence
with every suggestion of Miss Helen's, and reducing
them to a submission so abject that Helen was sure
some of them ordered just the ribbons and flowers
they did not want, and others bought l>onnet8 when
they had merely come to talk them over. Margaret
followed to the door one hapless creature who had
failed, in her confusion, to give any order, with allu-
sions to people who wasted other people's time for
nothing so cuttingly sarcastic, that Helen revolted,
tfiid positively forbade her to interfere ; after that
she was obliged to content herself with a haughty
reception and dismissal of the customers.

Helen did her best to serve the simple, stupid
things cheaply and well. She knew that she saved
them money, and she made their mistaken tastes her
own, and in that way sometimes corrected them,
without their knowing it, and launched them
ui>on the world a little less formidable in shape
and crude in colour than they had intended. But
she instinctively studied to obey one of the first laws
of business, and that was to supply an existing
dcmnnd till she had created another. She did not
attempt to make her shop— for finally it was nothing
more nor less— a school of aesthetics, as she had in
first attempting millinery ; she advised and suggested,
but she decided nothing. She put both her pride and
her preferences into the pocket where she bestowed
her customers' money, and kept only a conscience
about giving them the material worth of it They
were a great variety of iK)or girls and women, begin-

874 A WOMAN'S RKASON.

ning with the cooks and second-girU of Margaret's
acquaintance, whose patronage founded Helen's pro-
sperity, and rising through economical mothers of
families to the upper ranks of seamstresses and
^' sales-ladies." One day there came a young coloured
girl, when luckily Helen was alone ; Margaret woald
never have "demeaned" herself by receiving her, but
Helen received her, and in due time sent her forth
resplendent in a white hat trimmed in orange and
purple.

This incident of her new career seemed to give it lui
ultimate stamp of authenticity, and it afforded her
such saddened satisfaction as could come to her
through a sense of recognised usefulness. She spoke
of it to Mib^i Kingsbury and Cornelia lloot, who
equally approved; the former because she admired
everything Helen did, and the latter because she
found it, as Helen herself did, a final testimony to
her practicality.

''It's all very well in that way," said Mr. £vans,
whom Cornelia had not been able to refrain from
triumphing over with a fact that refuted all his
predictions of renewed failure for Helen. ''So is
any one who caters to a depraved popular t;)ste of
any sort, practical. But what I want you to consider
is whetlicr there is not something immoral in
allowing a savage preference for purple and orange
to indulge itself. If I read my Kuskin aright^ I
understand that there is some sort of occult con-
nection between a feeling for colour and righteousnessL
Now you say that Miss Harkness allows her customers

A woman's reason. 375

to arrny themselves in whatever hue of the rainbow
they like best; that she daily and hourly violates
her own sense of right in colour for the sake of
money. Don*t you call that immoral 1"

** What do yon have anything to do for with a
paper that publishes all those jxsrsonals and society
gossip r' demanded Cornelia in her turn.

" Oh, I *m A jM)or, weak, erring male man ! But
I've frequently been taught that when Woman
entered the arena of business, it would be in some
way that would elevate and ennoble affair& I
shudder to think what will become of us when
women go into i>olitics, if they show themselves so
ready in business at all the tricks of trade. But
I *T6 noticed that when Ladies — I 'm not speaking of
women now — determine to be practical, they let no
consideration stand in their way : they aim to suc-
ceed. Look at the unprincipled way they conduct
their fairs for benevolent objects 1 What prices I
What swindling lotteries of all sorts! No, your
Miss Harkness is like the rest; and it appears to me
that at the present moment she is pandering to a
very depraved taste in ribbonry, and I see nothing
to admire in the mere fact that she is making a
living by it Lots of people make a living by selling
crooked whisky.''

Cornelia Root disdained to reply. She only said :
"You talked very differently when she was lyin'
sick here in the house ; you couldn't pity and praise
her enough, then."

Evans laughed shamelessly. " Well, I was afraid

876 A woman's reason.

she was going to die, and we always try to make
interest with the other world by being kind to
people about to go into it But we never keep it up
after if thoy turn back."

He succeeded no better than he meant in un-
settling Cornelia Root's mind in regard to Helen.
Ho wished his wife, who usually made her own
bonnets, to go out to the Port and order them of
Helen, and in turn suffered much the same sort of
reproach which he was fond of addressing to Cornelia.
Mns. Evans said ho had never before wished her to get
her bonnets in Cambridgeport, and she understood
that Miss Harkness had quite all the work she could
do. She had helped to take care of Helen during
her sickness, and hod been devotedly kind to hor,
like every one else in the house ; but a woman likes
to place her own limits to her benevolence^ es|)eciAlly
towards other women ; and the husband will commit
an error who attempts to extend them. She asked
him why he did not wish her to get her bonnets oi
some of the common milliners in Hanover Street^
and he was unable to say why.

XVIU.

The world of fashion, on whose bonnets Helen had
experimented in learning her business, accepted the
hearsay of her success in a humbler way with self-
satisfaction, and attributed far greater tilings to her
than she achieved. It understood that she was
making money, and several fictions in regard to the
sums she h^A amassed had a ready currency. The
world intended to look*her up, when it had time;
it was neither hard-hearted nor indifferent, but it
was preoccupied. There were ladies who meant
almost every day to drive out and see Helen ; there
were others who refrained l)ecause they fancied she
would rather not have them come ; but all wore un-
feigned ly glad that the poor thing had found some-
thing at last that she cottld do. Her experiment
in aesthetic millinery had thrown a great deal of
light on her former endeavours ; people said there
was hardly anything she had not tried. In fine,
they practically left her acquainfAnce and her memory
in the keeping of Clara Kingsbury, who remained
faithful to both, and perhaps did the best thing for
them in rather hushing them up. She was herself a
little sensitive about Helen's first experiment^ and

378 A WOMAN'S UBASON.

she was aware that many i)Oople held her indirectlj
responsible for the enthusiasm with which they had
encouraged it. She always answereil inquiries about
Helen in an elusive way ; she generalised her, and
passed her over as quickly as possible, so that
really the world had it to say that, so far from
having dropped Helen, she hod dropped herself.
It was certainly not to blame for having heard
nothing of her failing health, which began to break
some six months after she had established herself at
Margaret's. She had worked very hanl, for slie had
incurred expenses during her fever at Mrs. Hewitt's,
for which she was still in debt to Clara Kingsbury,
and she had cherished the secret determination
to reimburse her for all her losses through her.
She had not earned enough to do this, but she had
worn herself thin and pale by the time the advancing
spring made it a year since she had heard of Robert's
death. Her friend wished her to give up and go
down to her cottage with her ; but Helen refused to
do more than spare herself a little, and she was still
at Margaret's when the liutlers and Rays arrived
from Europe.

They had been abroad longer than they had in-
tended, because Captain Butler had continued iu
feeble health ; but now they had come home to stay,
AS Marian wrote from London before tliey sailed.
They were all going to be in Beverley together till
Ray could decide whether to buy or to build ui
Boston, and Marian said that the first thing must
be an indefinite visit from Helen. There* was a

A WOMAN*S RRA80N. 379

tono of peremptory hospitality in her letter, which
made Helen, in spite of her affection for them,
dread tlic return of her old fricnda She was much
more comfortable with Clara Kingsbury, who had
l)ccoine the friend of her adversity, who realised it,
and took it seriously ; and she could see that it was
still a freakish piece of wilfulness to the Butlers.
Marian somehow treated her as if she were a little
girl, and rather an absurd little girl. She knew that
she could right herself against Marian's assumptions
of sincerity and wisdom, but she shrank weakly from
the effort, and she foresaw that she should not have
the physical strength to make it

In fact she yielded at once when Marian drove out
to Cambridgeport and took possession of her. She
was not even to be allowed to wait till they were
settled at l^everley, but was to go down with them ;
and Marian came from the hotel where they were
stopping for the day to fetch her.

Marian had always been large and blonde; she
now showed a tendency to stoutness ; she was very
English in dress, and she had the effect of feeling as
if she looked very English. In fact, she had visited
so much at great English houses that she was ex-
periencing the difficulty, which sometimes besets
American sojourners in England, of distinguishing
herself from the aristocracy, or at least the landed
gentry. The illusion shortly yields to American air,
but it is very perfect while it lasts.

Marian had a nurse for her little boy, and she
called this nurse by her surname simply; she was

380 A WOBIAN'S REASON.

quite English in her intonation, and she was at die
same time perfectly honest and unaffected in theaa
novel phases, and as thoroughly good and kind-
hearted as ever. But her handsome hulk and her
airs of a large strange world made Helen feel
undersized and provincial ; in spite of all she could
do, and in spite of her accurate knowledge of just
what Marian Ray was and had always been, her
friend made her feel provincial. She had been
almost two years out of society, and for the laat
six months her relations had been with inferior
people; she asked herself if she might not really
have retrograded in mind and manners, and she
gladly escaped from Marian to the others ; to the ex-
uberant welcome of the younger girls; to the pitying
tenderness of Mrs. Butler ; to the quiet and cordial
simplicity of llayf — his quiet seemed to have been
intensified by absence. But what went most to her
heart was Captain Butler's tremulous fondness, and
the painful sense that the others were watching,
whether they would or not, for the effect of his
broken health upon her. lie brightened at meeting
Helen ; they said afterwards that he had not seemed
for a long time so much like himself ; and tJiey loft
him to e itcrtain her while they made a show of
busying themselves about other affairs. It was pro-
bably an indulgence they had agreed to grant his
impatience. He kept her little worn hands in his,
and looked at her forefinger, roughed witli the needle,
and deejily tinted with the stuffs in which she worked,
and it seemed to be this sight that suggested his words:

A woman's reason. 381

"I managed very badly for you^ my dear! If it
hadn't been for my hesitation when I first doubted
that rascal, I could have made terms for you with
the croditors. I don't wonder you would never accept
help from me ! It 's very good of you to come to us
now."

" Oh, Captain Butler, you break my heart I Did
you think thai was the reason t I only wished to
help myself. Indeed, indeed, that was all. I
woulfhrt have accepted any provision from the
creditors."

" You need never have known it Tliat could
have been arranged," said Captain Butler.

"It's been a mercy, the work — my only mercy I**
cried the girl. " Oh, Captain Butler !" She caught
her hands away and hid her face in them, and let the
bl.ick wave of her sorrow go over her once more.
When it was past, she lifted her dim eyes to those of
the old man. " Did you read about it — all about itf

" Yes, my dear, and many a night I Ve lain awake
and thought about it !"

" Did you ever think that he might still be alive —
that perhaps those men came away and left him, and
he escaped somehow t Don*t tell me that you did
if yon never did 1"

Tlic old man remained silent

'' Then they must have killed him — to get that
money — "

" No ; probably they told the truth. It might
very well have happened as they said," pleaded
Captain Butler.

382 A WOMAN'S RfiASOK.

** Ah, you know it couldn't I"

Again his hoi)eIos8 silence assented, and Helen
said, with a long, deep sigh, *'That is all. You
know how I must have felt There is no use talking
of it. I only wanted to see you and S|)eak of it just
once, because I knew you would know. Thank you I*
she said, with a wandering pitifulness tliat forced a
groan from her old friend's lii)Sw

"For crushing your last hope, Helen 1"

*' Ah ! it 's better not to have false hoiics."

She stole her hands back into his, and after a while
she began to tell him quietly of her life, and wlmt
she had done and expected to do ; and he gave her
the comfort of his fatherly praise, in which there was
no surprise or foolish admiration, such as afilicted
her in most [»eople's knowledge of her efforts.

" I don't have to work very hard," she explained,
in answer to a question of his ; '' not harder than I
wish; and I have got to working at last as other
people do who earn their living, without thinking at
all that it 's I that am doing it That 's a comfort, —
a great comfort And I know my trade, and I 'm
sure that I do good work. Do you remember when
I told you that I sliould be a milliner if I were ever
left to take care of myself V

" I remember, Helen."

They were both silent ; then she said, with a light
sigh, *' I 'm only fueling a little fagged now."

** You must stay with us, Helen," began Captain
Butler.

'*I shall be glad enough to stay a while^" she

A wobcan's reason. 383

answered evasively, and in her own mind she had
already fixed the term.

It was inevitable, perhaps, that she should extend
the term. The summer was a vacant time, at best,
and she could let the luxury cf Captain Butler'b
house flatter her feeble health into strength again
without such a bad conscience as she would have had
if she felt that she was s|K)iling her future, or if she
had got back her strength very rapidly. The family
did not see many people, and only saw them in a
quiet informal way in which Helen could share. The
worlfl, with which she had never had any quarrel,
took her hack kindly enough ; it discreetly suppressed
iU curiosity ; it spoke of bonnets and ribbons in her
presence with a freedom that was wiser and politer
than an avoidance of such topics would have been ;
it sent her invitations to little luncheons and low
teas, and accepted her excuses gracefully, and always
renewed the invitations, just as if she had come.

The old affection enfolded and enfeebled her. It
was quite as bad as she had feared. She said to her-
self sometimes that it would be better to break off at
once and go back to Margaret's ; but she did not do
m. The thought of the little wooden house baking
l)csi(lc the dust of Limekiln Avenue, and her own
low chamber gathering he4it and mosquitoes from
day to day under the s1oi>e of the slated mansard,
op{>o!u;d itself to the actuality of the Butler cottage,
with its wide verandahs that looked seaward through
cool breaks of foliage on the lawn dropping smoothly
to the boulders on the beach ; with its orderly snooes-

384 A woman's reason.

sion of delicate moals ; with the pretty chintzed and
muslined room in which she seemed to drowse her
life away, safe from the harms that had hunted her
so long ; and she felt how easy it would be to accept
indefinitely the fond hospitality that claimed her.
She said that she must not; but in the meantime
she did. She ' had the soft, feline preference for
sunny exposures and snug comers which is to blame
for so much frailty of purpose, or so much purpose-
less frailty in women; and now she was further
weakened by ill-health. She stayed on and on, in
spite of the feeling that they all regarded her as a
poor, broken thing, who could no longer be the ideal
of the young girls, or the equal friend of Marian.

Mrs. Ray was much preoccupied with her baby,
with the house that Ray had decided to build, with
the friends abroad from whom she heard and to
whom she wrote. She carried witli her an impres-
sion of wealth, an odour of opulence, which accorded
well with her affluent personality ; she accepted her
lot of rich woman with a robust satisfaction which
would have been vulgar except for her incorrupUblo
good-heartedness. She never talked of money, but
she was a living expression of large expenditure;
and in discussing the plans of her new house with
Helen, she had an unconsciousness of cost^ as related
to questions of convenience or beauty, which went
further to plunge Helen into hopeless |>overty than
any boast of riches could have done. Her manner
was none the less efiective for her assumption that
Helen was equally able to pay for such a house. She

A woman's reason. 385

yvtks not planning altogether for her own comfort and
splendour, though these were duly provided for ; but
she was looking after the wellbeing of everybody in
her household, and she was as willing to lavish upon
the servants* quart«ers as lior own.

"I think it's barbaric/' she said, "to make those
l)Oor creatures, because they do our work, pass their
days in holes in the ground and coops under the roof,
and I 'm determined that they shall be decently
housed with me, at least. I 'm making the architect
work out this idea — it was something I talked over
— witli " — she added, with the effect of foeling it
absurd to shrink from saying it — " Lord Rainford."

Tlicy both continued quietly looking at the plan,
but tlie word had been spoken, and they no longer
talked of the servants' quarters in Marian's house.
Helen leaned back in her chair, with her listless hands
in her lap, and Marian took up the work she had
laid down before unfolding the plan.

"When did you see him lastl" asked Helen.

" Oh, he came to see us off at LiveriKwl," returned
Marian.

"Was he— well!"

*'ycs, as well as he usually is. I believe he's
never very strong, though he 's never in a bad way.
He 's much better than he used to be."

Helen was silent Then she began, as if in-
voluntarily : " Marian " — and stopped.

" Well 1 "

Sho was forced to go on. " Did you know — **

" 1 le told Ned. Now, Helen,** she added quickly,

2b

386 A woman's reason.

'<I promised Ned not to open this subject with
you 1 "

" You haven't/' returned Helen with quiet sadness,
''/opened it. I know that we should have to speak
of it some time. I feel that I was not to blame, and
I have never felt sorry for anything but his— disap-
pointment."

'' He never blamed you. He understood just how
it happened, and how he had mistaken you. He ia
the soul of delicate appreciation."

"Yes, I know that"

" And his only trouble was, that he should have
forced you to say that you were engaged."

" Yea."

" And I don't believe that any of us grieved mora
sincerely for you than he did."

" Oh, I boliovo it"

" Well," siiid Marian, breaking her needle in ex-
pression of her resolution, "I won't talk with you
about Lord Kainford, Helen; for I can only talk
with you in one way about him, and I promised Ned
not to do that 1 "

" What way 1 " asked Helen.

•* You know I "

'* Now," cried Helen, '' you must tell mo all about
it 1 If I didn't believe that I had sufTorod as much as
he, I couldn't forgive myself. How did he imd out
about — about — Koberti" She whispered the last
word.

" We told him !"

" And he was sorry for me — he —

A woman's reason. 387

''Yes.''

" How kind he is !**

" Yes, he is kind," said Marian. " He 's a good deal
changed since he was hero." Helen looked the
interest which she did not otherwise express, and
Marian continued : " Ho *8 giving op a good many of
liis wild Utopian ideas about democracy, and all that
kind of thing. You know, at one time — before he
first came out to America — he thought of dividing
up his estates amongst the labourers on thent"

" What a strange idea !"

" Yes. But there was some legal obstacle to that
— I don't know what — and now he 's devoting him-
self to making his people comfortable in the station
where he finds them. He conforms a great deal more
than ho use<l to, in every way. I think his acquaint-
nnco with Anicrica did him gooil : ho saw what a
humbug democracy and equality really were. He
must have seen that nobody practically believed in
them ; and we must say this for the English, tliat
they Ve too honest to get any pleasure merely from
the names of things. He must have found Uiat
people here were just as anxious about position and
occupation as they are in England."

" He seemed very much puzzled by it," said Helen.
" I couldn't understand why."

" Becau5;e he was very sincere ; the English are all
sincerer than we are. They accept rank and royalty,
and carry it out in goml faith ; and we accept de-
mocracy, and then shirk the consequences. That's
what Ned saya I wonder that the Englishmen who

388 A woman's rkason.

have been here, or seen us running after titles
abroad, can keep from laugliing in our faces 1 And I
don't wonder that Lord liainford was cured of his
fancies in America. Why, he actually, at one time^
was a sort of republican 1"

''A very curious sort,*' said Helen. ''He said
that Americans were all commoners."

Marian paused. '* Did ho say that % Well," she
added with heroic resolution, '* I suppose we are.**

" I don't think so," said Helen. '< Or at least it
wasn't delicate of him to say so."

*'I don't believe he meant anything by it Ho
gave us to understand — or Ray at least — that he
particularly admired you for your courage in earning
your own living, and being no more ashamed of your
work than if you were noble."

" Yes," said Helen thoughtfully, " I suppose it
might be natural for him, if he had those notions, to
idealise us here, just as it would be for one of us to
idealise them : it would be his romance."

" Certainly," said Marian, with eager assent^ as if
this mood ought to be encouraged in Helen, " that is
just the way."

" And, perhaps," Helen went on, " it would have
been better for me if I had been such a girl as he
supposed — trying to help myself because I respected
work, and all that. But I wasn't."

" Of course not"

" I was merely doing it because I couldn't bear to
be a burden to any oue ; and I 've never had any
higher motive. "

A woman's reason. 389

*^Aik1 I'm sure it's high enongh/' said Marian.
''And crazy enough to suit any one," she added.
" lie would like it all the better when he found out
wliat it really was ; especially now that his own ideas
have changed a little."

"lie was an aristocrat at heart all the time,"
returned Helen. " If I had been bom to work for
my living, like the poor girls whom I make bonnets
for—"

" It would have been another thing, quite. We 're
all inconsistent. I don't deny it. There 's no merit
in working for a living, whatever disgrace there is
in not doing it. You don't find your Bridgets and
Noralis, or your Sadies and Mamies so very superior
to iuimnn weaknesses that you wish the rest of us to
form ourselves on the pattern of working girls."

"O no," said Helen, with humorous sadness.
"They're poor silly things, most of them, and as
full of prejudice and exchisivencss as any ona I 've
never seen distinctions in society so awful as the
distinction between shop-girls and parlour-girls.
Their differences seem such a burlesque of ours, that
sometimes I can hardly help laughing at the whole
thing. I supposed once that all work-people were
on a level ; but really I had no idea of inequality
till I came down to them. I daresay," she added,
" Lord liain ford's ex)^)erience in coming down to vs
must have been something like it But it didn't
make it any pleasanter to have him suggest his sur-
prise. And I don't'know that I need feel particulariy
flattered at his singling me out for praise because I

390 A WOMAN'S REASON.

choose to lielp myself rather than be wholly depen-
dent—I 've always been partly so. It isn't a thing,
as you say, that I deserve the least credit for.''

** I never said that about you/' protested Marian,
"and I do think it's a credit to you — or would be,
if there were any necessity for it."

"Any necessity for it V*

" I will speak now," cried Marian, " hospitable or
inhospitable ; and I don't see how it has anything to
do with it" Helen understood perfectly tliat tliose
enigmatical sentences were the ro|K>rt, so far as they
went, of some discussion between Marian and her
husband, and that she was now about to break some
promise she had made him out of half-conviction.
" Do you expect, Helen Harkness, to go back to that
horrid shanty, and s|>end the rest of your life in
making servants' bonnets I"

" Yes — till I have learnt how to do better work."

"Well, then, 1 think it 's a shame 1" Helen drew
herself up, but Marian did not quail. " I think that
you might have had some little consideration for us
— for all your friends, if you had none fur yourself.
Why should it have been any mora disgraceful to
accept help from papa— from your father's old frii*nd,
who felt towards you just as he does towards his
own children — than to take up such work as tluttt
If it comes to that, why shouldn't you be dependent
upon us, as well as dependent on them 1"

" I 'ni nol dependent on them," said Helen, ^ and
you have no right to say such a thing, Marian."
But she felt herself physically unable to cope with

A wouan's reason. 391

Marinn's misrepresentation, or the no-reasons with
which she supported it

" I say it for your good, and to let you see how it
appears to others. It will kill you to go back there.
I can't bear to think of it"

** It won't kill me," answered Helen sadly, " but I
shouldn't be frightened by that if it were true.
Why do you think I should be so anxious to live %**

"Helen!"

" Yes, — seriously. What is there left for me in
this world!"

" There 's everything — if you would see it so."

"Everything!"

" Helen," said Marian, dropping her hands, with
the sewing in them, into her lap, ** you force me to
break one of the most solemn promises I ever made
in my life. But I don't care ; if I can do any good
by it, I will break it. And I want you to understand
that I 8i)eak entirely on my own responsibility, and
quite against Ned's advice and orders. We saw a
great deal of Lord Ilainford while we were in
England, and everything we saw made us like him
more and more."

Helen feebly put herself on the defensive, but
without saying anything, and Marian continued —

" He 's very greatly improved, in every way. He 's
better, and he's better-looking."

'*! thought him improved the last time he was
hero," said Helen impartially.

" He 's the kind of man who doesn't show to advan-
tige out of his own surroundings," returned Marian,

392 A WOMAN'S RKA80N.

pursuing her apparent advantage. ** We visited bim
at one of his places, in the country : an old house of
the fifteenth century, tliat kings and queens had
slept in, and that had been in his family almost as
long as it had boon built You never saw such a
place, Helen 1 Thero wasn't much of a park, but
there were groups and avenues of beautiful old trees
all about, and lawns so fine and close, that it seemed
as if they had l)een woven and laid down there just
for our visit; ivy all over the front of the houso,
and such gardens, with peaches and pears and roses
trained along their high walls — just like Tennyson's
poems ; and an exquisite keeping about everything that
I never could make you understand unless you had
been there. But everything was so fit that you felt
as if that low English sky was part of the place,
and the arrangement of the clouds had been studied
for it. There wasn't a jar or a hitdi in anything,
and Lord Rainf ord himself came in in such a way that
you would have thought he was as much a guest as
ourselves."

'* Yes," assented Helen; " I suppose they've brought
the art of all that to perfection."

'Mb isn't an art with them; it's nature — second
nature. This was only one of his places — the smallest
of thoin,— but there wasn't the least effect of owner-
ship about him ; and it wasn't from him, you may be
sure, that we found out the good he was doing 1"

" No ; I could imagine that. He must find a great
happiness in it I 'm glad — "

'* Oh, he didn't seem very happy. Not thai ha

A woman's rrason. 393

m.'ulc any parade of melancholy. But you can tell
wli ether such a man is happy or not, without his
saying so, or looking so, even."

Helen was silent, and ^farian made a bold push.
"You know what I mean, Helen, perfectly well.
He didn't sfMsak to me about it, but he told Ned
evcrytliing, and Ned told mo ; and I don't believe
he 's forgotten you, or ever will."

" lie had better, then," said Helen, with a momen-
tary firmness. " Ho must.*'

" Didn't you tell him that if you were not en-
gaged—"

"Oh, did he say that! Then don*t talk to me of
his delicacy, Marian ! It was shameful to repeat it"

" What nonsense I Mightn't he say it, if he were
asking Ned whether he thought you really would
have carcil for him if you hadn't been 1"

"Did he ask that!"

" I don't know. But if he had, would it have
been anything so very strange t Not half so strange
as your saying it if you didn*t mean it Why did
you say it, Helen 1"

" Vou know well enough, Marian. Because I felt
sorry for him ; because I had to say sometliing.
Did Ned — did Mr. Ray encourage him to think that
I meant—"

'*0( course he didn't He never ventured a word
about it Ho seems to think, like all the rest of us,
except me, that you 're a very peculiar kind of porce-
lain, with none of the flaws of common clay, and I
can't persuade him you're a girl like other girls.

394 A WOMAN'S EBA30N.

Bat if yoa come to the commoQ leiiaa of the niaUcr,
I don't flee why Lord lUinford thouldii't hftve «ip-
poeed you meant what you said, and that whoi it
was all over — "

" Marian r

" — Why he shouldn't hare k^n to hare acne
hopes again. I'm speakiog for your good^ Helen,
and I'm going to Bpeak plainly. I dua'/ lee why
you flhouldn't marry him now 1 If you hare no pitj
for yourself, if you yrtftr to go on with the wrelchetl
life you 've planne«l, I don't see why you ahoukin'i
have a little compassion for him. You're spofling
his life as well as your ovm."

Helen hail to struggle from under the cmahing
weight of this cluirgo by an effort that resulted in
something like levity. " Oh, I don't know that it 'a
spoiling Ills life. He seemed to care for me as aa
clement of social and jiolitical reform, and wanted
to marry me because I illustrated a theory. Per-
ha|>s, if you told him I didn't really illustrmle it,
he would lie quite willing to accept the aitoa-
tion I "

She left Marian where she was sitting, and the
subject — for that day. But the next week Bay went
off to town by a train earlier than usual one morn-
ing, and Marian went restlessly about the housei
Tlie moment she found herself alone witli Helen, she
began abruptly: '' Helen, I won't have you thinking
it 's the same thing, my talking to you the other day
about Lord liainford, as it would be if Bobert
Fenton had lived."

A WOICAN'S REASON. 396

" No/' said Helen, recognising the fact that it had
seemed so to her.

" I wish to talk as if he never had lived."

"You can't do that I"

" Yes, I can ; for now it is the same, so far as Lord
Rainford is concerned. If you said anything to make
him believe that it would have been different if you
liad not been engaged, then you owe him another
chance. If you ever did or said anything to en-
courage him — *

" Encourage him !"

"Without knowing it — But you can't deny that
he might have thought you encouraged him deliber-
ately that first day — "

" No," said Helen, with a guilty sense that did not
suffer her to protest against Marian's cruelty in going
back to that

"Then I say you mvst listen to him. Helen, I'm
s|>caking entirely for your good. I didn't like him
at first, either ; but now I know how nice he really
is. I do want you to reconsider! You would be
happy with him ; he would make any woman happy,
and he would be simply in heaven with you. And
you 're adapted to the life you would lead in England.
You could be fashionable or unfashionable, just as
you likeil ; and if you wanted to be useful, to do
good, and that sort of thing, you 'd have every chance
in the world. You 'd be a great success, Helen, in
every way. I do tcanl America to be well represented
over there ! And don't you see what a great thing
his offering himself to you is t It's almost nnprece-

396 A woman's EBA30N.

dented! I hardly know any other American girl
who hasn't been married for her money in Europe;
they're alwayt married for their money^ even faj
cheap little continental counts and barons ; and for
an English lord to marry a poor American girl, why,
it's like an American man marrying a woman off
rank, and that never was heard of 1 I want you to
look at it on all sides, Helen ; and that 's tlie reaeon
I 'm almost perjuring myself in talking to you of it
at all. I did promise Ned so solemnly ; but if I didn't
8|>cak now, I shouldn't have another chance before — *

She suddenly stopped herself, and Helen, who
had been borne down by her tide of words, lifted
her head again : ^ Before what, Marian t"

"Before he comes 1" cried Marian hysterically.
'* He 's coming here today i"

Helen rose. ''Then I must go," she said quietly.
" It would be indelicate, it would be indecent, for,
me to be here. I wonder, Marian, you could set
such a trap for me."

Marian forgave the offensive charge to Helen's
excitement " Trap," she rejieated. '* Do you call it
a trap, when I might have let him come m^itiioui
saying a word to you 1 I toanted to do it I And I
should have had a perfectly good excuse ; for we didn't
know ourselves that he was coming, till this morning.
Pie wrote us from New York, and he started for
Boston last night I didn't oven know he wis in
the country — indeed I didn't !" she added, beginning
to quail, woman as she was, under the awfulneas of
the reproach in Helen's eyes. "We couldn't tell

A woman's reason. 397

him not to come 1 How could we tell him not to
come 1 There wasn't even time I"

"Yes," said Helen brokenly, "I know. I don't
blame you. But you see that I can't stay."

"No, I don't," retorted Marian, "I don't sec any-
thing of the kind."

"It would bo shameful — it would be a trap for
him:'

" He 's a man, and he '11 never dream of such a
thing ; he 's a gentleman, and he totm'< think so !"

" But / shall," returned Helen definitively. " It
Till look AS if I had been waiting for him here;
bS if I wished to see him. It leaves me no freedom ;
it binds me hand and foot If he spoke to me again,
what could I say 1 Don't you see, Marian 1 "

" No, I don't," said Marian. But she denied with
icr WpB only.

" No matter ; it 's quite tiino I was back with
largaret. I will get ready, and go up to Boston at
once."

" Helen ! And when he 's crossed the ocean to'
see you 1 "

" If he 's done that, it 's all the more reason why I
shouldn't see him. He had no right to come. It
vfta very presumptuous ; it was unfeeling."

" You encouraged him to believe that if yon had
not been engaged to Robert Fenton you would have
accepted him. What was he to think 1 Perhaps he
felt that, as a gentleman, he was bound to come."

Helen panted breathlesa "I must go away,"
was all she could say at last

398 A woman's reason.

'< Oh, vory well 1 " cried Marian. " You soe how
awkward you make it for us."

*' I know. I 'm very sorry. But I can't help iL
How soon do you expect him 1 "

** Ned went up to Boston to meet him. I don't
know which train they 11 be down on/' returned
Marian coldly.

"Tlicn there isn't a moment to he lost," said
Helen, hurrying to the door. " Will you let Jerry
take me to the station 1 " she asked formally.

" Oil, certainly," replied ^larian, with equal state.

A few minutes later Mrs. Butler came to Helen'
room, her gentle eyes full of sympatlietie trouhli
** Marian is feeling terribly, iftui you go, dear 1"

"Why, yes, Mrs. Butler. Don't you see thai I
must V* returned Helen, without desisting from he
packing, while ^fi-s. Butler sank upon a chair ne«
the trunk.

" Yes, of course ; Marian sees it too ; if you are fuL
resolved not to — to give him any hop& But 8h«
thought — we an tliought — tluit |>erliaps — . Helen.
dear, I don't wish to pry into your affairs ; I han
no right — "

'*0h, Mrs. Butler 1" cried Helen, dropping an
annful of clothes chaotically into her trunk, in order
that she might give the tears, with which slie was
bedewing them, free course upon Mrs. Butler^s neck,
" you have all the right in the world. Say anything
you please to me ; ask anything 1 How should I
take it wrong 1"

'* There's nothing I wish to ask, dear. If youVs

A woman's reason. 399

•piito firm — if your mind is eniirrhj made up — there's
•lothing to say. I wouldn't urge you to anything.
I tut wo all have such a regard for him that if you
'hould — . It seemed such a fortunate way out of all
\ our struggles and sorrows — "

''And Itobcrtt Do you ask mo to forget him,
Mrs. Butler, so soont"

"Oh, no, my dear ! I should be the last to do

liat ! But wives lose their husbands and husbands

icir wives, and marry again. They don't forget

*eir dead ; but in this world we can't live for the

ad ; wc must live for the living. Don't look at it

if it wore forgetting him or betraying him in any
ay. As long as you live — you must understand
lat — ho can be nothing to you I"

** Oh, I do understand it," sobbed the girl. " My
*nrt has ached it all out, long ago, and night and

y I know it. And that's what makes me wish I

;rc deatl too."

Mrs. Butler ignored this outburst. ''And this
oung man is so good — and he is so true to you — "

"Oh, is that the reason I should be untrue to
nysclfl"

"No, dear, it isn't any question of that It's
merely a question of examining yourself alxiut it, of
making sure of your own mind when you see him
ngaiu. The children are all romantic about it be-
rause it 's a title, and they like to think of a splendid
marriage for you ; but if it were only that, I should
1h3 very sorry. I 've seen enough of splendid mar-
riages, and I know what risks American girls take

400 A woman's heason.

when they marry out of their own country, and their
own kind of thinking and living. But tliia ian't the
same thing, Helen — indeed it isn't lie likes you
because you 're American, and because you 're poor ;
and the lost thing he tliinks of is his title. No. deer.
If he were some penniless young American, he
couldn't be any better or simpler. Mr. Butler and 1
both agreed about that"

"Captain Butler 1" cried Helen, with the traged;
of Et tUf Bruie, in her tones, and the effect of pre
paring to fall with dignity.

'*Ye8. He says he never saw any young ms.
whom he liked better. They formed quite a frieni
ship. He was very sweet and filial with Mr. Butler
and W!is always making him talk about youl**

A throe of some kind passed through Helen, an
the arm round ^Irs. Butler's nock tightened convr
sively.

" I never approved," continued the elder lady, **
what people call marrying for a home ; but I though
— we all thought — that if, when you saw him again
you felt a little differently about everything, it wouk
be such an easy way out of all your difficulties. We
approve — all of us — of your spirit, Helen ; we quite
understand how you shouldn't wish to be dependent,
and we admire your courage and self-respect| and all
that ; but wo don*t like to see you working so hard —
wearing your pretty young life away, wasting your
best days in toil and sorrow."

" Oh, Mrs. Butler 1 the sorrow was sent^ I don't
know why ; but the work was sent to save me. If

A woman's reason. 401

it wero not for that I should have gone mod long
ago !"

"But couldn't anything else save you, Helen t
That's what wo want you to ask yourself. Can't
you let the sunlight come back to you — "

"No, no !" cried Helen, with hysterical self-pity;
" I must dwell in the valley of the shadow of death
all my life. There is no escape for me. I 'm one
of those poor things that I used to wonder at — people
always in black, always losing friends, always carry-
ing gloom and discouragement to every one. You
must let me go. Let me go back to my work and
my poverty. I will never leave it again. Don't ask
me. Indeed, indeed, it can't be ; it mustn't be ! For
pity's sake, don't speak of it any more !"

Mrs. Butler rose and pressed the girl to her heart
in a motherly embrace. " I won't, dear," she said,
and went out of the room.

Helm heard her encounter some one who had just
come up the stairs, at the head of which a briefly-
murmured colloquy took place, and she heard in
Jessie Butler*s ])enetrating whisper: "Will she stayt
Will she accept him 1 Is she going to be Lady Rain-
ford 1 Oh, I hope—"

** Hush, Jessie I" came in Mrs. Butler's whisper,
and then there was a scurry of feet along the matting,
and a confusion of suppressed gaiety, as if the girls
were running oflf to talk it over among themselves.

Helen would not make allowance for the innocent
romance it was to them. She saw it only as a family
conspiracy that the Butlers oaght all to have been

2o

402 A woman's reason.

ashamed of, and she began again to pack her trank
with a degree of fuiuUur which, perhaps, never before
attended such a task. Her head was in a whirl, but
she worked furiously for a half-hour, when she found
herself faint, and was forced to lie down. She would
have liked to ring and ask for a biscuit and a glaat
of wine ; but she would not, she could not consent to
add the slightest thing to that burden of obligation
towards the Butlers which she now found so odious,
and on which they had so obviously counted, to
control her action and force her will

She lay on the bed, growing more and more bitter
against them, and quite helpless to iise. Slio heard
a carriage grate up to the door on the gravel outside,
and she flung a shawl over her head to shut out the
voices of Ray and Lord Kainford; she felt tliat if
she heard them she must shnck ; and slio cried to
herself that she was trapped, trapped, trapped i

Some one knocked lightly at her door, and Marian
entered iu answer to a reckless invitation from the
pillow. It seemed an intolerable piece of effrontery,
and Helen wondered that Marian was able to put on
that air of cold indifference in proposing to ask her
to come down and meet Lord Kainford before he
had been in the house ten minutes.

*' Helen/' said ^larian, in a stiff tone of offence,
''Mrs. Wilson is here, and wants you to come over
and take lunch with her. I couldn't do less than
promise to give you her message. Shall I say that
you 're lying down with a headache t"

" Oh, not at all, Marian," said Helen ; '* there V

A WOMAN'S REASON. 403

nothing the matter with me. I*ra perfectly well
Please tell Mrs. Wilson that I shall be very glad to
come, and that I *ll be down directly."

She was already twisting up her hair before the
glass with a vigour of which she could not have
believed herself capable. But the idea of flight, of
escape, inspired her ; in that moment she could
have fought her way through overwhelming odds
of Butlers ; her lax nerves were turned to steel.
" Marian," she said, " I will ask Mrs. Wilson to drive
me to the station this afternoon, and I'll be very
glad if you can send my trunk there."

" Oh, certainly," said Marian.

" I know I m making it horrid for you," added
Helen, beginning to relent a little, now that she felt
herself safe, " but I can't help it I must go, and I
must go at onco. But Mrs. Wilson is such a kind
old thing, and she*s asked mo so often, and I can
easily make her understand that I must come now or
not at all, and if she knows that you 're expecting ,
other people your letting me go to her for lunch the
last day won't seem strange."

'* Oh, not at all," said Marian, with a slight laugh,
whose hollowness was lost upon Helen.

Mrs. Butler said she was to come and visit them
as soon as they got back to town ; she kissed her as
lovingly as ever, and the Captain was afTectionately
acquiescent ; but the young girls were mystified, and
Marian was cold. Helen tried to make it up to her
by redoubled wannth in parting ; but this was not
to be done, and as soon as she was out of the house

404 A wouan's rkason.

8ho l>egaii to feel how ungracious she hod been to
Marian, ^vho lind certainly done everything she
could, and had behaved very honourably and can-
didly. In the undercurrent of reverie which ran
along evenly with Mrs. Wilson's chat, she atoned to
Marian with fond excustui and explanations^ and
presently she found herself looking at the aflair
from the Butlers' i)oint of view. It did not tlion
appear so monstrous ; slio relented so far as to
imagine herself, for their ^ake and for Lonl liain-
ford's, consenting to what scuniod so right and fit
to them. She saw herself, in pensively luxuiious
fancy, the lady of all that splendid circumstance
at which Marian had hinted, moving vaguely on
through years of gentle beneficence and usefulness,
chivalrously attended in her inalienable sadness by
her husband's patient and forbearing devotion;
giving him, as she could from a heart never his, and
now broken, res|)<ict and honour that might warm
before her cnrly death to something like tenderness.
It was a incture that had often been painted in
romance, and it satistied her present mood as well aa
if its false drawing and impossible colour were true
to any human lii'e that had ever Im-'cu or could be.

By the time she reached ^Irs. Wilson's cottage
Ray drove up to the Butlers', and met the surmise
of his wile and sisters-in-law with monosyllabic
evasion till ho could be alone with Klarian. ^ I
didn't brin;4 him," he explained thon, *' because Uio
more I thought of it the less I liked our seeming to
trap Helen into meeting him."

'' Oh, indeed 1 " said Marian. " That was her own
word ! "

A woman's reason. 405

"Tlicn you told liert I might have expected
timt. Well, it was quite right What did she
say]"

" Everything unpleasant that she very well could.
You would have thought that really we had taken
the tnoRt unfair advantage of her, and had placed
her whore she couldn't say no, if she wished."

" I could SCO how it might look that way to her,"
said liay, '* and that 's what I was afraid of. It was
cxtrenioly awkward, every way. Wo couldn't very
well tell him not to come, and we couldn't very well
teJl her to go ; the only thing I was clear of was
that wo must tell her he was coming, and let her
decide upon her own course."

" That 's what I did, and she decided very quickly
— she 's gone."

Hny looked worried. " It 's tantamount to turn-
ing h«T out of doors, I sup]K)se, and yet I don't
know what else wo could have done. Well I I
mi;;ht as well have brought him straight here, and
saved myself all the diplomacy of getting old Wilson
to take him home for the night."

Marian did not for the present ask what was the
diplomacy which Kay had used. " Mr. Wilson I "
she shrieked. " You got Mr, JFilson to take him
home for the night 1 "

** Yes," retunied her husband quietly. "What i^
so very remarkable about my getting JFilson to do
iti"

Slie did not answer, but burst from her door
with a cry for Mrs. Butler that brought all her sisters
also. " Mother, Lord Rainford has gone home with
Mr. Wilson I "

406 A WUHAN'S REASON.

Mrs. Butler was dumb with sensation that silenced
all her daughters but Jessie. This young lady, not
hitherto noted in the family for her piety, recog-
nised a divine intention in the accident: "/ call
it a special Providence!" she exclaimed ecstatic-
ally.

'* What is it all about 1" inquired Kay.

" Oh, nothing/' replied his wife. " Nothing at
all 1 Merely that Helen was in such haste to get
away that she accepted an invitation to lunch with
Mrs. Wilson, and has just diiven over tliore with
her. I suppose she '11 accuse us of having plotted
with the Wilsons to ' trap ' her, as she calls it."

"Marian 1" said Mrs. Butler, with grave reproach.

"I don't caro, mother!" retorted Marian, with
tears of vexation in her eyes. " Can't you see that
she 'U accept him over there, and that I shall be
cheated out of having brought them togetlier, when
I had set my heart on it so much t I didn't snp-
|>ose Helen llarkness could be such a goose, after all
she 's been through ! "

" My dear," said her mother, " I don't wish yon to
speak 80 of Helen ; and as for her accepting him —
Children," she broke off to the younger girls, '* run
away 1 " and they obeyed as if they hsul really been
children. "Edward," she resumed, '*how in the
world did you contrive with Lord Rainford 1 "

" Well, Mrs. Butler," said llay, ** with men, there
was only one way. He had told me so mucli, yon
know, that I could take certain things for granted,
and I made a clean breast of it at last, on the way
home. I tohl him she was here, and that I tliought
it wasn't quite fair bringing him into the house

A woman's reason. 407

I

without giving her some chance to protest — or
escape."

"It was terrible/' said Mrs. Butler, "but I see
that you had to do it. Go on.''

" And he quite agreed with me, that it wouldn't
be fair to cither of them. I don't know that I
should have spoken if I had not seen old Wilson in
the car. I asked him if ho wouldn't give llainford
a bed for the night ; and he was only too glail.
That 's all. I told him he could walk over here
this evening, and meet her on equal terms."

" That won't be necessary now," said Marian
bitterly. " I congratulate you on the success of your
diplomacy, Ned ! "

" Perhaps it is providential, as Jessie says," mur-
mured Mrs. Butler.

"Oh, very providential!" cried Marian. "It's
as if it had all been arranged by the providence of
the theatre. I hate it I Instead of taking place
romantically and prettily, among her old friends,
she 's obliged it to take place fancically, by a vulgar
accident, where there can be nothing pleasant about
.

" Why, Marian," said her mother. ^ Do you
think she will accept him 1 "

" Accept him 1 Of course she will 1 She is dying
to do it — I could see that all the time — and I could
hardly have patience with her for not seeing it her-
self. She 's old enough."

" Well, never mind about that," said Ray, authori-
tatively. " We have done what we all saw to be
right, and we must let the consequences take care of
themselves."

408 A woman's reason.

** oil, it *s very e.isy to say that," cried Marian.
** But, for my part, I 'iii aorry I did rigbL"

" Well, your tloing wrong in this caae wouldn't
have helped. My doing right alone was eaougfa to
put everything at sixes and sevens."

XIX.

A SERIES of trivial chances brought Helen and
Lord Kainford together alone, before she could get
away from the Wilsons' after lunch. The first
train for town did not start till three, and it was
impossible that she should shut herself up in her
room and avoid him nntil that time. In fact she
found that there was nothing in his mere presence
that forcod her to any snch defensive measure, while
there was mnrh in the falal chnract«r of the situa-
tion, as tliere is in every inevitable contingency, to
calm if not to console her ; ami the sense of security
tliat came from meeting him by accident, where she
was perfectly free to say no, and could not seem by
the remotest ])08sible implication to have invited an
advance from him, disposed her in his favour. They
met cerUinly with open surprise, but their surprise
was not apparently greater than that of the AVilsons
in bringing their guests together; and when Mr.
Wilson explained that ho owed the pleasure of
Lord llainfonl's company for the night to a domestic
exigency at the IJutlers*, Helen divincil that Ray's
though tfulness had given her this chance of escape,
and wondered if Lonl Rainford was privy to it.
But he was listening with his head down to Mrs.

410 A woman's reason.

Wilson's explanation of the chance that had give
them the pleasure of Miss Harkness's company ; she
wondered if he were wondering whether she knew
that he was coming and had fled on that account ; \
but it was impossible to guess from anything he said
or looked, and she began to bclievo that l%ay had
not told him she was with them. With impartial
curiosity she took note of the fact that his full-growu
beard had unquestionably improved his chin; it
appeared almost as if something had been dune for
his shoulders ; cert-ainly his neck was not so long ; or
else she had become used to those tmits, and tliey
did not atVcct her so much as formerly. More than
once during the lunch she thought him handsome ;
it was when his face lighted up in saying something
pleasant about seeing America again. IIo pretended
that even twenty-four hours of American air had
made another man of him. Mr. Wilson said tluit
he did not know that there had been any American
air for a week, and Lord liainford said that he did
not mind the heat ; he believed he rather liked it

" But you certainly haven't got it to complain of
here," he added.

"Oh, no, it's always cool on the North Shore,**
Mrs. Wilson explained. '' We shall not let you go
home this afternoon, Miss Harkuess," she turned to
say to Helen; ''you would certainly perish in
Cambridge."

"Port," added Helen, with inflexible conscience;
she never permitted herself or any one else the
flattering pretence that she lived in Old Cambridge.
"You must," she condnued quietly. "I've made
all my preparations." This fact was final with a

A woman's reason. 411

woman, and Mrs. Wilson could only make a murftmr^
of distress, and beg her at least to go by a^ later
train, but Helen was firm also about the train ; she
said her trunk would be at the station, and she
must go then. If she had her formless intention
that this should l>e discouraging to Lord Rainford,
she could see no such effect in him ; he remained
unmoved, and she began to question whether at
sight of her he might not have lost whatever illusion
he had cherished concerning her. She said to her-
self that she knew she had changed, that she had
grown older and thinner, and plainer every way.
If this were so, it was best; she hoped — with a
pang — that it was so. She ought to have thought
of it Wforo ; it might have saved her from giving
Marian pain. Of course he had entirely ceased to
care for her.

A ft or lunch Mr. Wilson betrayed signs of heavi-
ness, which obligc<l his wife to the confession tliat
nothing could keep Mr. Wilson awake after lunch.
She sent him away for his nap, and she was going
to lead her guests down over the lawn for a look at
the sea from the rocks by the shore, when a servant
came with some inexorable demand upon her.

" You know the way, Miss Harkness," she said.
"Take Lord Rainford down there, and I will be
with you in a moment"

She hurrieil away with the maid, and Helen
descended the piazza steps and sauntered past the
beds of foliage-plants across the grass with her charge.
He did not leave her in a moment's doubt of his
mind or purpose after they were beyond hearing.

" Do yon know why I have come back f " he

412 A woman's reason.

asked abruptly, and Btriving to catch the eyes she
averted.

** How should I — " she began, but ho spared her
the sin of even an insinuated ignorance.

'' I came back for you/' he said with a straight-
forward sincerity tlmt shamed her out of all evasion.

'^ Then I am sorry for that," she replied frankly^
" for you had better have forgotten me."

'' That wasn't possible. I couldn't have forgotten
you when I knew you were not free ; how could I
forget you now t For the last year my life has been
a count of days, hours, minutes. If I have come
too soon, tell me, and I will go away till you let me
come agniu. I can wait !"

He spoke with the strength but not the vehemence
of his passion, and she stayed her fluttered nerves
against his quiet. If it were to be reasonably talked
over, and dismissed like any other ini|M>8sibility, it
would 1)0 very simple; she liked him for making
it so easy ; she felt humbly grateful to him ; she
imagined that she could reconcile him to his fate.

" You must forgive me," he added, ** if what I say
is painful. 1 will si)end my life in atoning for it"

'' There is nothing to forgive on my part. If you
can have patience with me."

« Patience 1 "

"Oh, I don't mean what you think !"

" I hope I haven't seemed impatient. I couldn't
excuse myself if I had. No one could have re-
spected, revered your bereavement more tlian I ; and

if I thought that I had sinned against it in coming

•I
now —

« No— no— "

A WOMAN'S REASON. 413

" It seemed to me that I had a kind of warrant
— permission — in something you said — something,
nothing — that took away all hope and then became
my hope — "

" Oh,'* she tremble<l, " what did I say !"

" Nothing," he said, " if you remember Dotliing.
I abide by what you say now."

She was thrilled with an esthetic delight in his
forbearance, and with a generous longing to recognise
it. '* I know what you mean, and I blame myself
more than any wonls can say for letting you sup-
pose — It was my culpable weakness — I only
meant to save you — to spare you all I could !" A
dismay came into his face that she could not endure
to see. " Oh, dotii look so ! Did you— did you
really come back on account of that!"

" I misunderstood you — I see. Not perhaps at
first ; but afterwanls. I came bnck becanse I thought
you told me that if you harl been free you might
have answered me differently then."

** Yes, that 's what the words said ; but not what
they mentUf" She silently grieved for him, walking
a little apart, and not daring to lift her eyes to his
face. He would not speak, and she had perforce to
go on. " Jfhtf did you ever care for met" she
implorofl at last, nishing desperately at the question,
as if thore might be escape on that side.

"WhyT" he echoed.

"Snnily, the first time we met — what was there
to make you even endure me !"

" Endure t" He seemed to reflect "I don't
think you were to blame. But it never was a ques*
tion of that. You — you were my fancy. I can't

4U A woman's reason.

tell you better than that. And you have always
been so. It isn't for what you did ; it isn't for what
you said."

It seemed hopeless. They walked on, and they
only ceased from walking because they had reached
the brink of the rocks beyond which lay the sea.
She stood there looking on its glassy levels, which
shivered against the rocks at her feet in impulses
that were like her own feeble and broken purposes.
In a certain way life was post with her ; there couhl
be no more of what had been, no longer the romantic
tenderness, the heroic vision of love; but there
could be honour, faith, affection. The sense of this
passed vaguely through her heart, and exhaled at
her lips in a long, ho|>eless sigh.

At the light sound ho spoke again. ** But I didn't
come back to make good any claim upon you. I
came to see you again l)ecauso I must, and because
it seemed as if I had the privilege of speaking once
more to you. But perhaps I haven't"

''Oh, certainly, you have that!" she weakly
assented.

" I don't urge you to anything. I only tell you
again that I love you, and that I believe I always
sliall. But I don't ask your answer now or at any
given time. I can wait your will, and I can abide
by it then, whatever your answer is."

A heavy weight was on her tongue, which hin-
dered her from making her answer '* No." A ship
lagging by in the olfing as if it panted with full
sails for every breath of the light breeze, the whole
spectacle of the sea, intimated a reproach, poignant
as fleeting and intangible. She felt herself drifting

A woman's reasok. 416

beyond lior own control, nnd any keeping would be
better than none ; she longed for rest, for shelter ;
she no longer cared for escape. There was no
reason why she should refuse the love offered her.
She could not doubt its truth ; its constancy even
charmed her a little; she was a little in love, —
pensively, reluctantly, — with a love for herself so
steadfast, so patient, so magnanimous. The sense
of her own insufficiency to herself, the conviction
that after all, and at the very most, she was a half
success only even in the sordid and humiliating
endeavour which was the alternative, unnerved
her.

** Oh, what shall I say t" she asked herself; and
then looked up in terror lest she had uttered the
words. But she had not. He met her inquiring
glance only with a look of sympathy, in which per-
hnps the hopn Ruggc4«t^<l by her hesitation was l>e-
ginniiig to dawn. She appealed to him against
himself.

" I wish you had not come back. You have
marlc a great mistake."

His countenance fell again.

"A mistake t"

" Yes, you are mistaken in me. I 'm not at all
what you think me. If I were that, I shouldn't
be here, now, begging you for mercy. If I were
not so foolish, so fickle-minded, that no words can
describe me, he. would never have left me ; he would
have l)ecn alive and with me. Oh ! " she cried, " I
can't let any one else trust me or believe in roe for
an instant. It isn't as if I were bereft in any
common way ; it 's as if I had killed him !"

416 A woman's reason.

Lord Rainford remained so little moved by this
assumption of guilt that she added, " Ah, I sec you
won't believe mc!"

*' No/' he said. " I understood something of that
from Ilay ; and if I liopeti only to be your friend —
if I know I was never to see you again — I sliould
still say that you were wrong in bkiming yourself
DOW ; that you were right then in wishing to make
sure of yourself before you married him. It would
have been unjust to him to have done less."

"Oh, does it seem so to yout" she implored.
'' That was the way it seemed to me then."

"And it ought always to seem so. If you've
made it my ])rivilego to s|)eak to you of this matter — "

" Oh, yes, yes ! "

" Then I say that I think what you did in tlmt
matter ouglit to l>e your greatest consolation noir.
It may be one of those cccoutricitiiui which jMioplu
have found in my way of thinking, but 1 cau't
feel less reverently towards marriage than that"

He had never seemed so noble, so lovable even,
as at that moment. Her heart turned toward him
in a fervent acceptance of the comfort, the support
ho oifercd her; it thanked him and rejoiced in
him; but it was heavy again with its former
dismay when he said, *' I don't urge you to any
decision. Remember I am always youi-s, whetlier
you refuse mo or not."

She perceived then that it was not really a ques-
tion of her and Uobert, but of her imil Lord Kain-
ford, and that the decision to which he did not
urge her must rest finally with her. If she could
have been taken from herself without her own

A WOMAN'S REASON. 417

consent, passively, negatively, it would have been
another affair.

She gathered herself together as best she could.
•* I am acting very weakly, very wrongly. I 've
no excuse but that this is all a surprise to me. I
clifln't know you wore in this country. I didn't
dream of ever meeting you again till three hours
aj^o, when Mrs. Ray told me you were coming.
Then I ran away from her to avoid meeting you.
YoR, I had better be frank ! It seemed horrible to
mo that I should meet you in her house ; you could
never have believed that I hadn't wished to meet you."

"That's what I should 1x3 glad to l>clieve, if I
could. But I saw — I agro.ed with Ilay — tliat it
might not be leaving you quite free in every way;
and so I was glad to accept his suggestion that I
should come here first till something could be
arran;^rd — till you could bo told."

"That was like Mr. Ilay," interrupted Helen.
** I see how it has all happened ; and oh, I 'm so
sorry it 's happened ! "

The young man turned pale. But he answered
courageously, " I 'm not I had to know whether
there was any hope for me ; I had to know it from
you.

" Yes," she assented, moved by his courage.

" And I should not have gone away without at
least making sure that there is none, and that is all
I ask you now."

" But if I can 't tell you 1 I must wait — I must
think. Yon must give me time."

"Did I seem to be impatient t '*' ho asked with
exquisite deference and protest.

2d

418 A wovam's reason.

" No. It mast Lave been my own im]
I don't know what — and you mofttn't try to iee
me again — unless — " A deep blush dyed her laeeL
She had pot some paces between them, with a sort
of nervous dread that he might offer his hand in
parting. She now said abruptly, " Good-bye," and
turned and ran up toward the house, leaving him on
the rocks by the sea.

Mrs. Wilson met her half-way acroM the lawn.
** I was coming to join you," she began.

''Lord Rainford is there," said Helen, "lira.
Wilson, I find that I must see lira Bay again
before I go to town. Could yon let them drive
me across, and then to the station 1"

^ Why, certaiuly," said Mrs. Wilson in the
national terms of acquiescence.

XX,

At first Fcnton's airiyal on the island had seenied,
like the breaking of the steamer's shaft, the storm,
the shipwreck, the escape to the reef, and the voyage
in the open boat, one step in a series in which there
was no arrciit, and in which there was at least the
consolation of inoTcment from point to point But
this consolation ceased with his last glimpse of the
sail, in which all hope of escape fainted and died ;
and it did not revisit him when ho gathered coorago
to cxploro the fairy solitude of the atolL It was
so small as to have been abandoned even by
the savages of those seas, who forsiike their over-
|>cop1ed islands, and wander from reef to reef
in search of other homes, and it would never be
visited from the world to which he had belonged.
The whalors that sometimes stop for water at the
coral islands would not touch at this little point of
land, lifted, like a flower among its thorns, above
those ]>erilous rocks. It had probably never been
laid flown on any chart; in a century which had
explored every part of the globe, it must be a spot
unknown to civilised men. The soil showed like
snow through the v^etation that thinly covered
it, and the i>erpetual green on white repeated itself

420 A woman's reason.

ill tlio trailing vines thafc overran the coral blocka,
with narrow 8|mccs of sea between, which Fenton
leaped, in his round of the island, to find himaelf
again and again on the white soil of the grovesi
through which the palm struck its roots, and ancliored
itself fast to the reef. At the liighest point tlie land
rose fifteen feet above the sea ; at the widest place
it measured a hundred yards ; and if he had fetched
a compass of the whole, he wouKl have walked loss
than two miles. They should not starve ; tlie imlma
would yield them abundant fruit through the iin-
varying year ; the sea, he knew, was full of fisli. As
he emerged from the grove at the |K)int at which he
had started, Giflen called out to him, " What's that
on the tree right by your shoulder 1" Fenton looked
round, and the bright blossom near him tume<l into
a bird, lie put out his hand ; it did not move ; and
when ho lifted it from its perch, it rested fearlessly
on his palm. He Hung it from him with a sickening
sensation, and Giflen came running towartls him.

'* Hallo I what's the matter 1" demanded Fenton.

" I thought mcbbe it was poison i"

** There 's nothing to kill us hei-e," Fenton replied.
" Come, wo muist begin to liva"

The sailors hud left behind the remnant of the
bag of flour, and the })cuis and beans. GifTcn had
carried them up to the hut, and one day Fcntoii
found that ho hud made a garden and planted it witli
them. They came up quickly, and then, as if the soil
lacked vitality, they withered away, all but a vine
sprming from a seed that Giffen found among the peaa.

A woman's IlEASON. 421

He tenderly chcrislied this vine, which he hoped
would prove a musk-melon, or at least a cucumber ;
in due time it turned out a gourd. *' Mj luck,'' he
said, and gathered his gourds, for drinking-cupcL

In the maze which had deepened upon Fenton,
the wliolo situation had an unreality, as of some-
thing read long ago, and half- forgotten, and now
slowly recalled, point by point; and there were
moments of the illusion in which it was not he who
was iniprisonetl there on that unknown island, but
the hero of adventures whom he had envied and
admired in boyhood, or known in some romance of
later Ufa The gun and the cartridges which they
treasured so carefully after they found traces of
a former savage habitation ; the tools which they
had brought from the wreck, and which they used
in shaping the timbers for their hut; the palm-
h'aves they plucked for it« thatch ; the nuts they
gathered for their food and dnnk ; the fishing-
lines they twisted from the fibre of the cocoa-bark ;
the hooks they carved from the bones of the birds
they ate, and the tra|is they set for game when the
wild things once ro tame began to grow wary ; their
miserable economies of clothing ; the rude arts by
which they fashioned plates from shells, and cooking
utensils from the clay they found in sinking their
well ; the vats they made to eva|>orate the searwater
for its salt : all these things seemed the well-worn
pro|)ertios and stock ex|)eriences of the castaways of
fiction; he himself the figment of some romancer's
brain, with which the author was toying for the

422 A woman's reason.

purposes of his plot, to be duly rescued and restored
to the world when it should serve the exigency of
the tale. Once when this notion was whimsically
repeating itself to Fenton in the silence and solitude,
it brought a smile to his haggard face, and when
GifTen asked him what the matter was, he told him.
" No," said Giffen, "it ain't much like iw."
That two modem men should be lost out of a
world so knit together with telegraphs and railroada
and steamships, that it seemed as if a whisper at any
point must bo audible at all others, was too grotesque
a fact, too improbable for acceptance. It was not
like them, and it was not like any one he could
think of, and when he tried to imagine some con-
temporary and acquaintance in his case, it bccamo
even more impossible than when he supposed it of
himself.

There were ironical moods in which he amused
himself with the carefully ascertained science of the
story-tellers as he recalled it, and in which ho had a
fantastic interest in noting how near and yet how far
from the truth their study came. But there were
other times when the dreary sense of the hackneyed
character of the situation overpowered him, and he
dropi>ed his work and lay with his face in the sandp
helpless and hopeless for hours, sick of the re-
petition of such stale inventions. There was no
greater reality in it all, when he recalled the narrar
tives of men actually cast away on desert islands^
though there were moments when the sum of what
they had suffered seemed to accumulate itself upon .

A womanIs rkason. 423

his soul, and his heart and hand were heavy with
their sorrows.

Yet in spite of all, the simple and wholesome con-
ditions of his life were restoring him to physical
henlth, which reacted upon his mind at last ; and one
morning he woke with a formless, joyful cx|)ectation
that was like a hope. It was merely the habit of
hope, reviving from a worn-out despair, but he sprang
to his feet with a buoyancy of soul that he had not
known since the stonn first began to close round the
Meteor.

Hitherto, the thought of Helen had been fruitless
torment, which he banished when he could, but now,
all at once, he found it an inspiration and an incen-
tive ; he thought of her gladly ; she seemed to call
him.

He left GifTcn to kindle the fire for their breakfast,
and ran do\^n to the lagoon for a morning batL
The sun sliono on a long black object that stretched
across the main channel from the sea, and swimming
out to it, he found it the trunk of a tree which had
drifted to their island. With GifTen's help he got
it inside of the reef, and floated it to their beach,
and he could not rest till they had dragged it up
out of the water. It was a message from the world
they had lost, and the promise of rescue and return
to it. At the bottom of his heart he knew that it
might have drifted a thousand miles before it reached
them, but it was as easy to believe that it 6ame from
land within a day's sail ; it was of a timber unknown
to the atolls ; the I'ebbles that it held in the net-

424 A WOMAN'S REASON.

work of its roots were from shores where there were
hills and rivers, from |»eoplod shores tliat tliey mi^it
reach if they liad aiiy craft in which thej eoukl
venture to sea.

Giifen walked up and down hosido tlie log, and
examined it critically, stooping aside, and gUncing at
it as if to make sure of its soundness in every part

<< Well t" demanded Fenton.

'' Chop it along the top, and shape it up at the enda^
and dig it out ; and maybe we can fix some sort of
outrigger to it, like they use on their canoes around
here. I 've seen pictures of 'em."

He made the suggestion with melancholy diffidence •
hut Fenton caught at it eagerly. The wood was very
hard, and it cost them weeks of labour, with the
tools they had, before they were rciidy to launch their
canoe upon the higoon. But oven in those placid
^vater8, it proved ho})elcssly unseawortliy. Some
fatal defect of consti-uction, which their akil\ could
not remedy, disabled it, and it capsized wiUi Giffen,
\v*ao was caught in the outrigger, and with difficulty
Siivcd from drowning by Fenton.

<* Well, sir," he said, as he walked dripping to their
hut, '' we've got a lot of good firewood in tliat thing.
I Uflieve if you hadn't had me around, you could have
made it go."

But the idea of esca|>e had taken full possession of
Fcnton's mind, and the failure of the canoe turned it
all upon another scheme which had begun to haunt
it They had kept a fire burning night and day aver
since they hjid landed on the island, to attract the

A woman's urason. 426

notice of any ship that came in sight; but noir
Fen ton determined to build a tower on tlie highest
]>oint, and light a beacon on it, so that no lookout on
those seas could fail of the smoke by day or the
(lame by night

"All right,'* assented GifTcn, "it will kind of
occupy our minds any way."

" Don't say that l" cried Fenton, with a pang.

" Woll, I won't," rotunicd Giffen penitently.

The tower was to l>o not only a beacon for friendly
sail, but a refuge from wandering savages who
caught sight of it. They must make it the centre
of defences to which they could resort if they were
attacked, and which they could hold against any
such force as would probably land on their atoll.

Fenton drew a plan, and by nightfall they had dug
the foundations of their fortress. They burnt some
of the coral blocks, which they brought from the
reef, for lime, and laid their walls strongly in
mortar.

The days passed, and as they toiled together, Fen-
ton had at last the heart to talk to his fellow-castaway
of the world to which they were pre|)aring to return.
He foun<l that to si>cak of his affairs in that world made
it not only credible again, but brought it very near.
He told Giffen that he was going to be married as
soon as he got back to Boston, and that' he was going
to leave the navy, and try to get into some sort of
business ashore. He described Helen to his comrade,
and what she wore when he saw her last ; and then
he added, that she must be in black now, for she

426 A woman's reason.

liad lost her father, who died very suddenly a few
days after ho sailed.

"I behaved badly," he added, with the feeUng
that always struggled for utterance when he thought
of this, and which it was a relief to speak out now.
" Wo had a misunderstanding, and I came off with-
out saying good-bye to him."

" That was pretty rough," said Giffcn. "But you
can make it all right when you get back."

"Oil, it's all right now — with her," rejoined Fenton
quickly.

"And with him too, I reckon," suggested his
comrade.

'' Yos, it must be," sighed Fenton. If the situation
was in anywise incomprehensible to Giffcn, he did not
try to explore it He remained deferentially content
>vith what Fenton had voluntceroil, and ho was
sympathetically i)atient when Fenton tried to make
him uiidei'stand where Mr. Harkness's house was, by
a plan of the Common, which he drew on a smooth
surface of the phistered wall, with Park Street running
up one side, and .Bcsicon Street along the other, and.
Beacon Slops ascending from it into tlie quiet PUce^
whore the house stood. Ho made a plot of the house.
up-stairs and down, with the difforont rooms marked
off: Helen's room at the front, Mr. Harkness's
room; the room that he used to have when he
came homo from school; tho paiiuurSi and the
library. He lingered fondly on tlio details; and
then he mapped the whole town for Oiffen, ac-
curately placing the principal streets and squares and

A woman's reason. 427

public buildings. He meirkcd the lines of railroad
running out of the city, and the different depots..
"This," he said, placing the Albany Station, "is
where you would have to start for Kankakee. It 's
a little south of Chicago, isn't itt — on one of the
lines from Chicago to St Louis I There *8 a Kanka-
kee line, isn't there t" Ho laughed for joy in the
assent which seemed to confirm the existence of the
places ; the sound of the names alone re-ostablished
them. At times he stealthily glanced from this work
nt the rim of the sen, where, as he had been silently
making l>clieve while he talked, tliero musl be a sail
But ho bore the inevitible disappointment patiently,
and rc'tiimed enthusiastically to his map; he pro-
jecte<l another map in sections, on a larger scale,
where the details could be more fully given.

Ciffcn did not speak much of his own life ; it was
nothing worth speaking of, he said ; but sometimes
at night he would drop a hint or scrap of his history
from which Fen ton could infer what remained un-
spoken. It was the career of a feeble nature, con-
stantly pushed to the wall in the struggle of a
new country. All his life, Oiffen had failed ; he
had always had bad crops, bad partners, bad luck,
hard times ; if he went away from home to better
his condition, he made it worse ; when he came
back he found that he would have done better
to stiy away. He bought on a rising market, and
sold with the first fall in prices. When a crash
came, it found him extended ; the return of prosperity
overtook him without money or credit He had

428 A woman's reason.

tried all sorts of things witli equal disaster : lie luul
farmed, he had kept store, he had nin a savrmill,
he had been a book-agent, and agent for many patent
righta In any other country he would have remained
quietly in some condition of humble dependence;
but the unrest of the new world had infected him ;
he had spent his life in vain experimenti*, and his
last venture had been the most ruinous of alL He
had sold everything to get the means of going to
China, and when the common calamity, that could
scarcely )>e said to have blasted any hoiK'S of liia,
overtook him, he was coming home little better than
a beggar.

Even in that solitude he made Fenton his idoalp
with the necessity that is in such natures to form
themselves u|)on some other, and appreciated his
confidence and friendship as gratefully as if they
had been offered in the midst of men where he must
liave been chosen out of a multitude for Fentou's
kindness. On his part, Fenton learned to admire
the fineness of spirit which survivc*d all circumstance
in this poor fellow ; and when his hojies wei-e highest^
he formed plans of doing something for Giffeu in
the world.

When they had finished their tower, and removed
into it, he bade him make one more errand to the
hut they had abandoned, and get fire to light the
beacon.

Giffen refused. *' No, sir ; better not have any of
my luck about it"

But he was off, early in the day that followed, to

A woman's reason. 429

cnt wood for their 1)eacon ; and it was he who dis-
covered that they could make tlie densest smoke by
day in drying the fuel for the flame by night.

" Don't yon think wo ought to do something with
that canoe again t'' he asked one day.

"No, not yet," answered Fenton. "There 11
be time enough for that if the beacon doesn't suc-
ceed. But it will succeed." Ho formlessly felt the
need of economising all the materials of ho|ie within
him. If ho turned so soon from the beacon to some
other device for escape, he knew that he must lose
his faith in it, and ho could not bear the thought of
this loss. He was passionately devoting himself to
the belief that it must bring a ship to their rescue.
He dividc<l the day and night into regular watches,
and whenever he came to relieve Giflen, he questioned
him closely as to every ap|)earance of the sea ; when
he lay down to sleep ho hastened to take upon him-
self the bunlcn of disappointment with which ho
must wake, by saying to himself, "I know that he
will not see anything." He contrived to postj^ne
the anguish of his monotonous failure to conjure
any sail out of tho empty air by saying, as each
week began, that now they must not expect to see
anything for at least three days, or five days, or
ten days to come. He invented reasons for these re-
peated prncrastinations, but he was angry with Giflen
for acquiescing in them ; he tried to drive him into
some question of them, by making them fantastic,
and he was childishly happy when Giflen disputed
them. Then he urged other and better reasons : if

430 A woman's reason.

it were fine, lie said that nothing but itress of
weather would bring them a ship, and tliat they
could only hope for some vessel blown out of her
course, like the Meteor; when it was stormy, he
argued that any vessel sighting their beacon would
keep away from it till the storm was past^ but would
be sure to come back then, and see what their firo
meant.

" Yes," said Giifen, ''but if we are going to keep
that fire up at the rate we have for the last throo
mouths, we must begin to cut our cocoa palma"

" It isn't three months ! " cried Fenton.

Giffen proved .the fact by the reckoning he had
kept on a block of coral in the tower : the tale of
little straight marks, one for each day, was irrefutable.

'MVhy did you keep that count t" cried Fenton
desjKsrutcly. " Let the time go, I say, aiul the
quicker it goes, and the sooner we are both dead, the
better ! Put out the fire ; it 's no use."

He left GifTcn in the tower, and wandered away,
AS far away as the narrow bounds of his prison
would permit. He stopi)ed at a remote point of the
island, which he had not visited since the first day
when he had hastened to explore the atolL The
hoarse roaring of the surf, that beat incessantly upon
the reef, filled the air ; the sea was purple all round
the horizon, and the sky blue above it ; flights of tern
and petrel wheeled and shrieked overhead : tlie son
shone, tempered by the delicate gale, and all things
were as they had been half a year ago, as they must
be half a year hence, and for ever, In a freak of the

A WOMAN'S REASON. 431

idle curiosity that sometimes plays on the surface of
our deepest and blackest moods, he descended the
low plateau to look at a smoother and darker rock
which showed itself at the point where the reef
l)Cgan to break away from the white sand. A growtli
of soft sca-mosflcs clothed the rock, and it had a
fantastic likeness to a boat in shape. The mosses
waved back and forth in the water ; the rock itself
appeared to move, and Fenton fell upon it, and
clutched it, as if it had been some living thing
struggling to esca^K) him. He pulled it up on the
sand, and th<*n he sank down beside it, too weak to
stir, too weak to cry out ; the tears ran down his
face, like the tears of a sick man's feebleness.

Giffen found him beside the boat, which they
righted together without a word.

" Well, sir," ho said at last, " I *m glwl y<wt foun<l
her." He went carefully over the places where it
had been patched, with a solemn and critical
scrutiny. " That 's our boat," ho added.

" Yes, I thought so," assented Fenton.

" And those fellows—"

Neither of them put into words his conjecture as
to the fate of the men who had abandoned them:
they accepted in silent awe the chance of escape
which this fate, whatever it was, had given them;
but late that night, when they lay hopefully sleepless
in their tower, Giffen said, " I don't know as thej
meant to leave us for good. I reckon, if they 'd got
through all right, they 'd have come back for us."

" Yes, we mttsi believe that," replied Fenton.

432 A woman's reason.

t

How the boat had reached their atoll, and when,
remained the secret of the power tliat had given it
back to them. It was enough for them that die little
craft was not beyond repair; it was thoroughly water-
logged, and it must be some time before they could
begin work upon it; but they spent tliis time iu
preparing material, and gathering provision for their
voyage. They stocked it with nuts, and dried and
salted fish sufficient to last them for six weeks;, tliey
filled Oiffen's crop of gourds with water. " More of
a tank than cucumbers or niusk-melons would have
been, after all ; and better than cocoa-nuta," he
quietly remarked. They were of one mind, what-
ever happened, never to return to their atoll ; thej
had no other definite purpose ; but they talked now
as if tlioir csca|>o were certain.

" It Btiuids to reason," said OiiTiin, " that it's meant
for us to get back, or else this boat wouldn't have
been sent for us;" and he began to plan a life at
remote from the sea as he could make it "When
I put my foot on shore, I ain't going to stop walking
till I get where salt water is worth six dollars a
quart ; yes, sir, I 'm going to start with an oar on
my shoulder ; and when some follow a«ks me what
thcU thing is, I 'm going to rest, and not before I"

They built a fire on the tower that would last all day
and night, and then they set sail out of the lagoon,
and through the breakers beyond the reef. 'The
breeze was very light, but the sky was clear, with
the promise of indefinite good weather; and before
nightfall they saw the plumes of their palms form

A woman's reason. 433

themselves into the tufts into which they had grown
from the poinU they hwl first discovered on the
horizon ; they became points again, and the night
softly blotted them from the verge of the ocean.

Tlicy had neither compass nor sextant ; under
strange stars and alien constellations they were
wandering as absolutely at the will of the winds and
waves as any savages of those seas. For a while
they saw the light of their beacon duller and paler
on the waters where their island had been. This,
too, died away, and the night fell round them on the
illimitable sea.

Fcnton stood the first watch, and when he gave
the helm to Giffen, ho simply bade him keep the
boat before the win<l. In the morning, when he
took it, ho asked if the wind had shifted or freshened,
and still kept tlic boat before it. Toward sunset they
Righted a series of points on the horizon, which,
as thoy approached, expanded into the plumage of
]><ilins ; the long white beach of an atoll grew from
the water, and they heard faintly the thunder of the
surf along the reef. It looked larger than their
own island, and they scanned it anxiously for some
sign of human life. But there were no huts under
the palms, and no smoke rose above their fronds.

The breeze carried their boat toward the shore,
and Fenton decided to pass the night on the atoll.
If it were, as it looked, larger than the atoll they
had abandoned, it must 1>e known to navigation, and
sooner or later it might be visited by ships for water;
or the bfcht-de-mer, which abounds in the larger

2b

434 A woman's reason.

reofs, might bring American trailers for a freight
of the fish for Cliina. They might find traces of
European sojourn on tlie island, and perhaps some
hint by which they could profit when they set sail
again.

In the failing light, they stove their boat on the
reef, but the breaker that drove them upon it carriod
them beyond, and once in the smooth lagoon, they
managed to reach the shore before the boat filled.
They pulled her up on the sand, and climbed to the
top of the low plateau on which the palms grew;
but it was now so dark that they could see nothings
and they waited for the morning to show them the
familiar paths and trees of their own atoll, and their
tower gleaming white through the foliage in the dis-
tance. They walked slowly towards it in silence,
and when Giiron reached it, ho busied himself in
searching the ashes of the beacon for some spark of
fire. Ho soon had a blaze ; he brought water from
the well, and boiled the eggs of the sea-birds, which
he gathered from their nests in the sedge. lie broke
some young cocoa-nuts, and poured the milk into
the shells they had made for drinking-cup.s, and then
he approached Fenton, where he sat motionless and
vacant-eyed, and begged him to eat, humbly, as if he
cxi)ected some outbreak from him.

'' No," said Fenton quite gently. " But you eat
I'm not hungry. *•

" I reckon," said GiflTen piteously, " the wind must
have changed in the night without my knowing it,
and brought us right back."

A woman's reason. 435

" Very likely," answered Fenton. " But it makes
no difference. It was to be, any way."

He hardly knew how the days began to pass
again ; he no longer thought of escape ; but a
longing to leave some record of himself in this
prison, since he was doomed never to quit it, grew
lip in his he<irt, and he wrote on the walls of his
tower a letter to Helen, which he conjured the
road or, at whatever time ho came, to transcribe and
send to her. He narrated the facts of his ship-
wreck, and the barren history of his sojourn on the
inland, his attempt to escape, and his return to it.
He tenderly absolved her from all ties and promises,
and prayed for her happiness in whatever sort she
could find it In this surrender he felt the pang
which tho dead may 1)0 supposed to know, when the
soul imf^scs into the exile of eternity, and sees those
it loaves Inshind inevitably committed to other affec-
tions and other cares. Sometimes it seemed to him
as if ho might really be dcnd, and all his experience
of tho past year a nightmare of the everlasting
sleep.

Tlio tern that were nesling on the atoll when he
first landed, and that visited it every six months to
rear their young, were now a third time laying their
c<^s in the tufts of coarse thin grass. He thought
these visits of the birds were annual, and there was
nothing in the climate to correct his error, or group
in fixed perio<ls the lapse of his monotonous daya
There wa.*; at times more rain, and again less rain ; but
tho chaniro scarcely divided the year into seasons r

436 A WOMAN'S REASON.

flower and fruit were there at all times, and spring,
summer, autumn, and winter, witli tlieir distinct
variety, were ideas as alien as hills, and valleys, and
streams, in this little land, raised for the most part
scarcely a man's height above the sea, where there could
never even be the names of these things in any native
tongue. Once or twice the atoll felt the tremor of
an earthquake, that perhaps shook continental shores,
or perhaps only sent its vibrations along the ocean
floor, and lifted, or let fall beneath the waves, some
tiny point of land like their own ; and once there had
fallen a shower of ashes from the dear sky, which
must have been carried by a wind-current from some
far-off volcano. This, with the log that had drifted
to their reef, was their sole message from beyond the
wilderness that weltered around them from horison
to horizon, aud know no change but from calm to
storm, and then to calm again. The weather waa
nearly always fair, with light winds or none; and
often they saw an approaching cloud divide be-
fore it reached their atoll and pass on eitlier hand,
leaving it serenely safe between the two paths of
the tempest. At lost, how long after their retum
Fenton could not tell, in his indifference to the
passage of the weeks and days, — a change came over
the sky different from any that had portended other
storms, and before night a hurricane broke from it
that hea|)cd the sea around tlieir island, and drove it
across the lagoon and high over the plateau. For
two days and nights it beat against the walls of their
tower ; then the waters went down, and the ravaged

A woman's reason. 437

atoll rose from th« Ma again. But wlieti Fenton
clambered to the top of the lower, and looked out, he
Mw that it could no longer be a refuge to them.
The trees of the cocoa groves irere blown dotrti and
flung hither ami thither ; their toi* were twistod off
and tossed into the lagoon ; their trunks lay tangled
and intertwisted, ns if they had been straws in the
frolic of a uliirlwind. The smooth beach of tli«
Ingnnn ^v.18 Blmt n willi fragments of coral, torn from
the reef and tossed upon it; the grassj level where
tho sea-birds nested was scattered with their dead
Indies, caught among the coarso herbage and beaten
into tho white sand.

He left Giffen cowering within, and ran down
from the tower to look for the boat. He found it
lodged in a heap of cocoa fronds, and wedged fast
among some blocks of coral ; and ho hurried back
with liis gootl news. IIo mot Oiffcn at tlie door.
"All right," ho said to the nnxioas face. "The boat
is safe, and we must get her afloat You see we can't
stay liere."

"No," Baid Giffen, "we can't stay." He looked
drearily out over the wreck of their fatty isle, and
then ^vith a sigh he turned into the tower again,
and crouched down in tho comer Arhere Fenton had
lelt him.

"What's tho matter t Are yow sick, Giffen I"
demaTidcd Fenton.

Giffen did not answer, but rose with a atnpid air,
and came out into the sun. He ahiTCTfld, bat
g.ithcrei) himself together, and in a dull moehanical

438 A woman's reason.

way set about his usual work of getting breakfast
He ate little, but when Fenton had finislietl, ho went
with him, and helped him to cut the boat free. It
was hard getting it out of the mass of rocks and
boughs, and it was noon l)erore they had dragged
her back from the point where the sea had carried her
to a free space where they could begin to rejuiir her.

At the end of a week they had her afloat in the
lagoon once more, and provisioned from the stores
accumulated in the tower.

The morning when they were to set sail^ Giffen
could not rise from his bed of grass. ** I can't go /'
he said ; '' I 'm sick."

Fenton ha<l seen that he was ailing with a fear
from which he revolted in a frenzy of impatient exer-
tion. If they were but once at sea again, he had
crazily ronsoned with himself, then they could not
help themselves, and, sick or well, they must make
the best of it. This illusion failed him now, and he
abandoned himself to a cynical scorn of all that had
hitherto supi>orted and consoled him. Every act of
self-sacriBce, every generous impulse, seemed to him
the part of a fool or a madman. Till now he had
thought that he had somehow endured and dared all
things for Helen's sake, that anything less than ho
had done would have been unworthy of her; but
now the devil that was uppermost in him mocked
him with the suggc:stion that the best ho could over
have done for her was to live fur her, and do his
utmost to return to her. As he stood looking at the
face of the poor wretch who had twice betrayed him
to despair, and who, at last, in this supreme moment.

A woman's reason. 420

had fallen helpless across the only avenue of escape
that remained to him, he trembled with a strong temp-
tation. He turned away, and went down to the lagoon-
beach, where tlie boat swung at anchor, and the sail,
on which he had worked late the night before, lay
on the sand, ready to l>o stepiiod. The boat lightly
pulled at its moorin;^ on the falling tide, and he felt
the strain as if it had been anchored in his heart.
He drew it to the shore ; he stepped the mast, and
ran up the sail, which filled and tugged in the
morning breeze. He drop|)ed it again, and went
back to GiflTcn.

As the days passed, he watched with the sick man,
and brought him the water he craved, and the food
]ic loathed ; there was nothing else to be done. One
night GifTen roused himself from the torpor in which
lie remained sunken, for the most part, and asked :
" Did you ever hear that people were not afraid to
die when they came to itt"

" 1 've heanl that — yes," said Fenton.

" I just happened to think of it ; because this is the
first time, since 1 can remember, that I wasn't afraid.
I \vas awfully afraid to stay with you on that rock
when the captain's boat went away ; but I ain't sorry
for it now. No, sir, you 've behaved to me like a
white man from the start ; and now, I 'U tell yon
what I want you to do. I *m all right here, — or I
will be, pretty soon, I reckon — and I don't want you
to lose any more time. The boat 's ready, and now 's
your Inst chance. Don't you mind me; I'd only
bring you bad luck, any way. If you find land, or
a ship picks you up, you can come back and see how
I 'm getting along."

440 A WOMAN'S REASON.

What had been Fenton'a temptation became the
burden of the sick man's delirium, and ho frantically
urged him to go while there waa still time. He
seemed to wear this notion out through mere iter-
ation; and at last, when he awoke one day, ''I
dreamt/' he said, '' that there was a ship !" That
night, sleeping or waking, he raved of a ship that
had come to take them away. The third morning
after, he opened his eyes, and looked into his com-
rade's face witli ominous recovery of intelligence
" Has it come t" ho asked eagerly. ■* The ship 1"

"No, you dreamed it, Giffen," returned ronton,
with a tender compassion unalloyed by self-pity.

** My luck," said Giffen. He gasped, and made a
mechanical effort to rise. Ho gave a sort of cry,
and fixed a stare of wild demand on Fonton, who
caught him in his arms.

Fenton covered up the dead face with a branch of
palm, and walked giddily out into the sun. It waa
rising a red, rayless ball, and against this disk the
figure of a ship seemed printed. Ho i>assed his hand
over his eyes, but when he took it away, the spectre
remained. He thought he saw a boat lying at the
lagoon-beach, and her crow advancing up the aand
toward him, men with friendly, home-like faces.
They wavered and gliiled in the vision his watch-
worn eyes reported to his reeling brain.

Then one of them called out to the strange figure,
with matted hair, and long beard, and haggard eyes,
that had stopped as if with the impulse to turn and
fly,—" Hallo 1 '

A woman's reason. 441

A shudder went through Fenton as he stayed him-
self, and faced the men again. He could not speak,
but the men waited. At last, *' For God's sake," ho
gasped, ''are you something in a dream t"

" No," rcph'ed the leader with slow gentleness, as
if giving the idea consideration. " Wo 're a boat's
crew from the whale-ship Martha Brigham of New
Bedford, come ashore to see what that smoke means.
Who are you t"

XXI.

" I WISH to speak with you, Marian — inatantlj T'
cried Helen, re-api>earing at the Butlers'. Marian
was alone in her room ; Mrs. Butler was lying down,
and the younger sisters were on the rocks by the
sea, looking across the cove to the rocks on the
Wilson place, as if they might hope to rend from
them the secret of what had happened when Helen
and Lord Itainford met in the Wilson cottage. With
the inhumanity of their youth and inex|>erienco they
thought it very funny, and they had come away
where they could enjoy this sense of it^ apart from
those to whom it seemed a serious affair.

It had become so serious to Marian, that she
quaked in rising to meet Helen, as if she had been
rising to meet Helen's ghost, and she no more
thought of asking her to sit down than of oifering a
chair to an apparition.

** I didn't know he was to bo there, Helen, indeed
I didn%" she made out to say, after the moment in
which she had remained fascinated by the intensity
of the girl's face.

*' Oh, it 's long past, that 1" cried Helen. '^ What
I wish you to tell me is simply this, Marian Bay : It
your husband part of your whole life, and was he
from the very first instant t"

A WOMAN'S REASON; 443

"From the very firfit instant t"

"That you were married — so that you couldn't
think, couldn't consider — whether you cared for him
— loved him t"

" Of course 1 It was all settled long before.
Did—"

" I knew it I And if it isn't settled before, it's no
lime afterwards t"

" What an idea ! What do you mean, Helen t"

" And it 's all false about girls that marry a man
1>ecause tlioy res{)ect and honour him, and then have
a romantic time finding out that they love him t"

" What nonsenfte ! It 's the most ridiculous thing
in the worhl ! But — "

" I was sure of it! If there 's anything sacred about
marrying, it 's the lovo that makes it so ; and thoy
miglit as well nmrry for money or position I " She hid
her face in her hands, and thru burst out again : " But
I will never have such a hideous thing on my con-
science — such a ghastly wrong to him/ He said
liimself that if I wasn't sure that I cared for Robert,
it would have been unjust to marry him ; and now
how is it better with him t It 's worse 1 He said
it to comfort nio, and it seems monstrous to turn his
words against him ; but if the truth kills him he had
b(*tter die! Yes, a thousand times! And don't
suppose I didn't see all the advantages of accepting
him that you di<l ; and that I wasn't tempted to
l>crsnatle myself that I slwuld care for him. I only
blush and burn to think that I saw tliem, and tliat
I 've come away, even now, without crushing every
spark of ho{>e out of him ! I do respect and honour
him — yes, he is high-minded and good every way; but

444 A woman's reason.

if I don't love him, his being so good is all the mora
reason why I shouidn't marry him. Hush 1 Don't
say a word, Marian 1" she cried, liastening to spoil
her point, as women will, with hysterical insistenoe.
** That dreadful old man who bought our house came,
while you were gone, and oflfered himself to me one
day : it makes me creep 1 How would it be any
better to marry Lord llainford, if I didn't love him^
than to marry Mr. Everton t "

She did not wait for the indignant protest that
was struggling through Marian's bewilderment at
this extraordinary revelation and assumption. ''I
sliall always say tliat you meant the kindest and
best ; but if you try to argue with me now, I slmll
never forgive you 1 Ooo<l-bye, dear 1" Siio flow at
her friend, and catching her round the neck, convul-
sively kissed her, and ran out of the house, without
seeing any one else. " To the station," she gasped,
climbing into the Wilson phaeton. ''And, do
Imrry, please ! "

Mrs. Butler came into Marian's room as soon as
Helen had driven away. ''Weill" she said.

" Oh, she's refused him,— or just the same thing 1
How shall we meet him t W*hat shall we dot"

" I'm not concerned about that. What will $k4
do, poor thing t That's what wrings my heart.
She hits thrown away the greatest chance that a
girl ever did : wealth, ]>osition, devoted goodness,
the truest and noblest heart! — Marian 1" cried
Mrs. Butler, abandoning herself for a moment to
her compassionate imimtience, "why did she do
itt"

"She said she didn't love him,** answered

A wobian's reason. 445

Marian shortly, with a cast of contempt in the
shortness.

" Well, well," said Mrs. Butler, with resignation.
She had found, as every woman must, who lives to
her ag(% that life has so many great interests besides
love, that for the time she was confused as to the
justice of its |)aramount claim in a question of mar-
ringc.

In fact, Helen found her champions in two men.
When Mrs. Butler stated the case to the Captain,
lie promptly approved of Helen's decision.

Mrs. Butler stood surprised. " Why, do you think
that people ought to marry from a fancy V* she
a^ked.

" I hope my girls will never marry without it,"
said the Captain.

Clarion reported the result to Ray, with a vexation
at Helen's ritliculous behaviour, wliich he allowed
her to vent freely before he answered her a word,
chewing the end of his cigarette, as they walked to
the house t*»i;ether from the beach, where she found
him pulling his dory up on the sand. "It's not
only that she 's thrown away such a splendid chance,
but she 's thrown it away for the mere memory of m
man who couldn't compare with Lord Bainford in
any way — even if he were alive. And when Robert
Fenton was alive, she wasn't certain, till it was too
late, that she cared for him ; and kept him waiting
for years and years, till she could make up her mind,
and had to quarrel with him then before she waa
sure of it And now for her to pretend that she
never can care for any one else, and that she can't
many I»rd Rainford because she doesn't late him —

446 A woman's reason.

as if she were a girl of seventeen, instead of twenty-
five ! Oh! I've no patience with her 1"

Ray said nothing for a moment Then, '^ Tliere *■
some difference between not being sure you do, and
being sure you don't," he remarked quietly, " and
the difference doesn't seem to be in lUinford't
favour." After a moment, he asked, without look-
ing at her, **' What did you marry me for 1 "

" What nonsense I You know I "

''Yes, I always thought it was for love. How
would you like to have me think it wasn't 1"

" Don't be absurd 1" cried his wife. But his
words went deep, and at the bottom of her hoart she
felt in them a promise of the perpetual reconsecra-
tion of their maiTiage.

A story was at one time current (and still has ita
adherents among those who knew vaguely something
of Helen's romance) to the effect that Fenton returned
at a moment when his presence seemed a miracle
opportunely wrought to save her from further
struggle, and to rewjird her for all her suffering and
self-sacrifice in the past. It fixed with much accu-
racy of date and circumstance the details of their
dramatic meeting at the little house in the Port^
where she found him waiting for her one hot^ dusty
afternoon in the summer, when she came back,
broken in health and spirit, from a visit with some
friends at the sea-side. If the story had been true,
it would have brought them togotiier the very day
Helen refused Lord Uainford.

But, as a matter of fact, she went back to her work
of making bonnets for cooks and second-girla in

A woman's reason. 447

Margaret's cottage on Litnokiln Avenue, under con-
ditions that would have caused an intelligent witness
of it to wonder wlietlier she were not expiating an
en*or rather than enjoying tlic recompense of devotion
to a high ideal. The rewards of principle are often
scarcely distinguishahlc from penalties, and the
spectator is confounded between question of the
martyr's wisdom and a dark doubt of the value of
living out any real conviction in a world so badly
constituted as this. Helen, however, was harassed
hy neither of these misgivings. She never regretted
her refusal of Lord llainford, except for the pain it
inflicted ; she never blamed herself for anything but
the hesitation in whicli she was tempted to accept
him without loving him. Her sense of self-ap-
j)roval grew only the stronger and clearer with
the trials which gathered upon her in what might
have seemed to others a sort of malign derision.
Her ctistom fell off, and the patrons who remained
to her grew inevitably more and more into an odious
nia-stery; their exactions increased as her health
failed, and she couKl not always keep'her promises
to them ; they complained that other people's bon-
nets were better made, and " more in the style."

One night she overheard through the thin parti-
tion that separated her chamber from Margaret's a
tipsy threat from Margaret's husband that he was
going to be master in his own house ; and that he
was going to turn that girl .and her bonnets into the
street. Ho went off to his work in the morning,
sullen and lowering, and she and Margaret could
not look at each other. She fled to Boston for the
day, wliich she passed in incoherent terror at Clara

448 A woman's reason.

Kingsbury's ; when she turned from thig miaery the
next morning and ventured back to Margaret's, an
explosion at the glass-works, so opportune that it
seemed to her for a black instant as if slie were
guilty of the calamity through which she escaped,
had freed her from all she had to dread from Mar-
garet's hutiband.

But quite the same end of her experiment had
come. Margaret could not live upon Uie little
sum that Helen paid her for board ; in spite of her
impassioned devotion to her darling, and her good
intention (witnessed again and again to all the
saints), she was forced to break up her little
establishment and find a servant's place ; and Helen
did not know where else to go.

In her extremity she appealed, of course, neither
to the Butlers nor to Clara Kingsbury, but to Cor^
nelia lioot, and this proved to be the most fortunate
as well as the most natural course. Zenas Pearson
had just moved his photographic establishment up
from Hanover Street to the fashionable quarter of the
town, and had applied to Cornelia for some pretty-
ap])earing, respectable girl, to stay in the front room
and receive iMioplc, and show them tlie different
styles of photographs, and help them to decide in
what shape and size they would be taken. There
wjis nothing mean about Zenas Pearson, and he was
willing, he told Cornelia, to ]>ay the right girl ten
(lullnra a week as a start-off, and to put it up to
twelve within the year if she behaved herself, and
showed any sconce for the business.

Cornelia trembled with excitement and eagerness
in laying the proposition before a person so perfectly

A woman's reason. 449

aclnpted to tlio place iu every respect as Helen, and
they did not lose an instant in going to Zenas and
closing with him. Did she want to come right
ofT? he aitkcd Helen, and at a little hesitation on her
part he looked more closely at her worn face and
said, " Well, take a week to recuperate, and come
the 20th. I don't know as I '11 be ready for you
much before that time, any way."

She spent the week with the Butlers, who were
now too well used to her eccentricity to attempt any
protest against this new phase of it. They had all
reconciled themselves to her refusal of Lord Sain-
ford ; even Marian Ray Iiad accepted the inevitable,
and she and Helen had a long quiet talk about the
matter, in which they fully made up what had
almost l)eon a quarrel between them about it, and
Marian told her the latest news of him, and how
splcnditlly he had l)ehavcd about her, justifying
and npplaiiflin<[; her with a manly self-abnegation
which |>erniitted no question of her conduct through-
out

" Yes, he is very generous," said Helen, with a
sigh ; and something happened that day which made
her feel that the word was hardly adequate. She
had gone with Marian, who wished to give some
instructions about a picture she was having framed,
to the shop where Helen had her memorable meet-
ing with I>ord Ilainford ; and when the business
was finished the proprietor said with a certain hesi-
tation : " Miss Harkness, you remember being in
our place alK)ut a year ago with an English gentle-
man who was looking at some imitation limoges
in the window t "

2 F

450 A woman's reason.

Helen looked an amased, and perliapi alaimedf
asseuL

'' He came back and bought tlieiu after you went
away, and said he would send hU address; but
we've never heard of him from that day to this,
and we don't want his jars and his money. I
tliought perhaps you could tell me who he was."

'- Yes/' said Helen, " it was Lord Uainford. But
he 's in England now."

" Oh ! " said the proprietor. And as she said
nothing more, he presently bowed himself apolo-
getically away.

''Why didn't you let me give his address t"
asked Marian, who had been checked in a wish to
do 80 by a glance from Helen.

" I don't believe he over intended to take thorn
away ; he thought they were hideous," Helen an-
swered. She added presently, " Ho must have gone
back to buy them because I said that the poor
wretch who painted them was to be pitied ! "

Marian had now been at home more than six
mouths, and her Anglo-mania had in some dogroe
abated. She no longer expected to establish an
hereditary aristocracy and a State Church among
us, whatever she secretly wished to do. She had
grown resigned to the auomalieti of our civilisatiou
in some degree. She had rediscovered certain traits
of it that compared favourably even with those of
England; but she cherished a conviction that an
English noble was the iincst gentleman in Uio world ;
that her own husband was still finer was a mystery
of faith, easily tenable, though not susceptible of
exegesis.

A WOMAN^S REASON. 451

She now preserved the silence of one whose point
lias been sufficiently made for her, and left Helen to
recognise it. Helen was not reluctant to do so.
" Yes, Marian," she said fervently, " considering
what had just happened, that vrtm very magnani-
mous in him. It was exquisite ! "

** OIj, it was merely what he owed to himself as a
gentleman," said Marian, with well-concealed triumph.

It sociiicmI to he a day of trial for Helen. A
gaunt, sh.'ihhy man, coming down the pavement
towards them, lifted his hand half-way to his hat
at si^^ht of her, and then, as if seeing himself
It n recognised, dropped it to his side again, and
slmik by. Helen turned and stopped him. **Mr.
Kimball ! Is that you 1"

" Yes, what there is left," answered Kimball, with
a ghost of his old quizzical smile, and the spectre
of his municipal, office holding patronage of manner,
as he took Helen's extended hand.

« Why— why— what's the matter t"

" Well, I 've been sick for a spell back. Just
got to knocking round again," said Kimball eva-
sively. " You don't look over and above well your-
self, Miss H.-ukness."

"No, no, I'm not well. But I'm better now.
Are you — " She stopped, with her eyes upon his
conspiciiotis shabbiness, and, through an irresistible
association of ideas, she added — "Mr. Kimball, I
hope you got the money that I returned to you
safely 1 "

Kimball hung his head, and kicked the pave>
mcnt with his toe. "Well, no," he answered re-
luctantly, " I didn't."

452 * A woman's IlKASON.

"You didn't ^«< it t"

" It 'b oU right. I told my wifo at the time that
I knew you sent it But I guess somebody in tlie
Post-Office got the start of me."

** Wliy didn'i you tell me t " demanded Helen.

" WoU, you know, I couldn't do tliat»" said Kim-
ball.

Ilolen took out her purse. There were onljr twelve
dollars in it, and Marian had walked on, so that she
could not borrow of her, and make up the whole sum
at once. But she put the money iu Kimball's hand,
and said, " I will bting you the rest this very day.
Shall I bring it to the Oustom-House t "

''0 no ; there 's been a change, you know. My
collector was kicked out, and all our heads went
into tlie basket together. I ain't there any more.
I guess we'll call this square now. I don't feel
just right alM)ut taking this money, Miss Hark-
iiess. But I 'vo been sick, and my wife ain't very
well herself; and — well, I guess it's a godsend."
His lips twitched. ** I feel kind of mean about it^
but I 'l\ have to stand it. There ain't a thing in
the house, or I wouldn'i take it My wife and me
both said we knew you sent it."

'* Who in the world is your shabby friend, Helen t"
thimaudod Marian when Ilolon had overtaken her at

liUit

" Oh, he used to be iu the Custom- House. He's
a character. He's the one who told liord Rain-
furd, when he offered to dei)osit money for the dutioa
on those Egyptian things he brought me from yoo,
that it wasn't necessary between gentlemen 1 "

** How amusing 1"

A woman's reason. 453

" Yes, I thought it was amusing too. But I don't
think I can over laugh at him again." She shut
her lips till she could command her voice sufficiently
to tell what had just passed between her and Kim-
ball.

Marian continued to bo amused by it In the
flush of her rc-Anglicisation, she said it was a very
American affair. But she added that something
ought ronlly to bo done for the chivalric simple-
ton, and that she was going to tell Ilay about
him.

During the week that Helen spent with the
Butlers, before she was to take her place in Zenas
Pearson's Photographic Parlours, as he called them,
the wisdom of her decision was tested by another
incid(»nt or accident — one of those chances of real
life which one must hesitate to record because they
have so much the air of having been contrived.
From her life in the Port she had contracted the
suburban habit of lunching at restaurants, so alien
to the I'ostonian lady pro])er; and one day, when
she was down town alone, she found herself at a
tible in Parker's, so near that of two other ladies
that she could not help hearing what they said.
They were both dressed with a certain floridity, and
one was of a fearless, good-humoured beauty, who
stared a great deal about the room and out of the
window, and, upon the whole, seemed amused to
realise herself in Boston, as if it were a place whoso
jteculiarities she had reflected much upon, without
being greatly awed or dazzled by them. " We used
to see a great many Bostonians in California when
the Pacific road was first opened. They came out

454 A woman's reason.

there in shoals, and I afterwanls met them in Japan,
— men, I mean, of course. I had quite a flirtation
with one — the pleasantest one I ever met" The
lady breathed, aliove the spoil of the quail-on-toast
before her, a sigh to the memory of tliis agreeable
passage of her life. " Yes, a regular flirtation. It
was oa the steamer coming to San Francisco ; and
he was on his way home to be married, poor fellow^
and I suppose he thought, Now or n^verl The
steamer broke her shaft, and had to put back to
Jupan, and he took passage home on a sailing voitcl
that we hailed, and slie was lost, and tlie last tliat
was known of him he was left on a reef in the
Pacific with three others, while a boatful of people
went off to prospect for land. When the boat came
back they were gone, and nobody ever knew what
became of them."

" And whatever became of the girl, Mrs. Bowers t"

" Oh, as to that this deponent saith not Con-
soled herself, I suppose, in the usual way."

The two women laughed together, and began to
])iill up tlieir sacks, which hod drop^Kul from their
shoulders into thuir chairs behind them.

llulon tric4l to speak, but she could not Sho
tried to rise and seize the woman before she left
the room, to make her render some account of her
words. But the shame of a terrible doubt cruslied
her with a burden under which she could not
move. When the waiter, i-espectfuUy hovering near,
approached at lost, and, viewing her untouched pl&te,
suggestively asked if he could bring her* anything
more, she said "No," and (wid her check and came
out

A woman's reason 455

It was a beautiful d.ij, hut she walked spiritlessly
rilong ill the sunsbiiio that seemed to smile life into
everything but her ; and she feebly sought to adjust
the pang of this last blow to some misdeed of her
own. But she could not She could only think
liow she should once have contrasted Lord Rain-
ford's nobleness with Robert's folly, and indignantly
preferred him. But now she was aware of not
having the strength to do this — of not being able
to pluck her heart from the idea to which love and
loss had rooted it ; and she could not even wish to
wish anything but to die. In another world, per-
haps — if there were any other world — Robert could
explain and justify the weakness for which she could
not do other than pity him here.

licr brain was so dull and jaded withal, that when
she dragged herself wearily up the steps at the
Butlers' d(MU*, she felt no surprise that it should be the
old Captain who opened it to her, or that he should
seek to detain her in the drawing-room alone with
him. At last she found something strange in his
manner, something mysterious in the absence of all
the others, and she asked, ''TMiat is it. Captain
Butler 1"

He seemed troubled, as though he felt himself
unequal to the task before him. " Helen," he began,
'* do you still sometimes think that those men's story
about Robert wasn't tniel"

"I know it wasn't true. I always knew they
killed liiin. Why do you ask me thatt"

*' I didn't mc4in that," returned the Captain, with
increasing trouble, " but that perhaps he—"

She turned upon him in awful quiet. ** Captain

456 A WOMAN'S RBA80N.

Butler, dou't try to soften or break any bad news
to inc I What is it I haven't borne that you think
I must be s[)ared now 1 You will make it worse,
whatever you are keeping back. Did they leavo
him there to starve on that rock t Did — "

^' No — no. It isn't that Mrs. Butler thought
that I could prepare — wo 've had news — "

** News 1 — prepare t Oh, how can you mock me
so t For pity's sake, what is it 1"

Tlio Captain's poor attempt to mediate between
her and whatever fact ho was concealing broke di»wu
in the api)oal with which he escaped from Helen
through the open door, and called his wife. She
came quickly, as if she had been waiting near ; and
as on tliat day wlien she had told tlie girl of her
father's death, she took her fast in her arms. Per-
haps the thoughts of both went back to that hour.

" Helen— Helen— lleliu 1 It's life this timo 1
You have borne the woi-st so bravely, I know you
can bear the best. Robert is here l"

The papci*s of that time gave full particulars of
Fonton's rescue from the island on which he was
cost away, and the reader can hanlly have forgotten
them. It is unnecessary even to record the details
of his transfer, after several months, from the wlialer
which took him oif, to another vessel homeward
bound, and of his final arrival in San Francisco.
When the miracle of his resurrection had become
familiar enough for Helen to begin to touch it at
here and there a point, she abked him why ho
did not telegraph her from San Francisco as soon
as he landed, and instantly answered herself that

A woman's reason. 467

it would Imve killed her if lio liad done so; and
that if he had not been there at once to help her
bear the fact of his being alive, she could not have
borne it.

They were married, and went to live in a little
house in a retired street of Old Cambridge, and
Margaret came to live with them. She sacrificed
to this end an ideal place in an expressman's family
in Rist Somerville, whrre she had the sole charge
of the housework for twelve persons; but it was
something that Miss llrhm kept no other girl; and
it was everything that she could bo with her when
Lieutenant Fen I on should be ordered away to sea
again. He ha<l six months' leave, and he tried to
find some occupation which would justify him in
quitting the navy. He found nothing, and in the
leisure of this time Helen and he concerned them-
selves rather with their past than their future.
They rehabilitated every moment of it for each other ;
and, as their lives came completely together again,
ho developed certain limitations which at first
puzzled her. She did not approach that passage
which related to Ix)rd Rainford without trying to
establish defences from which, if necessary, she
could make reprisals; and she began by abruptly
asking one day, " Robert, who is Mrs. Bowers t "

"Did she turn upt" he asked in reply, with a
joyous guiltlessness that at once defeated and utterly
consoled his wife. "That was very kind of her!
But how did she find you outt I never told her
your name \ "

*• She never turned up — directly," said Helen ;

458 A woman's reason.

and then she told him how she happened to know
of Mrs. Bowers, and of the bad half-hour that kdy
had given her.

" Well, she might call it a flirtation/' said Fenton,
" but I didn't know it was one. / thought it was
just walking up and down the deck aud talking
about you."

" I'd rather you wouldn't have talked to that kind
of people about me/' returned Helen, with a retro-
spective objection which she tried in vain to make
avail her.

" How should / know what kind of person she
was 1 / never took the least notice of anything she
did or said."

This was heavenly hopeless, and Helen resolved
that for the present at least she would not inculpate
herself. But she found herself saying, ^ Well, then,
I'm going to tell you about something that all came
from my being desperate about you, and flirting a
little one day just after you sailed." She went on
to make a full and free confession, to whidi her
husband listened with surprisingly little emotion.
He could not see anything romantic in it at alL
He could not see anything renuirkable in Lord
Rainford.

" You can't," ho said finally, " expect me to admire
a man who came so near making an Enoch Ardeu uf
mo.

** Oh, you know he never came near doing any-
thing of the kind, Kul)crt."

** He came as near as he could. Do you wish me
to admire him because you refused himt You
refused me three times."

A woman's reason. 459

" I wish you to — to — appreciate him."
Fcnton laughed. " Oh, well, I do that, of course.
1 'vo no doubt he w«i8 a very good fellow ; and I
daresay he 's behaving more sensibly than I did.
From what you tdl me, I think he '11 get over his
disappointment Perha|M he '11 end by marrying
some one who will help him to complete his reaction,
and cure him of all his illusions about us over here.
But his buying that pottery was nothing. He would
have been a very poor creature if he had resented
your refusal ; I know that from my own experience."
lie would not be serious about Lord Rainford; he
made her share in the good-natured slight with which
husband and wife always talk over the sorrows of un-
lucky prcteudants. He professed to find sometliing
much more admirable in Kimball's quiet acceptance
of the loss he had incurred through Helen : that, he
said, was fine, for Kimball was supported by no
sentimental considerations, and had no money to
back his delicacy. He looked Kimball up, and made
friends with him ; and a man who could do nothing
to advance his own fortunes had the cheerful auda-
city to suppose that he might promote another's.
He wrote to Washington, and tried to get Kimball
appointed as8istint-keei>er of one of the lighthouses
on Cape Ann ; but, pending the appointment of a
gentleman who had ** worked " for the newly-electe<l
Congressman, Kimball found a' place as night-watch-
man in a large clothing-house, where he distinguished
himself, when off duty one day, by quelling a panic
among the sewing-girls at an alarm of fire, and getting
them safely out of the building. Tlie newspaper
^clai following this affair seemed to have silently

460 A woman's reason.

wrought upon the imagination of a public-tpirifced
gentleman, who about that time was maturing his
plans for the establishment of our well-known £ver-
ton Institute of Industrial Arts for Young Ladies.
The Institute was opened on a small scale in the resi-
dence of Mr. Everton at Beacon Steps, which ho
devoted to it during his life, and at his death it
was removed to the new building at West Newton ;
but from the first Kimball was put in chaige as
janitor, and still holds his place from the trustees.

He came rather apologetically to announce his
appointment to the Fentons. " I don't seem to feel,"
he said, ** as if it was quite the thing to go in there
without saying * By your leave ' to jfou, Mrs. Fenton.
I hain't forgot the first time I was in the house ;
and I don't suppose I ever passed it without lookin'
up at them steps and thinkin' of you, just how you
appeared that day when you came nmnin' up with
your bag in your hand, and I let you in."

^' Yes, I remember it too, Mr. Kimball. But you
mustn't think of it as my old home, and you mustn't
feel as if you were intruding. If the place could be
anything to me after Mr. Everton had lived Uiere, I
should be glad to think of you and Mrs. Kimball in
it, looking after those poor girls, as I know you will."

" I guess we shall do the best we know how by
'em. • And whatever Mr. Evertun is — and I guess
least said 's soonest mended, even amongst friendi,
about him in some respects — you can't say but what
it's a good object. If he can have gills without
any dependence but themselves taught how to do
something for their own liviu', / guess it's about
equal to turn in' the house into a church. And I

A woman's reason. 461

ffuess the old gentleman 's about right in coniinin' it
to girls brought up as la<lies. I ain't much on caste
myself, as I know of, but I guess that's the class of
girls that need help the most."

" yes, indeed ! " ci icd Helen fervently. " Of
all helpless creatures in the world, they are the
most to be pitied. I know you '11 be kind to them,
Mr. Kimball, and save their poor, foolish feelings as
much as you can, and not mind their weak, silly little
pride, if it ever shows itself."

"I guess youcandepend upon me for that," said Kim-
ball. " I understand girls pretty well — or I ought to,
by this time. And once a lady, always a lady, I say."

Helen even promised to come with her husband
to see the Kimballs in her old home. She cour-
ageously kept her promise, and she was rewarded
by meeting Mr. Everton there. He received her
very cordially, showing no sort of pique or resent-
ment, — no more, Fenton suggested, than Lord Rain-
furd himself, — and took her over the house, and
explained all his plans to her with a flattering con-
fidence in her interest. There were already some
young ladies there, and he introduced Helen to
them, and, in the excess of his good feeling, hinted
at the desirability of her formally addressing them
as visitors to schools are expected to do. She
refused imperatively ; but to one of the girls with
whom she found herself in sympathy she opened
her heart and told her own story. " And oh 1" she
said at the end, *'do learn to do something that
people have need of, and learn to do it well and
humbly, and just as if you had been working for
your living all your life. Try to notice how men do

462 A woman's RSA80N.

tilings, and when you're at work, foi^^et that yon'ro
a womiui, and, above all, a young huly."

After she came away, &he said tliera was one
more thing she wished to say to that girL

"^ What was thatt" asked Fcnton.

''Not to omit the first decent opportunity of
marrying any one she happened to be in love with."

" Perhaps it wasn't necessary to say that^" sug-
gested her husband.

"No," sighed Helen; ''and that's what undoes
all the rest"

When the Butlers heard of this visit of hers to
her old home, it seemed to them but another in-
stance of that extraordinary fortitude of spirit which
they had often reason to admire in her. Marian
liay could not suffer it to pass, however, without
some expression of surprise that Fenton should Iiave
allowed her to go : she was a little his rival on
behalf of Lord Ilaiiiford still, and she seized wlmt
occasions she could for an unfavourable comparison of
their characters. In fact, now that he had really
come back, she )iad not wholly forgiven him for
doing so ; but the younger sisters rejoiced in him
as a thoroughly satisfactory equivalent for the
romance they had lost in the nobleman. If Helen
was not to be Kidy Itainford, it was oonsoling to
have her the wife of a man who had been cast away
on a desert island, and had been mourned for dead
a whole year and more. They were disappointed^
however, that he should not be always telling the
story of his adventures, but should only now and
then drop bits of it in a scrappy way, and once
—but once only — when he and Helen were at

A woman's reason. 463

Beverley, they pinned him down to a full and minute
narration.

" Ah, hut," said Jessie Butler, when all was told, to
the very last moment of his ni(*eting Helen after his re-
turn, " you haven't said how you/r//, auy of the time."

" Well, you know," answered Fen ton, rising, and
going over to where Helen sat dwelling on him with
shining eyes, " I can look back and see how I aughi
to have felt at given points."

*• But — but how did you feel," pursued one of his
rapt auditors, " when— "

"No, no," said Fenton, "tliat will do! I've
given you tlie facts; you must make your own
fiction out of them. And I think, while yoa*re
at it, you *d better get another hero."

"Never!" exclaimed Jessie Butler. "We want
yoit. And we want you to Ix^liave something like a
hero, imfr. You ran, if you will. Can't he, Helen 1"

" I never can make him," said his wife fondly.

" 'i'lien that 's liecauso ho doesn't appreciate his
own ml ventures properly. Now — "

" Why," explained Fenton, " the adventures were
meroly a lot of things that happened to me."

" Happened to you 1" cried his champion against
himself in generous indignation. "Did it merely
happen to you to put that ro|)e round you and swim
ashore witli it when the ship struck t Did it merely
happen to you to stay there, and let the others go
off in the boat 1"

Fenton affected to give the arguments serious
thought. " Well, you know, I couldn't verr welt
have done otherwise under the circumstances.

" You needn't try to gc*t out of it in that way I

464 A woman's reason.

You have every attribute of a real hero/' persisted
his worshipper.

The hero laughed, and did his best to bear the
part like a man. Another of the young girls took
up the strain.

^ Yes, you would be entirely satisfactory if you
had only had some better companion in misfortune."

"Who,— Giffeni"

"Yes. He seems so hopelessly commonplace^"
sighed the gentle connoisseur of castaways.

** He was certainly not more than an aversgo
fellow-being," said Fenton, preparing to escape.
" But he was equal to his bad luck."

When he and Helen were alone, he was a long
time silent.

*' Wliat is the matter, Robert t " slie asked
tenderly at last.

'' Oh, nothing," he said. " But whenever it conies
to that point, I'm afraid that Giffen knew I wanted
to leave him to die alone there 1 "

** You didnt want to !" she protested for him.

** Ah, don't put it that way 1" he cried. ** The
best you can say for me is that I didn't do it."

She could only tell him that she loved him more
dearly for the temptation he confessed, than if there
had been no breach in his armour, lie Imd a simpli-
city in dealing witli all the incidents of his experience
which seemed to her half divine. When she hotly
invoked justice uiM>n the wretches wlio had stolen
the boat and abandoned him and OilHsn on tlio
island, he said, " Oh, what could atone for a thing
like that 1 The only way was for them to escape
altogether." He would not even let her denounce

A woman's rkason. 465

iliom as cowards ; lie contended that ihey had shown
as much mere courage in remaining to rifle the ship
as he had in anything. Giffen, he said, was the only
one to he admired, for Giffen was afraid all the time,
and yet remained to share his fate. But Helen con-
tended that this was nothing wonderful ; and again
she wished to praise him for what he had snffereid.

"Ah, don't 1*' he said, with tragic seriousness.
"There's nothing in all that It might all have
happened to a worse man, and it has happened to
many a better one. It hurts me to have you
value me for it Let it go, and give me a little
chance for the futiira" Ho was indeed eager to
escape from all that related to that passage of his
life, and Helen learned to believe this. At certain
moments he seemed to be suffering from soma
strange sort of mental stress, which he could not
explain, but which they botli thought must be the
habit of anguish formcil in his imprisonment on the
atoll. It sometimes woke him from his sleep—
the burden, but not the drama, of nightmare — a
mere formless horror, which they had to shape and
recognise for themselves.

It grew less and less as the time passed, and when
his orders came to re|K>rt for duty at Washington,
they had strength for the parting. He supposed
that he was to be sent to sea again, but he found that
he was to be put in charge for the present of the revenue
cutter for provisioning the lighthouses on the Klioda
Island coast ; and wheir removed from tliis service,
he was appointed commandant at the Narragansett
Navy Yard. It is there that Helen still finds her
home in a little house overlooking the Bay, on the

2o

466 A woman's rkasom.

height behind the vast sheds in which tiro frigates
of obsolete model, began in Polk's time, are slowljr
rotting on the stocks, in a sort of emblematic ex-
pre^ion of the present formidable character of tlie
American navy.

Fenton is subject to be ordered away at any
moment upon other duty ; but till his orders come
he rests with Helen in as much happiness as can
fall to the share of people in a world of chance and
change. The days of their separation have already
faded into the incredible past: and if her experi-
ence ever had any peculiar significance to her, it is
rapidly losing that meaning.

Shu remains limited in her opinions and motives
by the accidents of tradition and circumstsinco that
shape us all ; at the end she is neither more nor lets
than a lady, ns she was at the beginning. She has
acquired no ideals of woman's work or woman's des-
tiny ; she is glad to have solved in the old way the
problems that once beset her ; and in all that has
happened she feels as if she had escaped, rather than
achieved. She is the same, and yet not quite the
same ; for one never endures or endeavours to one's-
self alone ; she keeps her little prejudices, but she
has accuuiulated a stock of exceptions to their appli-
cation ; her sympathies, if not her opinions^ have
been enlarged ; and, above all, her unconsciousness
has been trained to meet bravely and sweetly the
duties of a life which she is content should never be
splendid or ambitious.

A2

Thisboakisa

a 60 f book wBi^ acid-fine
tuAiGhiiMltae
ASSUmSO Z39.48-1992

by

• mm

m

1996

The borrower must return this item on or before
the last date stamped below. If another user
places a recall for this item, the borrower will
be notified of the need for an earlier return.

Non-receipt of overdue notices does not exempt
the hornnver fi'om overdue fines.

Hanard College Widener Library
Cambridge, MA 02138/^417-495-2413

Please handle with care.

Thank you for helping to preserve
librar)' colleclioi