"His brush is famous! I cannot understand how, amid the effeteness of this city, a talent can rise which is so fresh and individual. In his landscapes there is a magnificent pleinair, and as a portrait painter he knows how to seize the soul. My mother, let me have your soul enchanted into a portrait—have you noticed that the eyes of some portraits look on us from beyond this world? There is an enchanted soul in them. Let me have your portrait painted by an artist from whose canvas comes a breath from beyond this world."

He inclined his cherub head and kissed his mother's hand, which was resting on Cara's shoulder.

"And kiss me, too!" cried Cara.

"Sentiment!" said Maryan, straightening himself, "beware of sentiment, little one. I, thy great-grandfather, say this to thee."

"Splendidly expressed!" exclaimed Irene from the mirror. "Cara's soul is so primitive, yours—"

"So decadent," put in Maryan.

"That you have a right to be called her great-grandfather."

"I greet you great-grandmother!" laughed he at Irene.

"I say this, mother, for, as you see, I understand my elder sister perfectly, but not the little one yet; however, that will come some time—surely soon. Mais revenons a nos moutons: How about the portrait?"

Malvina laughed. Her face, greatly troubled an hour before, had grown young again. A certain sunray had pierced the thick cloud at that moment. She warded off the idea of the portrait.

"Why? There are too many portraits of me already. Oh, too many!"

"Caricatures!" exclaimed Maryan, "and none of them is mine. I beg a portrait for myself specially; my own exclusive property."

"What for?" repeated Malvina. "Look at the original as often as you like. Better not have a portrait; then, perhaps, you will feel the need of seeing me oftener."

"No reproaches, dear mother! Leave reproaches, threats; let the whole patriarchal arsenal remain on that side, over there—"

With a gesture he indicated the door leading to the interior of the house.

Cara raised her head from her mother's knees, and her eyes glittered.

"But on this side let there be only sweetness, only charm, only that precious, beautiful weakness, before which I am on my knees always. As to this, that I can see the original of the portrait when I wish, that is a question! We are grains of sand scattered over the world by the wind of interesting voyages."

"Have you some plan of a journey again?" inquired Malvina, alarmed.

"Yes. It is in indistinct lines yet, but is becoming more definite every day. This will be the step of a giant—fleeing before that rod with which the all-mighty father is pleased to beat his children."

Again, with a gesture he pointed to the door leading to the more distant apartments, and in the short laugh which accompanied his last words there was sarcasm—almost hatred. At the same moment he met Cara's eyes, and asked:

"Why look at me, little one, in that way? There are eyes! curious, anxious, and as frightened as those of a hunted deer. Why so curious? What do you fear?"

Cara hid her face in her mother's dress, quickly.

"But how would it please you, mamma, to make a trip with me to America?" called Irene from before the mirror.

She put up the last of her hair, fastened it with a fantastic pin, and said, turning toward her mother:

"I have such Tom Thumb boots that when I put them on I shall be beyond the sea with three great steps. How does that plan please you?"

"You give a shower of plans to-day," jested Malvina.

"A portrait, flight from the rod, America."

"A ball!" exclaimed Cara, raising her head. "Do you know of it, Maryan? In a few weeks we shall have a real ball—a grand one."

"Your tale is curious, little one, tell on," answered Maryan. "When talk is the question, there is never need to beg Cara twice."

She sprang up from her knees and told of the hour which she had spent in her father's study a few days before. She had told her mother and sister of the plan of the ball, but how it rose she had not told. Something had prevented. Now she would tell them all. Three gentlemen had visited her father: Prince Zeno, Count Charski, and a third person whose name she did not remember, but he was a large man, tall and broad; his breast glittered with stars and crosses. She, Cara, wished to hide from the guests behind the bookshelves—there were shelves behind which she sat often, invisible herself, she saw and heard everything. It was a wonderfully comfortable hiding-place, in which her only trouble was Puff; for, when anyone came to the study he wanted to bark, but she squeezed his nose with her hand tightly, and he was silent. That day she did not go behind the book-shelves, for her father commanded her to sit in the armchair. So she sat there with dignity.

Now she sat on the stool, and showed them in what a posture she had sat in presence of her father's guests, her hands on her knees, bolt upright, with dignity on her rosy face. Puffie alone interrupted this dignity, she said; he crawled up behind her, put his paws on her shoulder, and touched her with his moist nose. One of the gentlemen turned then to her, and said:

"You have a beautiful dog, young lady."

"He is very nice," answered she.

"And what is his name?" asked the man.

"Puffie," explained she.

She did not laugh, for there was no cause. Puffie was really very nice, and he had a good name, but those gentlemen, while looking at her, smiled very agreeably, and one of them said to her father:

"How time passes! Not long ago I saw your younger daughter a little child, and now—"

The other interrupted: "She is almost grown. And as tall it seems as her elder sister."

"We have only very rarely the pleasure of seeing your family in society this winter," said the other.

"Your wife and daughter pass a very secluded life this year," said the second visitor.

"My wife complains of frequent neuralgia," answered father, and then the unknown, large man talked.

Hitherto Cara, while giving the conversation of the two gentlemen, changed her voice, imitating the tones, and posture of each; now she repeated the words of the large man in the rudest voice that she could command:

"I have not yet had the honor of being presented to your wife and elder daughter, but I have heard so much, etc."

Then they talked longer with her father about something else, and when going away gave her some nice compliments. She courtesied. She might say with confidence that she had played the role of a mature young lady brilliantly. Her father said, after the departure of the guests, that he was glad to receive the large man's visit. The large man might aid him greatly. Then he thought a while, and said:

"Do you know what, little one, you must show yourself in society."

Here Maryan muttered in an undertone:

"He needs a new column in his temple."

Irene smiled. Malvina feigned not to hear; Cara, given up to her twittering, twittered on:

"Then father said that mamma and Ira were leading almost the life of a cloister, that they received few persons, and went out little. That had the appearance of domestic misfortune, or of bankruptcy. Such an appearance was ugly in general, and harmful to business. To avoid this there was need to arrange a reception, but grand, and as splendid as possible. The carnival would be over soon, and at the end of the carnival we would give a ball in which the 'little one 'would appear in society for the first time. Today, an hour ago, father said he would come to us at dinner, and would talk at length about this ball with mamma."

Here Cara finished the narrative which was somewhat of a dramatic representation. Maryan rose suddenly from his seat.

"I must go," said he, standing rigidly, and with a serious face.

"Stay, Maryan," said Malvina, in a low voice.

On her face was a look of pain; a deep wrinkle appeared on her forehead; her voice was imploring. Maryan looked at her, hesitated a while, then dropping into an armchair with the movement of an automaton, muttered:

"Let thy will be done! Let a pot be painted with the color of a son's love—for you, mother."

From the thought that he must meet his father soon, the interior of his heart began to desiccate.

A servant announced the dinner. Cara sprang up from the stool:

"I will go to conduct father!"

She went to the door, but turned back from it, and, dropping on her knees before her mother, put a number of long, passionate kisses on her knees and her hand. Then hanging on her neck, she whispered in a low voice:

"Golden, only, dearest mamma." And springing from her knees she flew out of the room like a bird.

What did that violent outburst of tenderness for her mother mean? No one knew, neither did she herself, perhaps. Was it a prayer for someone, or the assurance that she loved greatly not only that one, but her mother too? or was it delight that at last she would see them both together? She flew like a bird through the drawing-rooms, lighted by lamps burning here and there, till she pushed quietly into her father's study, and put her hand under his arm at the writing-desk. All rosy, imitating the deep and solemn voice of the servant, she said:

"Dinner is served!"

Darvid felt a stream of warmth and sweetness flowing to his breast.

"Oh, you rogue!" said he, "you sunray! You little one!"

When he was entering the dining-room soon after with Cara, Maryan led in his mother through the opposite door; she was all in black silk and jet.

Darvid inclined and touched his wife's hand with his lips; on Malvina's face there was a pleasant smile.

"I am so immensely occupied," said he, "that I have not time every day to inquire after your health."

"I thank you, my health is excellent."

At a rich side-table two servants were occupied; at the table gleaming with crystal and silver stood Miss Mary, graceful and still young, with puritanic simplicity in her closely fitting garment, and with smooth hair over her calm forehead. The master of the house greeted her and expressed his regret that, because of business, he could see her only rarely. When all were seated at table, Malvina, with the experience of a trained lady of the house, began conversation:

"We have been talking just now of the United States, with which Ira and Maryan have begun to be greatly interested."

"No doubt because of the exhibition at Chicago," said Darvid; "it must be something colossal indeed."

Miss Mary mentioned the congress of women which was to meet there. Malvina and Irene supplemented that statement with details; the conversation flowed on smoothly, easily, coolly; it was filled with various kinds of information. Maryan took no part in it. He sat stiff, deaf, dumb, with fixed features. When he ate, his movements had the appearance of an automaton, even his eyelids winked very rarely. He was a picture of apathy, contempt, and biliousness. Even his fair complexion had grown sallow, and his lips had paled. He caused exactly the impression of a wax doll in an elegant dress, with glittering eyes.

Darvid, with some humor and playfully, spoke of the edifice which was to be erected in Chicago according to a plan by a female architect.

"I tremble for those who are to visit the building. In architecture, equilibrium has immense meaning, and for women equilibrium is most difficult. Women lose equilibrium so easily, so generally, so inevitably, almost."

This was said in a manner quite airy and trifling; still—it was unknown why—in the voice of the speaker certain biting tones quivered, and a pale flush came out on Malvina's forehead. Irene fell at once to talking most vivaciously with Miss Mary about the latest movement among English women toward emancipation, and Darvid himself, with some haste, expressed quietly, though with some irony, opinions touching these movements.

A great bronze lamp cast abundant light on the table, which was covered with the brightness of silver and crystal. White-gloved servants, as silent as apparitions, changed the plates adorned with painted and gilded monograms; with bottles in their hands they inquired about the kind of wine which they were to pour out; they served dishes from which came the excellent odor of truffles, pickles, rare meat, and vegetables. A number of wall-lamps, placed high, lighted the sides of the dining-hall, which was decked with pictures in brightly shining frames, and with festoons of heavy curtains at the doors and windows. When it left America, the conversation, carried on in French and English, turned to European capitals and to the various phenomena of life in them. English was spoken out of regard for Miss Mary, but French sometimes, for Darvid and his wife preferred that language to English. Irene and Cara might have been considered as genuine English. The ready and accurate English; the pure Parisian French; the varied information, in an atmosphere of light falling from above on a table glittering with costly plate; the order and the dignified ornaments of the great hall; the grand scale of living seemed undoubted high life. There was a moment in which Darvid cast his glance around and threw back his head somewhat; his forehead freed itself from wrinkles—smooth, clever, shining somewhat at the temples—it seemed to be carved out of ivory. His nostrils, delicate and nervous, expanded and contracted, as if inhaling, with the odor of wines and delicacies, the more subtle and intoxicating odor of his own greatness. But this lasted only a short time; soon certain pebbles of seriousness and breaths of distraction began to interrupt his conversation and to dull his clear thought. Balancing in two fingers a dessert knife, he said to Miss Mary:

"I respect your countrymen greatly for their practical sense and sound reason. That's a people—that's a people—"

He stammered somewhat now—a thing which, in his low and fluent speech, never happened. He was thinking of something else.

"That is the nation which said to itself: 'Time is money,' which also—"

Again he faltered. His eyes, attracted by an invincible power, turned continually toward that point of the table where black jets glittered richly and gloomily, and then his lips finished the judgment which he had begun:

"Which also possesses to-day the greatest money-power."

Here Maryan spoke for the first time:

"Not only money; England now leads the newest tendencies in art."

This was spoken at the edges of his lips, without cooperation of other parts of his face, which continued fixed; and on Darvid's lips appeared his smile, of which people said that it bristled with pins.

"The newest tendencies of art!" repeated he, and the words hissed in his mouth somewhat. "Art is something splendid, but the pity is that it is turned into a plaything by wrongly reared children!"

Maryan raised at his father a look from which a whole flood of irony rushed forth, and answered, with the edge of his lips:

"He alone is not a child who knows that we are all children, turning everything into playthings for ourselves. The point is that there are various playthings."

"Maryan!" whispered Malvina, with an alarm which she could not suppress.

Darvid turned his face to her suddenly, and their glances which till then had avoided each other carefully, met for a few seconds; but during that time Darvid's eyes filled with the glitter of keen steel, and Malvina bent her face so low over the plate that, in the sharp light, one could see only her forehead, with its one deep wrinkle. But that same moment Irene began to converse with her father about London, where he had spent a considerable time on two occasions. He answered her at once; spoke long, fluently, and interestingly, engaging also in the conversation Miss Mary, to whom he turned frequently and with pleasure.

Again the conversation went on smoothly, easily, deliberately. Above the table, in place of the odors of meats and sauces, hovered the light odors of fruit and vanilla. When the dessert was served, Darvid spoke of fruits peculiar to various climates which he had visited in his almost ceaseless journeys; all at once he stopped the conversation in mid-career, and turned to Cara, who struggled a few times with a dry and stubborn cough.

"I thought that you had recovered entirely. But you are coughing yet. That is sad!"

On the girl's face, which was flushing in a fiery manner, there was an expression of sorrow or anger. Quickly and broken came the words from her lips which were pouting like those of an angry child:

"There are so many sad things in the world, father, that my cough is a bit of dust compared with them."

This was an answer thoroughly unexpected, but the impression which it might have made was hindered at once by Irene through a laugh and an exclamation too loud, perhaps:

"See where pessimism is going to fix itself! Is Puffie sick?"

"Cara's remark is precocious but pointed," said Maryan, with the edges of his lips.

Malvina, too, began to speak. Giving a small cup to her son, she inquired:

"You like black coffee so well that I ought to reserve another cup, ought I not?"

Maryan made no answer; with a wrinkle on her forehead, and a smile on her lips, she continued quickly and hurriedly:

"I share your taste for coffee, Maryan. Some time ago I drank much coffee, but I saw that it injured my nerves and deprived me of sleep. It is very disagreeable not to sleep, and better to give up a favorite luxury than suffer from insomnia."

Smiling and moving her head she talked, and talked on with great charm, and with a sweetness which always filled the tones of her voice. She mentioned mere nothings, connecting opinion with opinion, just to talk, to kill time, or avoid other topics. Darvid raised his head somewhat and looked at her through the glasses with which he had shaded his eyes until she bent her head before the gleam in those glasses, and her face sank very low over the cup, and was covered with an expression not to be hidden by a woman who wants to vanish through the earth, dissolve in air, become a shade, become dust, become a corpse; if she can only escape from where she is and from being what she is. Then Irene, with a light tap, dropping her cup on the saucer, began:

"You must know well, father, how they make coffee in the Orient?"

He knew, for he had been in the Orient; and, in a way which was picturesque enough, he told about the Turks; how, sitting around in a circle, they put the favorite drink into their mouths slowly.

"They delight themselves with it, as dignified as Magi, and silent as fish. The time in which they give themselves to this absolute rest, composed of black coffee and silence, bears with them the name 'keif.'"

This word called laughter to the lips of all. Darvid laughed, too. On all faces weariness grew evident. Cara's thin voice called out:

"The Turks do well to be silent, for what good is there in people's talk? What good is there?"

"Here is a little sage, she is never satisfied with questions," said Darvid, jestingly.

"Capacity for criticism is a family trait of ours," laughed Irene.

"Cara had been distinguished by curiosity from childhood," added Malvina, with a smile.

Even Maryan, looking at his younger sister, said:

"The time always comes when children begin to speak instead of prattling."

Miss Mary, with an anxious forehead under her puritan hair, said nothing.

On the faces of all who spoke, anxiety was evident, and above the smiling lips weariness was present in every eye.

Malvina rose from her chair; Darvid left his place, bowed to all with exquisite politeness, and, advancing some steps, gave his arm to his wife.

They passed through a small, brightly lighted drawing-room and halted in the following chamber, where the walls were adorned with white garlands and the curtains and upholstering were of blue watered-silk. Beyond, in a small drawing-room. Miss Mary sat down to play chess with Maryan; Cara took her place near them in the character of observer, and Irene unrolled in the lamp-light a piece of church stuff, very old and time-worn, which the baron had brought her as a rarity, and which she intended to repair by embroidering it with silk and gold thread.

Darvid and Malvina stopped among the pieces of blue furniture in the tempered light of a shade-covered lamp. Malvina was very pale, and her heart must have beaten with violence, for her breath was hurried. At last that had come which she had waited for long and vainly: a positive and decisive conversation.

With all her strength she desired an explanation, a change of some kind, and in any shape, if it would only bring a change in her position. She was waiting, ready to yield to everything, to endure everything, if he would only speak. He spoke, and said:

"To-morrow I shall go to a hunt on the estate of Prince Zeno, and as I go from there to a place where I have business, I shall return in ten days, more or less. Immediately after my return, and during the last week of the Carnival, there will be in our house a reception, a ball simply, the most brilliant possible. My business requires it, and public opinion concerning this family requires it also. I wish, too, that Cara should make her first appearance in society at that ball. I have drawn up, and will send you a list of persons to whom it is necessary to send invitations, persons of whom you might not have thought; the rest of society you know better than I do. I know that you can arrange such matters excellently, and I trust that this time you will do all that is best. The check-book will be brought you by my secretary, whose abilities and time you may use without limit, as well as the check-book. There is no need to hesitate at outlay; everything should be in a style rarely seen in any house, or rather in a style never seen except in this house. This ball is needed for my business and for—public opinion concerning our family, which opinion is a little, even more than a little, lowered."

He spoke slowly and politely, with an accent of command at the basis of the politeness. At the last words he cast into her face a gleam of his eyes which was firm and penetrating, then he bowed, and made a move to go.

"Aloysius!" cried Malvina, with tightly clasped hands, and she began to tremble. How was this? A ball, and nothing more! The question with her was of things as important as human dignity, conscience, unendurable restraint, and fear in the presence of her children.

He stopped and inquired:

"What is your command?"

She bowed her head and began:

"I require; I wish to speak with you at length and positively."

He smiled.

"For what purpose? We have nothing pleasant to say to each other, and unpleasant conversation injures the nerves more than—black coffee."

She raised her head, and with an effort, to which she brought herself with difficulty, said:

"Things cannot remain as they are. My position—"

With an expression of profoundest astonishment on his face, he interrupted:

"Your position! But your position is brilliant!"

He made a gesture which seemed to indicate everything which was in that drawing-room, and in the whole house; but she blushed deeply, and like one in whom the sensitive place is touched, exclaimed:

"But this is just what—what I do not wish any longer. I have the right to desire to be free, to withdraw, to cast from myself this glitter, and go somewhere."

With all her strength she struggled against the tears which were overpowering her. He repeated with the profoundest astonishment:

"You do not wish? You have the right?"

Everything in him—cheeks, wrinkles on his forehead, pale lips—trembled with excitement now beyond restraint. But he was master of his voice yet. He spoke in low tones, but with a hiss:

"What right? You have no right! You have lost every right! You do not wish? You have no right to wish, or not to wish. You must live as it happens you, and as is needed. As to conversations and serious theatrical scenes, I want none of them—I, who have not lost the right to wish. I am silent, and I will enforce silence. That is, and will always be, our modus vivendi, which, moreover, should be for you the easiest thing in the world to preserve. You have everything: a high position, luxury, brilliancy, even the love of your children as it seems. You have everything except—except—"

He hesitated. His habit of preserving in all cases correctness of form, struggled with the excitement which had overcome him, and these words hissed through his lips in a low though envenomed voice:

"Except—the lover whom you have dismissed, on which deed I congratulate you, and—my respect, which you have lost, but without which you must live on to the end. On this subject we are talking now for the first and last time. We are talking too long. I am in a hurry to my work. I wish you good-night."

The bow which he made before his wife might seem from a distance full of friendly kindness; he withdrew with perfect calmness and freedom of manner, still Irene went to her mother with a firm though hurried step, and with the piece of ancient stuff in her hand, she said:

"I am sure that without your assistance I shall not be equal to my task. To restore this Middle Age wonder requires taste, an eye, shading of colors; all this is beyond my poor ability."

She stood before her mother, and among the large flowers on the cloth, which was changing from silver to sapphire, she indicated certain defects produced by time. Her eyelids blinked with marvellous quickness, and therefore, perhaps, she did not notice her mother's chalky pallor, trembling hands, and despairing expression of eyes. Apparently noticing nothing she spoke in a loud voice and joyously:

"You have an ocean of various silks left after so many things which we made in company. Let us search among them. Shall we go? They are in your chamber. Come, mamma! I am so impatient to begin the restoration of this beautiful ruin! You will help me to match the silks, will you not? Oh, how many beautiful things you and I have made together with these four hands of ours, which were always in company."

And they were in company then. She thrust her hand under her mother's arm, and holding the strip of silver and azure stuff she escorted the very pale woman in black jets through the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, past the chess-table at which were sitting three persons, through the dining-hall, where servants were hurrying, through her mother's study, in which both had passed most hours of their life, till she came to Malvina's bedroom, where, amid the yellow damask furniture a shaded lamp was burning. In the twinkle of an eye Irene drew the brass door-bolt, and with face turned toward her mother, with cheeks which flushed immediately, she took Malvina's two hands in her own.

"Enough of these secrets, of things partly said, and of barriers raised between our hearts and lips."

This hurried whisper burst from her like a current from a covered vessel filled with heat and opened suddenly.

"Let us tell each other everything—or no, say no word, I know everything and neither will I speak—but let us counsel—let us meditate together—Oh, mamma!"

Her form, usually erect and distinguished, bent, and trembled like a reed, and her lips, famous for irony and coldness, scattered a shower of kisses on the hands and face of her mother, whose chalky paleness was covered by a flame of blushes.

"Ira!" she exclaimed, "forgive. May God forgive me."

Unable to utter more than these words she dropped on her knees and touched the yellow cushion of the low sofa with her head. She seemed shattered, annihilated. Then Irene grew cold again. Sober thought and strong will shone in, her eyes. She bent over her mother, placed her delicate hand on her shoulder, and began almost with the movement of a guardian:

"Mamma, I beg you not to despair, and above all not to torture yourself with that which you consider a reproach and a sin. Never say to your children 'forgive,' for we cannot be your judges—I, least of all. You have ever been kind to us and as loving as an angel; we have lived with you; we love you—I most of all. Remember at all times that a loyal heart is near you and—a kindred one—for it is the heart of a daughter. You must stand erect, have will, think out something, frame something, have decision, save yourself."

Looking into her mother's face with a strange smile, she added:

"And save me, perhaps, for I, too, am a poor, unwise creature; I know not myself what to do."

Malvina raised her head, straightened herself, and rose from her knees slowly.

"True," whispered she. "You—you, so long and so earnestly have I wished to speak—of you—and had not the courage."

"Well, let us speak now," said Irene.

And again putting her hand under her mother's arm, she led her to the ottoman, which stood in the tempered lamplight.

"The door is bolted, no one can disturb us; we will have a talk, a long one. Only we must be reasonable, calm. Look at things and ourselves clearly; know definitely what we want; try to bring our plans into action; know how to wish."

At these last words she imitated the nasal voice of Baron Emil, laughed at it, and dropped down on the carpet before Malvina had seated herself on the low ottoman. Irene, taking her mother's hands in her own, fixed her eyes on her eyes, and began:

"Mamma, if you wish I shall become very soon the wife of the famous Mediaevalist, Baron Emil, and we shall all three of us go to America—beyond the seas—"

"Oh, no! no! no!" exclaimed Malvina, who bent toward her daughter, and put her arms around the young woman with such terror as if she were shielding her from a falling house. "Not that! Not that! Something different—entirely different."

At that moment some impulsive, or impatient, hand shook the door-latch.

"Not permitted!" cried Irene, and she asked:

"Who is there?"

There was no answer, but the latch moved again, though in a timid, and, as it were, imploring manner.

"You cannot come in," repeated Irene.

There was a rustle against the sofa outside, a light and quick step moved away.

"Cara!" whispered Malvina.

"For her as well as for ourselves there is need to end this position at the earliest," said Irene, with a sudden frown.

It was Cara; she had left the door of her mother's room with drooping head, with a great frown on her forehead, and no thought for the little dog, tugging at her skirt as usual. Half an hour before, when Maryan and Miss Mary had risen from chess, she rose, too, pushed her hand under her brother's arm and said:

"I have something to say to you."

Her seriousness was so evident that Maryan answered, with a smile:

"If your speech is to be as solemn as your face is we shall have little joy. What have you to tell me?"

Without answering she led him through the blue drawing-room to the next one more faintly lighted. Here she halted, looked around, and, seeing only inanimate objects, asked:

"Why have you quarrelled with father?"

This question in her mouth astonished him, and he asked in turn:

"Why do you wish this information? You might dream of the role of peacemaker."

Without a shade of laughter, with forehead somewhat wrinkled beneath bright curls of hair, she repeated the question:

"Why have you quarrelled with father? Do you not love him? Why can you not love him? For me, father is an ideal! He is so wise, noble, great. When he was so long away I dreamed about him, wanted his return, imagined how happy we should all be when he came. But that is not the case in any way. All in the house seem to be at variance, angry, disappointed—I see this well, but I cannot understand why. Why? why is it?"

Maryan fixed his eyes on her attentively and laughed, but his laugh was not sincere, it was forced.

"Curiosity," said he, "is the first step toward hell, and the surest road to premature age. You will grow old before your time, little one."

"This is not curiosity!" interrupted Cara. "There is some kind of trouble here, I know not what it is; but something so unpleasant and—dreadful. Sometimes it seems to me that someone will die, or that something will vanish, and that, in general, something awfully bad will happen to somebody—I—know not what it is, but it is very bad. I know not what it is, but it is something—it is something—"

Maryan frowned and interrupted her:

"Since you know not what it is, nor to whom it will happen, nor how, what do you ask me for? Am I a master of the cabala, to interpret childish dreams for you?"

"This is not a dream; it is something of the sort that wanders in the air, touches, breathes, goes away and comes again, like a haze—or the wind. You are grown up, and all say that you are clever. I beg you to explain this—I think, too, that, if you wished, you might so arrange matters that all would go better. It is your duty to do this. Do you not love mamma, father, Ira? I love them immensely—I would give up everything for them. I do not understand even how any person could live without loving somebody with full heart, and all strength—I could not. But what use—I am not grown up, not wise, I cannot even understand anything. With you it is different, but you have quarrelled with father. You do not even love him, I see that well. For what reason? Why? My brother, you might, at least, tell me something to explain."

She stopped, and he stared at her, a look of indecision increased on his face. Something of concern, and a trifle of tenderness gleamed in his eyes. It might have seemed for some seconds that he would put his arm around her, or stroke her with his palm and smooth away the wrinkles from her childish forehead. But—"Arcadian" feelings were in the past, so he began to speak coldly and deliberately:

"My dear, you are torturing your little head for nothing with affairs of this world; you are not equal to them yet. I cannot tell anything to you, or explain anything, for you and I are at the two opposite poles of thought. You speak of devotion, duty, and love, like a governess, for you have a governess yet. As to my disagreement with father, you know nothing of what caused it; but, to be a kindly brother, I will answer a few words. Two developed and energetic individualities have met in this case and come into collision, like two planets. Two egotisms also—do not show such frightened eyes. Stupid nurses frighten children with a beggar, a gypsy, or an egotist, but mature people know that egotism is a universal right; and, moreover, good business. Be an egotist. Take no trouble about what does not concern your own self and strive to develop your own individuality. Keep this in view, play joyously with Puffie, and go to sleep early, for long watching spoils the complexion of young ladies. Begin to think to-morrow of the dress which you will wear at that brilliant ball—planned by our father to torment mamma—and you will have success. Do not mind those mists, dreams, and other visions which come and go. They are conditions of mind which are very much subject to fancy, and other painted pots. This is all that I, your great-grandfather, can tell you, or mention as advice. Look at Ira and imitate her wisdom, which knows how to make sport of the world around her. Good-night to you, little one!"

He pressed her hand in such a friendly manner that he hurt it, and then went away, disappearing at the other end of the chamber.

Cara stood for a time with her eyes fixed on the floor, then she raised her head and looked around at the void in which silence had fixed itself. The globe-lamps burning, here and there, at the walls, filled the drawing-room with a hazy, half-light, in which, here and there, glittered golden reflections, and the features of faces, and landscapes flimmered on pictures. Farther on, from the shady corner of the other drawing-room, slender and swelling vases appeared, partially; portions of white garlands on the walls; the delicate dimness of dulled colors on Gobelin tapestry. Farther still, in the small warm and bright drawing-room, lights were burning in the candelabra, and a crown of glittering crystals were hanging like icicles, or immense frozen tears. Farthest off, in the dining-room, with its dark walls, gleamed a great lamp, in its hanging bronze, like a point of light, above the table. This point seemed very far from where Cara was standing, and in all the space between her and it there was not a voice, not a rustle, nothing living. Only once a waiter, dressed in black, passed on tip-toe through the dining-room, emerged into the full light of the lamp, and disappeared behind a door. After that there was no voice, no step, no noise—nothing living. All at once a clock began to strike nine. Its metallic sound inclined to bass, and was heard clearly in the silence which had settled in the vacant chambers. One, two, three—at the fourth stroke another clock was heard in a distant study. Its sound was thinner and more like singing—these two seemed to be a voice and its echo; the sounds from these resembled a mysterious conversation carried on by things that were inanimate.

Cara hurried then, and hastened through the drawing-rooms on tip-toe toward her mother's boudoir. Through her widely opened eyes looked fear, and under bright curls her forehead was thickly wrinkled.



CHAPTER VIII

Because of his absence of ten days Darvid, on his return from the hunting scenes, which had passed noisily and splendidly at Prince Zeno's, rushed into the whirl of business—of labors and visits which even for him, who was so greatly trained, proved to be wearisome and difficult. He drove out; he received for long hours, both alone and with the assistance of others; he wrote, reckoned, counselled, discussed, concluded contracts, with a multitude of men. Sometimes, in the very short intervals between occupations, in his carriage, after a noisy and laborious night, or at the almost sleepless end of it, while putting himself to bed, he thought, that in every case the amusement from which he had returned a few days before had cost him more than the worth of it. His life was a belt of toil and duties, so closely woven that every interruption brought to a new point an accumulation of these toils and duties that might surpass even his powers. And what had his object been? Why had he gone? Had he found pleasure in that place? What pleasure? Those full-grown, or even old men, who found their delight, or disappointment in this, that they had hit or had missed a shot; those great lords, spending their time at a recreation which, by the uproar, the style of conversation, the spectacle of bloodshed, reminded him of the mental and physical condition of wild men—seemed to him children which were sometimes annoying and sometimes ridiculous. Such frivolous amusement, idle, somewhat savage, somewhat knightly, found no access to his brain, which had been occupied so long with the seriousness of dates and figures. He had met there, it is true, though only once, a man in a lyric mood. A youthful person, who was riding one day at his side, and who afterward, when they halted, strove to incline him to enthusiasm because of the snow-covered field; the fresh breezes blowing over that field; the deep perspective of the forest, etc. That man was lyric. He confessed openly that the hunting was to him indifferent; that he took part in it not for game, but for nature. He loved nature. Yes, yes, Darvid knew that many people loved nature. Art and nature must be powers, since a multitude of men bow down to them. Perhaps he, too, would have done so if the career of his life had led him into their presence, but the path of his life led him in another direction, far from nature and art, hence he did not know them; he had not had the time. He looked at a field, at snow, at a forest—and he saw a field, snow, a forest—nothing higher, nothing more. He was of those who call a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue, and hold every hyperbole, ode, and enthusiasm in silent contempt. He listened to his lyric companion, at first with curiosity, investigating in the man a certain kind of people little known to him. When he had finished he listened only through politeness, and with concealed annoyance. He concealed his annoyance, and tried openly to pretend that he shared the enthusiasm, the rapture, and the gladness. He was, of course, in an assembly of very wealthy persons, standing very high. He sailed in a sea of blood purely blue, so he hid away irony, contempt, and yawning, and had on the outside only smoothness itself, affability, and general pleasantness of manner, speech, and smiles. That was also a labor, rewarded at once with a certain degree of lively enjoyment. In lordly drawing-rooms, himself the equal of the highest, while passing the time in a friendly manner and conversing with princes he was unconscious at first that he raised his smooth, lofty forehead and gave himself out as greater than he was in reality, and inhaled with distended nostrils the odor of that grandeur which surrounded him as well as that which was his own. But soon this condition yielded to something embarrassing, not quite clearly defined, but causing this, that he did not feel altogether certain of himself and the fitness of his whole self to the surrounding. For though the politeness of those about him was unquestioned and most exquisite, though words of praise in recognition of his services and labor struck his hearing, though his strong feet had under them a foundation carved from gold; he felt strange in that position, involved in phenomena which were new to him, and bristling with difficulties. Sometimes the guests mentioned things of which he was ignorant, they used expressions which were strange to him, and referred to degrees of relationship, and events with which he was unacquainted. He began to stand guard over his own words and movements, with a mysterious fear lest something of his might come out too emphatic, or high colored for the background before which he found himself. In spite of everything which connected the man with that background, he began to feel a broad vacuum between him and it himself.

This timidity, a thing entirely new, entirely unknown to Darvid from his earliest years, was an oppression which, during the last days of the hunt, fell on him together with weariness, and some third thing—a feeling of the difference between himself and those who surrounded him. Nothing could help him: neither the iron labor which they praised audibly, nor the millions piled up by that labor—millions for which they felt unconcealed reverence. Among those men into whose society he had always desired to enter as an integral part thereof, on that social height to which he had been climbing in imagination and with effort, he felt as if he were in some uneasy chair, put out in a cold wind, and deprived of every outlook. He found nothing there on which to rest his eye, or his thought. Emptiness, emptiness, weariness. A little humiliation which, like a tiny, but venomous worm, was boring into the bottom of his heart. It was not wonderful, therefore, that when he thought of how he had used his time, and of all that he had seen, heard, and passed through, there was on his lips one of those smiles most bristling with pins points, while in his mind he repeated the expression: "Wretchedness!"

He was too wise not to give this name at times to many things of the world which he desired and toward which he was struggling.

After some days of labor, so intense that it astonished those who saw it, and which weakened those who assisted in it, he received at an hour before evening, as customary, in his study, all men who came either on business, or with visits. He knew no exceptions for anyone, nor indulgence for himself. He received all, conversed with all, for it was impossible to foresee what a given man might contribute, or what he might be good for, if not at the moment, some time, if not much, then a little. But his cheeks seemed thinner than usual, and at moments his speech was less fluent. That hunting trip, and all which he had experienced at it, and afterward, days of activity and unparalleled exertion, were reflected on his face in an expression of suffering. And sometimes even a slight hesitation in speech arose from this, that his mind ran to a subject which tortured him, and raised in his breast a lump of slimy serpents. Some hours before he had inquired of his secretary, who, in spite of youth, zeal, and wit, was bending beneath the burden of labor imposed on him, whether everything was ready for the ball to be given soon, and whether he had received directions from the lady of the house during his, Darvid's, recent absence. The secretary showed great astonishment. How was that? Then the project had not been abandoned? On the morning after the departure of his principal the secretary sought to come to an understanding with Pani Darvid on this subject, but was able to see only Panna Irene, who declared that he would receive no instructions, and that his assistance would not be needed. After that there was silence in the house, undisturbed by preparations of any kind.

"Then," said Darvid, "my wife must be out of health. She has neuralgia frequently. What is to be done? A woman's nerves are a force majeure."

But now, while receiving visits and speaking of business, he avoided thinking of the unexpected resistance. How was this! She—the woman for whom the highest favor, the pinnacle of happiness had been the possibility of remaining at the head of his house, in the brilliancy of wealth and general respect, dared—had the shamelessness to oppose his will! He felt such contempt that, in thought, he threw that woman on the ground to trample her; in spite of this, that, almost unconsciously, he ascribed the blame not to her, but to Irene. Almost unconsciously he saw the tall young lady; she stood before his eyes, cold and distinguished; she, who at the foot of the stairway, in the down of her black fur cloak, with an almost hard glitter in her eyes, under the fantastic hat, had said: "That ball will not be given."

That was Irene. The other woman could not have risen to this act. Did he not know her? She had always been so mild and weak—powerless, pitiable! She could not command such energy! It was Irene!

With these thoughts he pressed the hand of the last guest, and said to him at the threshold, that there was absolute need for the commercial company of which they had been talking to gain a broader foundation of activity by obtaining more and surer sources of credit.

"Credit, my dear sir, credit is the first letter in the alphabet of contemporary finance. Send some man to the capital—some man—"

He hesitated here, thinking "It was Irene!" Then he finished:

"Some man with proper authority and weight—best of all that person of whom we have been speaking. Such is my advice."

After the last bow of the guest they closed the door of the anteroom. Darvid turned and saw Irene standing at the round table. That day, while passing on the stairs, when she was returning from a trip to the city, and he was hastening to the carriage waiting for him, they had greeted each other hurriedly and in passing. He had not a moment's time then to talk with her; she, too, was in a hurry, for she ran up the stairs quickly.

"Bon jour, pere!" said she, inclining her head with swift movement.

"Bon jour, Irene," answered he, touching his hat. Behind him moved the secretary, carrying a heavy portfolio of papers; after her went some merchant's servant with packages. No greeting was necessary now. Irene, standing at the table, began to speak at once:

"I have come, father, to beg you in mamma's name and my own for a half-an-hour's conversation, but to-day, now, absolutely."

Her bodice, which was dark and close fitting, had a very high-standing ruff, which enclosed her slightly elongated and very pale face, just as the half-open shield of a leaf encloses a white flower-bud. Her whole person, in that chamber, with its very high ceiling and massive furniture, seemed smaller and less tall than elsewhere. However, the words "now and absolutely" were spoken with such solid emphasis, that Darvid halted in the middle of the room and fixed a sharp glance on her.

"You have come in your mother's name and your own," said he. "Why this solemnity and decision? You wish, of course, to explain the reasons why your mother and you have seen fit to oppose my will."

"No, father," answered she, "but I intend to announce to you mamma's will and mine."

"As to that ball?" asked he, quickly.

"No, the question is immensely more important than the ball."

Both were silent for a moment. If the words exchanged had been less emphatic, and had followed one another less quickly, Darvid and his daughter might, perhaps, have heard, in a corner of the room, behind a wall of books arranged on highly ornamented shelves, a slight rustle which lasted a short time. Something had moved there, and then stopped moving.

"It touches an affair of immensely greater importance than the ball," repeated Irene; "namely, my mother's peace, honor, and conscience."

"What pomposity of expression!" exclaimed Darvid, with a slight smile. "I observe more and more that exaggeration is a disease in my family. I should prefer simple speech from you."

"The question before us is not a simple one, so I use a style fitted to the subject," answered Irene, and she sat down in one of the armchairs, erect, her hands on her knees, motionless, between the wide and heavy arms of the chair.

"The subject of which I have to speak with you, father, is much involved and delicate. Do you not share my opinion, that one may commit what is commonly called an offence and still possess a noble heart, and suffer greatly? In common opinion this suffering is a just punishment, or penance for the offence committed, but I consider this opinion as a painted pot, for everything in this world is so involved, so vain, and relative."

She spoke with perfect calmness, but at the last words she shrugged her shoulders slightly. Darvid looked at her with dazed eyes.

"How is this?" began he, in a low voice. "You—you—have you come to talk to me—about this? Do you know? Do you understand? And have you come to talk about—this?"

"My father," answered Irene, "to bring our conversation to any result we must first of all push away painted pots from between us."

"What does that mean?" asked Darvid.

"What does it mean? What are painted pots? They are little dabs of wretched clay, but painted in beautiful colors; they are just what naivete, bashfulness, modesty, and darned socks like them would be to-day in my case."

She laughed.

"I have known all that has happened this long time. I was a little girl, in a corner of a room, dressing a doll, when a certain conversation between you and mamma struck my ears, and helped me considerably to understand what took place afterward. Because of business and difficulties which swallowed your time you were ever absent, father. Oh, I have no thought of criticising you, no thought whatever. Here a question of logic presents itself, simple logic. You were chasing after that which was your happiness, the delight of your life, while mamma—poor mamma stooped to pick up also for herself a little happiness and delight. But your happiness and delight were open, brilliant, triumphant, while mamma's were always full of darkness, poison, and shame."

For the first time in that conversation her voice quivered; and, inclining her face, she brushed away from her dress, with the rosy tips of her fingers, some bit of dust that had dropped on it; then again she gazed with a look clear and calm at her father, who had sat down in front of her.

"To convince you, father," continued she, "that our conversation has a perfectly important and definite meaning I permit myself to open before you the secret, but for me, the visible springs which caused the so-called offence, and present disposition of mamma."

"It would be better to avoid this and proceed to the point directly," said Darvid, throwing his eyeglasses on his nose with a nervous movement.

"No, father, permit me to take a few minutes of time, I beg you. This is necessary. Every man has in himself a soul, so-called, personal to him, unlike others."

She halted for a moment, shrugged her shoulders:

"For that matter, am I sure of this? The soul may be a painted pot also. But it is the usual name given to our various feelings and inclinations. So pour le commodite de la conversation, I shall use this word." She smiled and continued: "There are various souls, some as hard as steel, others soft as wax, some inaccessible to sentiment, others sentimental. Mamma's soul is soft and sentimental. Tenderness, care, confidence are as needful to her as air is to breathing. Do I know, for that matter, the various ingredients which make up the so-called love, attachment, etc. You, father, have a soul of steel and immensely great business power—we were children—Cara had barely begun to speak then. Well, a moment came—do I know when? I do not know—but—finally that happened which must have happened more than once to you in your very numerous, remote, and prolonged journeys. Do I not speak the truth?"

In the high plates of her dark ruff her face was in a blush, but she smiled a little, and with strangely flashing eyes looked directly into the face of her father.

"For," added she, "one would need to have mental rheumatism to believe that you loved only mamma all the time, and even that you loved her in general—mamma, of course, did not think that you did."

"Irene!" cried Darvid.

But she did not permit interruption.

"Allow me, I beg you, to say that I am not criticising. I am not in any sense. There is not a shade of criticism in what I say. I only state and expose facts and causes. That is all. This is requisite. Without this it would be impossible to understand mamma's request and mine which I will tell you quickly. And now I return to the question of the individual soul. That is a thing of capital importance. Offences, so-called, rise from so-called mean souls, or from noble ones. Of the first I know little, but if an offence comes from a noble soul it is to that soul a great and terrible torment—I have looked at such a torment, and while looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls somewhere, but that which I saw—I assure you, father, did not encourage—did not encourage me to look at things from the idyllic angle."

Darvid rose with an impulsive movement.

"To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once, and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological analysis, and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well, was it that besides conscience and other things like it—she did not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish is."

With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the countless quivers which passed across his face. Irene, very pale now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost blue.

"Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has comes from you."

At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner, but no one turned attention to it.

Darvid, who passed through the room a number of times, hastily, stopped again:

"Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is surrounded with luxury, she shines in society, and enjoys life."

Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity:

"This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, and therefore had the plan of marrying soon and withdrawing from here with mamma."

Darvid put an end to his emotion; his daughter's words approached facts, and facts demanded cool blood.

"If you wish to speak of your intention to marry the baron, I must tell you—"

"You have no need to speak of that, father. I have abandoned that intention. I had it, but I have dropped it. Another plan entirely different has taken its place. You own a village in a remote province which came to you from your parents. I wish to ask you to give me that village, to endow me with it, but immediately. I suppose, I know, even, that it was your intention to give me a dowry ten times as valuable. Now, I am ready to renounce nine-tenths, orally, in writing, in every form and every manner indicated by you, but I beg you, as a favor, I beg you earnestly, for this one-tenth, and beg that I may receive it without delay."

She bent her whole form low, and her eyes, which she raised to her father, were filled with tears; these, however, she restrained immediately. Darvid answered after a moment of silence:

"Though I do not understand this whim of yours, I do not see in it anything impossible, or harmful. On the contrary, I shall be glad to do something which pleases you, and to-morrow, if you like, you shall be the owner of that wretched hole. But of what use can it be to you?"

Irene rose, went around the table, and, bending, pressed her father's hand to her lips; and then she returned to her former place:

"I thank you, father," said she; "you satisfy my most ardent desire. That 'wretched hole,' as you call it, is just the place that mamma desires. We shall go from here, and settle down there as quickly as possible."

"What?" cried Darvid, bending forward with astonishment, but soon he began to speak calmly:

"I come to the conclusion that when talking with my children I should not be astonished at anything. I must be ready for any surprise."

"That is natural, father, for we hardly know each other," interrupted Irene. "In reproaches of conscience," continued she, "and various other feelings of that sort, mamma goes to exaggeration, she goes so far as to desire penance, punishment, voluntarily accepted. If time and circumstances were favorable she would enter a cloister assuredly, and put on a hair shirt. That is an exaggeration, but what is to be done? Characters are various; hers is of that kind. But the desire which mamma has of withdrawing from the noise and show of the world, I understand perfectly; for, first of all—"

She made a gesture of contempt with her hand.

"All the honors, the glitter, the luxury, etc., are gates 'before which men with spades are standing;' this means that behind them we find dust, emptiness, nothing."

"Great God!" exclaimed Darvid.

"What do you say, father?" inquired she.

"Your age, the brilliant position in which you have lived since childhood—and this disenchantment."

"Just this brilliant position, father—just because of this brilliant position, perhaps. We are not talking of me, however—but because of this, which in me you call disenchantment, I am able to understand mamma's wish to leave society, all the more because, if I were in her position, all homage, show, luxury, amusements would for me be as impossible as they are for her. This depends on character. Moreover, mamma remembers that everything which she uses is yours, and the use of it attended by your contempt, and the evident impossibility of ever coming to any understanding is such a poison—so I beg you to give me Krynichna. I am your daughter, and, as it seems to me, you have no thought of disinheriting me, so if I own Krynichna, mamma will live with me and receive everything from me alone."

Her voice grew weaker, and her posture less constrained, in her whole form there was an expression of suffering. Everything which she said cost her, in spite of appearances to the contrary, much effort and suffering. Darvid was silent a while, then he said:

"It seems to me that I am Ali Baba, listening to the tales of Sheherazade. If I should agree to your plan what would you do there?"

"I do not know clearly as yet. This is mamma's idea; her wish; she will discover more and tell me. We will examine; we shall see. Into mamma's plans, besides quiet obscurity, and modesty of life, labor enters also."

She spoke in a low, wearied voice:

"An idyl!" laughed Darvid.

"An idyl, father; I used to laugh at all idyls without knowing that I had one in myself. It has saved me from many, and, perhaps, dreadful things. Yes, I have an idyl: I love mamma."

Then her thin lips, famous in society for their precocious, bitter irony, quivered as do those of children when preparing to cry.

Darvid turned to her quickly, and said with a prolonged hiss:

"Why?"

She raised sad eyes to him, and with a voice in which Malvina's sweet tones were heard, she answered:

"I am not sure that anyone could tell why he or she loves. Mamma has always been kind—but I do not know—she is very pleasant, and she and I have been together always—I do not know—it may be, besides, that often I have seen her so unhappy. You see, father, that I am sincere; I answer all your questions as far as I am able. Have regard to mamma's scruples, I beg, and my request; do not oppose our plans."

Darvid stood in the middle of the room, he raised his head, his eyes had the flash of steel.

"No," said he. "My daughter shall not wither away in a remote corner with my consent, because it pleases her mother to hide her—shame there."

"Father," answered Irene, "I must explain that your resistance will only give a more permanent, and, for you, a more disagreeable, form to our withdrawal."

She rose, and again on her face, surrounded by the high ruff, was an expression of resolve and energy. A moment before she was full of emotion and pain, now with the need of defence she found energy.

"Do you suppose, father, that you can understand what happened, forgive, to use the general phrase, and restore your esteem and friendship to mamma?"

With a form as rigid as iron, and with an evil smile on his lips, Darvid answered immediately:

"No. I am very sorry that I cannot play a comedy of noble-mindedness, for this is perhaps a popular comedy. But that of which you speak is forever and altogether impossible."

Irene moved her head affirmatively.

"Then mamma and I must withdraw; if not to Krynichna to some remote place abroad—I know four European languages well, I know how to paint, and I know a few other things. Mamma possesses a real genius in several rare accomplishments, and you remember well her beautiful music. We will give lessons, and do something else—I know not what—we shall find means of existence. But I beg you, father, to believe that in no case shall we remain in this house."

With pale, almost with blue lips, she laughed and added:

"Either as inhabitants of Krynichna, or making our own living in some distant place—which do you prefer, father? In the last instance it depends on you. One of these two things we shall do most certainly; that is, properly speaking, I shall do it; I, who am mamma's only defence. I became of age some months ago. I have finished my twenty-first year, and—no one can hinder me from acting in this way."

Whoever had seen her at that moment would have believed, perforce, that no man and no thing would have power to hinder her in carrying out her resolve. Omitting differences of age and sex, she seemed the living portrait of her father. The same cold self-confidence as in him; the same clear penetrating glance as of steel; the same enigmatical smile on impressionable and also cold lips. As if involuntarily, and lowering her voice, she said in addition:

"It is our duty to put a radical stop to the family idyl out of regard also to Cara. She is innocent yet—she knows nothing—she loves all, and not only loves but worships. Life has not touched her, even with the tip of one of its angel feathers. Just imagine what would happen if, into that little volcano of lofty feeling, a spark of this knowledge were to fall. And this may happen any moment. If we do not change the condition of affairs it will happen."

She was silent, and Darvid was silent also. It might seem that he recognized only Irene's last argument as worthy of attention. The two voices had grown silent, one after the other; then, somewhere in the corner of the room, was heard a rustle, not so low as before, far stronger, a low knocking rather than a rustle, and almost at the same time a servant in the open door of the antechamber called:

"The horses are ready."

Irene, who had turned her face toward the rustle, or knocking, thought some of the countless papers in the room had dropped from the furniture, or that some book had fallen. Darvid, who also had heard the knocking, or rustle, forgot it while looking at his watch.

"I shall be late," said he. "You have told me things over which I must meditate. I cannot deny that they possess considerable importance. Hence, I delay, and shall beg you soon to continue this conversation. Good-night, and perhaps till to-morrow."

"Let it be only till to-morrow. I beg you, father. Tomorrow."

Miss Mary was sitting in her pupil's bedroom, a beautiful nest which wealth had formed as a symbol of the springtime of life. From the top of the walls to the bottom, cretonne, interchanged with muslin, formed succeeding folds on which the freshest flowers of spring seemed to have been scattered. The walls, the windows, the furniture were covered with a shower of forget-me-nots and rosebuds, strewn on grounds of yellow as pale as if sunlight had penetrated them slightly. Groups of green plants at the windows looked like little groves made ready for the songs of nightingales; artistic playthings, porcelain figures, suggested a child amused with dolls yet; but a multitude of large books in gilt bindings suggested the active and methodical development of a young mind, which surely had dreams of Paradise on that lace and satin bed which covered a bedstead inlaid with mother-of-pearl. On all the furniture: small arm-chairs, tables, screens, which reminded one of butterfly-wings, mother-of-pearl rainbow-tints passed into milk-white. Spring tones, joyous motives, light and graceful forms, filled the room of that little daughter of a millionnaire with an atmosphere of childish innocence and tenderness; it was lighted, from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall, with a cheering light, poured from the rosy tulip-shaped shade of a grand lamp.

In that rosy lamp-light Miss Mary seemed full of care. Under her smooth hair her forehead was smooth and calm, but in her thoughtful eyes, and in the way that her head rested on her hand, anxiety was evident. Conscientiously devoted to the duties undertaken by her, she retained the warmth and purity which permeated the house of an Anglican pastor; chance had committed to her care, in a strange atmosphere, a rare spirit, one of those which come to the world in the form of a flame. Even three years earlier, Cara had seemed to her, at first glance, one of those souls for whom life is love, worship, trust, and—nothing more. No ambitions or imaginings beyond those. All her thoughts and wishes issued from her heart and went back to it. Her innate sensitiveness was inexplicable in its source, just as genius is in other persons. Sensitiveness in her demanded the accomplishment of her wishes as imperiously as, in organisms of another sort, hunger claims satisfaction for the body. She was by nature a flame and a bird. The riddle of her existence was involved in two words: to blaze and to fly. Besides, she had impulse and caprice; she loved to twitter, and to laugh quietly in a corner. From the thoughtfulness into which she dropped oftener and oftener, she woke up as a gladsome and petted child; that room was filled with her quick speech, her thin voice, her gestures, almost theatrical, her laughing, her humming, and at times all the drawing-rooms were filled with them.

This day she woke up full of twittering, and before dressing threw her bare arms around Miss Mary, looking into her eyes, declaiming verses, telling childish dreams.

"Why are you so delighted?" inquired Miss Mary. "Is it at the coming ball?"

Cara pouted her scarlet lips contemptuously, and answered:

"The ball! What do I care? I do not want the ball! Mamma and Ira do not want it either, so I will go to-day and beg father to defer it. But I am delighted this morning! The sun is so pleasant! Do you see how the rays quiver; how they slip among the leaves, like little snakes, or spring, like golden butterflies?"

With outstretched finger she showed the play of sunrays among the clumps of green at the windows; herself in white muslin which covered her slender neck and childish breast, and with naked arms, she might remind one of a butterfly escaping from the chrysalis of childhood.

In the evening (of that day) Cara circled about the room; her mouth filled with historical names, and lines of poetry, with which she had been occupied all day. Finally, she caught Puffie in her arms, and, courtesying so low before Miss Mary that she touched the floor, announced that she was going to her father. From time immemorial she had not talked with him a moment. Sometimes he was going out, or had not the time. But to-day she would watch him, she would wait till all his business was finished, all his guests gone; she would seize her father and bring him to her mother's study. Miss Mary would go there; perhaps Maryan would be there too.

Her idyllic heart, like a bird in a grove, was eternally dreaming of quiet retreats, of confidential talks, of the attachment of hearts and the pressure of hands. Her picture of the Anglican rectory taken from Miss Mary's narrative, and situated in a grove of old oaks, smiled at her like a bit of Paradise. "But mamma's study is so quiet, and full of fragrant flowers—"

An hour had passed since she had skipped away with Puffie in her arms, and with the reflection of a bit of Paradise in her eyes. Miss Mary felt alarmed. For some time she had felt continual alarm. She observed carefully the change taking place in Cara's disposition, and discovered in it causes for anxiety. But she could do nothing. While she was friendly to the family to which fate had brought her, and while she experienced from it kindness mingled with respect, it was to her a stranger. She observed everything, and said nothing. She strove, more and more, to be inseparable from Cara, and to turn her attention toward things of remote interest. That was a splendid mansion, but terrors were roaming around in its drawing-rooms, among plushes, mirrors, damasks, satins, and gold.

From the gates of the mansion, the rumble of a carriage went forth, grew faint in the street, and was lost in the distance. The master of the mansion was in that carriage which sank in the uproar of the city, to return, barely, at daybreak. A quarter of an hour passed, Cara did not return. Maybe she went to her mother? Another quarter of an hour. Miss Mary rose up, took a small candlestick in her hand with a candle, which she lighted to use in her wandering through the series of drawing-rooms. But among the soft folds of cretonne and muslin the lofty door, ornamented with gilded arabesques and borders, opened slowly, and Cara walked into the chamber holding Puffie at her bosom. Her face was so bent that the lower part of it was hidden in the silky coat of the little animal. Miss Mary, sitting down again, inquired:

"Where were you, Cara, after your father went away? With mamma?"

In answer, a few steps from the door, the sound of a fall was heard. That was Puff, he had dropped from her arms to the floor. She had let him slip down along her dress. Cara had never treated her favorite with such indifference, or so carelessly. Leaning forward, Miss Mary fixed her eyes on the young girl. Oh, my God! What has happened? Who can tell, but something has happened, that is certain. Cara's cheeks, recalling usually the leaves of a full rose, were as white as the soft muslin covering her chamber, and her lips, always scarlet, formed a barely visible line, pale and narrow. Tall, slender, and erect, without the slightest movement of hand or head, with dry eyes looking somewhere into remoteness, she passed through the room, and with automatic movement dropped into a low chair near Miss Mary, who touched her hand and felt the cold of ice in it.

"What is the matter, my dear? Are you ill?"

Instead of giving an answer Cara rose and went to the cluster of green plants at the window. With her shoulders turned toward Miss Mary, she seemed to be looking at the plants; but, after a few minutes, she turned, and making some steps stopped, with her eyes fixed on the floor.

"Cara, come to me!" cried Miss Mary.

She went, and sat down at her side. The English girl looked at her sharply, and asked in a low voice:

"Have you met anything disagreeable? Or anyone? Or has anyone—"

She did not finish, for the delicate, pale face turned from her with quick movement, and said very hurriedly:

"No! no! no!"

Then the slender form of the girl slipped slowly from the chair to the carpet, and her head rested heavily on the knees of her governess. But barely had the soft hand of the English girl touched her hair, when Cara rose and went to the other side of the room, where the light screen, struck by her skirt, tottered and fell with a clatter. Without noticing the noise Cara turned now toward the lamp, and with a face which was growing ever paler she sat down opposite Miss Mary and opened one of the books lying on the table. Her brows were raised, this brought many wrinkles to her forehead; for a time it seemed as though she were reading, then she closed the book with a sudden gesture, stood up again, and went toward the door leading to the drawing-rooms.

"Are you going to your mamma?"

She made no answer, but sat on a low stool near the door. Puff went up, and, putting his forepaws on her knees, licked her hand. But that hand, usually so fondling, pushed the little dog far away with a sudden movement. Miss Mary rose, and was going to the stool, but she had hardly reached the middle of the room when Cara rose again and went to meet her. The English girl seized both her hands.

"My dear," began the governess, "you frighten me. What has happened? What is your trouble? You should have confidence in me—I am your friend, and a friend of your family—perhaps, I can explain, or help you in some way. Has anything happened? Has there been an accident? What is it that troubles you?"

The dry, dark eyes of the girl, looking, as it were, from some distant depth, met the kindly glance of her friend, and this whisper came from her lips:

"Nothing! Nothing!"

Then going some steps, she stopped at the table with the lamp on it, and again opened one of the books there. Miss Mary followed, put her arm around Cara, and wished to draw her near, but she, with an alarmed and supple movement, slipped from her embrace, put the book down, and turning, started to go somewhere. Miss Mary faced toward the door, and said:

"I will go for your mother."

But that instant she was frightened; for Cara, recovering her voice at once, screamed:

"No!"

Her eyes grew wild, and she began to tremble.

There was no doubt: In the row of empty drawing-rooms which stretched beyond that door, ornamented with arabesques and gilded borders, the girl had seen some horror. But what the horror was, and whence it had crept forth, Miss Mary did not know. She sat down, and pale with fear, placed her helpless hands upon her knees. What could she do in presence of those blue lips, which were as silent as if shut by some seal, either sacred or infernal? What could she do? Cara's father was not at home, and to call her mother, when the very mention of that mother brought a cry of terror from the girl's breast, would have been a useless cruelty. Her brother? Her elder sister? Miss Mary's hand moved in a manner indicating doubt. It was necessary to wait, to leave her some time to herself. She might grow calm, overcome her fear, speak.

Left to herself Cara went to the bed, knelt by it, and buried her face in the coverlet; but a few minutes later she wound her lithe form like the twist of a serpent, and turned her face toward the ceiling. She remained in this posture rather long, only changing, from time to time, the position of her head, which rested on the coverlet.

Miss Mary remembered people seized with violent pains, who, in the fruitless hope of allaying them, changed positions and postures continually. She remembered, also, the faintness and weariness which cover the faces of people with pallor and an expression of unbearable disgust. A certain disgust, repulsive and unendurable, must be working in that slender breast, from which a low moan came when she turned her head from side to side.

"Are you ill, dearest Cara; are you in pain?"

Prom the bed, in a scarcely audible whisper, came:

"No."

She rose, went to Miss Mary, sat on the carpet, put her head on the English girl's knee, with her face toward the ceiling. She threw her hands back on her dishevelled hair, and then let them drop without control, so that they fell on the carpet as if lifeless. Her dry, inflamed eyes continued to look at the ceiling. Miss Mary, bent, and making her words as low and fondling as human words could be, inquired again:

"Has anything happened? Has anything hurt you?"

Changing the position of her head, and shaking it, as if she wished to shake something off, she whispered:

"Nothing."

And rising, she went again to the end of the room. Her hair, not long, but thick, like a bundle of silken flax, lay motionless on her narrow shoulders; her pendent hands seemed like two rose-buds falling from a bush. She stood again for a moment before the clump of green plants, then went around it and hid beyond the thickest palms at the window. Outside the window was the darkness of a winter evening, relieved somewhat by snow which covered the broad garden. The darkness was spotted by red lamps, which illuminated the street beyond the garden. Some months before, Cara had opened a window overlooking that same garden; she did this in the middle of the night to look at the first snow and at the frost in the moonlight. Snow was lying there now, at the close of winter, surely the last snow.

Much time passed. Miss Mary rose, and went to the narrow space between the clump of plants and the window. Cara was standing there at the very window, looking into the darkness, or at the red spots made by lanterns, placed here and there in it. The governess saw that a change had taken place in her. She was not pale as before; on the contrary, a lively flush had come out on her face. Her features were less rigid; instead of the nauseous disgust and dull pain, an expression of deep thought had covered them. As happened often when Cara was thinking deeply, the point of her finger was in her mouth. Miss Mary felt relieved. "Cara is no longer pale," thought she; "she has stopped over something; she stands long in one place; she is recovering her balance; soon she will be pacified completely, and will tell what has happened."

"Do you not wish me to read to you?"

Cara shook her head, and said in a low voice:

"I want to sleep."

"To sleep! so early? But you are tired, of course. Very well, dear. Lie down and rest. I will call Ludvika to open the bed. Or no—I will do it myself. No one need make a noise here that would prevent us from talking."

With great goodness and kindly grace, while arranging the bed with a rustle of silk, and the waves of lace going through her fingers, Miss Mary told vivaciously of many things which were near and confidential, things always affecting Cara, and though no answer came to her from beyond the green plants, her voice, which sounded agreeably, scattered the gloom and silence of the chamber.

Half an hour later the door to the drawing-room was opened partly, and the voice of Irene said some words in English. Miss Mary went to the door on tip-toe.

"Cara is sleeping already," whispered she; "we ought not to wake her; she is a little unwell."

The door was closed slowly and in silence; some minutes later the maid brought a tray in with tea and many dishes.

Soon after Malvina entered the room. She approached her daughter's bed quietly, and anxious.

"What is the matter?" whispered she. "Why did she go to bed so early?"

Miss Mary gave some pacifying answer. That was caution. She felt always in that house, and on that day more than ever, the need of caution in making observations. Both looked at the girl, who, as they thought, was sleeping soundly; she breathed slowly and evenly, with a deep flush on her cheeks.

Malvina bent down and impressed a long kiss on the forehead of her sleeping daughter. Then Miss Mary noted something of which she was not sure: when her mother's lips rested on Cara's forehead a quiver ran through the girl's body, from head to foot. But Miss Mary was not sure whether Cara really trembled, or it only seemed so to her. After Malvina's departure she remained at the bedside, with eyes fixed on the delicate face, which was growing more inflamed with an ever-increasing flush. A number of dark spots came out on her purple lips, which were parched and half open, her small pearl-like teeth gleamed behind them.

"She is sick, but has fallen asleep!" thought Miss Mary. "Perhaps that horror, which I thought seized the child in the empty drawing-rooms, was an invention of her mind? Surely it was nothing more; she is simply ill; perhaps, not very ill, since she fell asleep so quickly."

The small night-lamp shone in Cara's room like a blue spark. In the adjoining room, beyond the open door, far into the night, rustled book-leaves turned by the English governess. Miss Mary watched long, and stood often in the open door, between her room and Cara's, inclining forward, looking from a distance at the bed from which the regular, unbroken sound of breathing came to her. She is asleep. She moved a number of times and groaned, then again she was silent. Puff lay at her feet, like a bundle of ash-colored silk, and snored slightly. The street beyond the garden grew more and more silent till it was silent altogether. At the windows light began to whiten the shades and to draw aside the black curtain of darkness which was on the furniture. The wearied Miss Mary, in a long dressing-gown, ready to spring from her bed any moment, slept for a short time and then woke with a feeling of great fear. She was roused by a sharp cold by a breath of frosty air coming in through the open door. She sprang up and ran, with a cry, to Cara's chamber. There, on the threshold she saw beyond the spreading palm leaves the great window half open, and a slender, white figure sitting there in the gray dawn. When had she done that? How long had she sat there with her shoulders resting on the window-frame, with her naked feet hanging in the air, with her breast and arms stripped even of muslin? No one was ever to know.

Miss Mary, while carrying the girl to bed with that strength which only terror can give one, felt in her embrace, limbs as stiff as those of a frozen corpse; but her breast rose and fell with her breathing which was heavy and audible; her cheeks and forehead were burning. In half a minute the window was closed; Miss Mary, with all the strength of long and supple arms, strove to warm the breast and shoulders, which were as cold as ice, and the skin on them stiffened.

"Oh, child! you unkind! most dear! poor child! Why have you done this? Is it possible to do such things? Did you know what you were doing? Was that an unfortunate accident, or did you do it purposely? Tell, was it done purposely? Tell me! tell!"