Standing for a moment with the thought it was almost a sad one-flooding her, she lifted the light and looked around. he was a young man; it was painted by a friend of his." She waited also, having spoken, as if hoping or expecting something further; but when the girl next spoke she had drifted into another subject, and the former one was not referred to again. And there was something else impend tant, at least to madame, -a visit. And it was so seldom that she left home that the very idea was slightly agitating; and in addition, to leave Leigh alone, though it was only for a couple of days, was an extra source of disturbance. So little here but the dull, old-fashioned furniture, and the one dark, eager boy's face over the chimneypiece. Just the head of a dark-haired lad, with the eager light of youth in his eyes, - she had often looked at it with pleasure, it was so fulling, which in their quiet lives was imporof life and hope; but to-night, when her eyes were turning to the accustomed spot, she blew out the candle before they reached it. It told another story now, she did not wish to see it. It bore no glad prophetic promise of a full life into which that had blossomed, but instead spoke of failure and disappointment, bitterness and solitude. To any one who had cared for the boy, how terrible the knowledge of what the future held, into which those eager eyes had looked! To any one who cared for the man, how terrible the knowledge of the possibilities of his boyhood! Something so like a sob escaped her, that it startled and aroused her to the consciousness of the fact that she was still standing in the dark, the soft summer wind blowing in through the open window, through which were visible the distant shining stars. CHAPTER IV. It is a law that resistance must be equal to force. PERHAPS her unusual vigils made her oversleep herself, for it was late when Leigh made her appearance next morning, and there was something about her manner, some languid look, to which Madame Esler had grown unaccustomed, which made her ask if she had slept badly. But Leigh, learning it was an old friend to whom this annual pilgrimage was to be made, would not hear of its being postponed; she declared herself quite able to amuse herself during the two days' solitude. "Shall I ask some one to stay with you?" madame had suggested. "There is Emilie Sybel would gladly come, I have no doubt or would you rather go to her?" Leigh, however, refused either alternative. "I shall be very happy alone, dear madame- do not think of me; I shall garden till you return." She was an indefat igable gardener. "I should be really unhappy," as madame still hesitated, "if you let my presence interfere with your plans." Thus it was decided; but though the journey, which was only a long drive, was often spoken of, and all the particulars discussed, it was only on this very day, when the departure was so imminent, that Leigh recognized her ignorance of ma"Not very well," the girl allowed; and, dame's destination. And thus thinking, not giving time for any comment, " Ma-"What is the name of the lady with whom dame," she said, more as if making a you are going to stay?" she asked. statement than asking a question, "that room was your brother's, was it not?" She lifted her eyes steadily as she spoke, but the lashes fell before the answer came. "Yes, it was Sigismund's," madame said quietly. "In many ways it is one of the pleasantest rooms in the house, though it is not large; but if you take a fancy to another, you know you have only to tell me." For half a second the girl hesitated, and then, "No, no," she said quickly, “ I do not want to change-I have been there so long." She paused, and then beginning a fresh sentence: "The face in the picture is rather like him." "He sat for it," madame replied, "when 3070 LIVING AGE. VOL. LX. There was scarcely any perceptible hesitation before Madame Esler answered in her quiet tones, "Von Cortlandt." "Cortlandt?" Leigh repeated, with a quick catching of her breath, a sudden step nearer to madame. "Madame von Cortlandt," madame repeated. "She is an old friend of mine." "Her daughter" began Leigh impetuously. "Her daughter," Madame Esler interposed," was once engaged to my brother." There was a pause, the two women looking at one another — the one who had faced and borne sorrow until it was conquered, only the dark hair so early whitened telling what the battle had cost; the other, striving in her ignorant rebellious youth to escape from it, to deny its power. | whilst she stood instinctively clasping the There was a moment whilst Leigh fought curtain; then it fell heavily behind her as with the flood of recollection that over- her hand lost its power, and she realized whelmed her, a moment whilst some pas- it was no creation of her brain that stood sionate outbreak seemed imminent, but before her, but the man from whom she under those eyes that met hers it seemed had parted on that long-past winter night. to die away; her voice, though it trembled, was struggling to be calm, as "engaged," she repeated, as if catching at the word. "Emilie von Cortlandt was engaged to my brother for nearly a year, until "I know," the girl interrupted quickly, and the words checked anything further that madame might have said. But afterwards, after she had driven away, with many tender injunctions to Leigh how to amuse herself and what to do, those words came back; and though she strove not to dwell upon them, they haunted her, as if they felt they ought to make themselves heard. But she paid little heed to them, at any rate during the hours of that hot summer's day. Under the shelter of the trees, reading, idling with a little work, and, as it grew cooler, gardening, the day was after all not so long; but when, the solitary dinner over, and it grew too dark to read and was yet too light for candles, they came back to her. And with the wish to banish thought, and that a new occupation would be means to that end, she decided this would be a good opportunity to write to her brother. And with this idea she went to her room. In the boudoir she had her own writing materials about her; and besides, within its narrow limits she would be less conscious of the solitude of which she was beginning to weary. But that haven safely reached, she did not, after all, hurry to set to work. She put on a soft white muslin dressinggown; but having made this preparatory change, something attracted her attention to the window-the same window of the bedroom by which she had leaned and dreamt the previous night; and to-night again the lovely soft summer evening had an attraction for her, and she lingered there whilst the dusk deepened and the trees below grew shadowy. She was roused at length by the sound of an opening door roused sufficiently at least to recognize that she was wasting time; that if she intended writing, it would be as well to begin. With soft, slow steps she turned away and lifted the curtain that hung between the two rooms; but having done so, for a moment everything reeled before her, Under the picture he was standing, looking up at it, a motionless figure; but at the slight movement of the curtain, at the low startled cry that escaped her, he turned his head. 66 If the expression of his face were hard to read, hers was not so; for "Do not be afraid," were his first words. Why are you afraid? correcting them. "Í did not know you were here. I came to see my sister, and almost unconsciously made my way up here, to look at a room that has an interest for me." She Comment seemed impossible. strove to say something in answer, but the sudden, unexpected sight of him had paralyzed her. Clasping her hands tightly, she struggled to regain calmness, but it was useless. The laces of her gown were stirred by the pulsation of her heart; her very lips were white as she stood shrinking closer to the curtain, as if meditating escape. "Believe me," he said, "if I had known, I would not have run the risk of frightening you like this," his quick glance taking in all the signs of occupation about the flowers, and work, and open book. "I thought this wing was safe to be unoccupied, and fancied I would like to look at it before I left. It was a mistake, of course." He paused again, but still she did not speak. But she was no longer looking at him with wide, open, terrified eyes; they had fallen, the lashes resting a black shadow on her cheeks, and, so standing, a few low words escaped her. You have broken your promise." He heard them, low as they were; and แ "Yes," he said, leaning one hand on the small table between them, and there was a bitter ring in his voice, "I have. It was the only thing I could do for you — and I have not done it; but you need not fear. Though I have broken the letter, I shall not break the spirit. You are as safe, standing here, from a touch of mine, as if a world divided us." He looked at her a moment longer. There was nothing to-day of that feverish passion that had given her such unwonted power when he had last seen her. That had died away, and she seemed helpless, merely with the instinct to shrink away from him without the power. It touched him, and yet at the same time seemed to show more clearly than ever how far apart they stood. She herself at his words was conscious of an abatement of fear of some influence of calm stealing over her, which even served to deprive him of the terror he had possessed for her. There was reliance still to be placed on his words, though he had proved false; and yet should ever want me," lingering still, “you can speak to her. Where shall I find her?" "She is away," Leigh faltered. "Away!" he repeated, as if surprised. "Are you alone here? Do not fear," as he saw the answer in her eyes, "I am not going to stay. But tell me this, — I should like to hear it from yourself, — are you happy content here?" "Yes, quite happy," she answered de cidedly. "I have been perfectly happy." Her eyes met his almost as if she ex "Leigh! His voice saying her name, which she had never heard him do yet, roused her, and she lifted her eyes to become aware how dark it was growing-pected him to challenge her words, but he that, in the unlit room, his figure stood dark and indistinct amid the surrounding shadows. "I think I must have wished to see you once more, though I was scarcely aware it was so; at any rate, I had something to say to you which I have never said yet." "What is it?" she faltered. "That I love you." The words, spoken so low, seemed yet to vibrate through the little room with the force of repressed energy. "If I took advantage of your helplessness and loneliness, that was my excuse. You, poor child, you had no chance; but," his voice falling, his passionate, gloomy eyes turned to hers, "but, notwithstanding, I would have made you love me if I had had a chance! But there was none,fate was too strong for me." He turned away to leave the room, but, as if with rapid change of intention, took two or three hasty steps till he stood by her side. "You shall never see me again. It was unfair of me to come to-day, other crime," more bitterly, "to be laid hereafter to my charge. But as I have spoken, answer me. Tell me you believe me." an "Believe you?" she cried, with sudden passionate energy. "No! a thousand times, no! I do not pretend to understand you. I trusted you and you deceived me. There is no place for me in your life." met them in silence, and it was after a pause he said, " Well, there is nothing more to say; I will go.' As he spoke he took down a book from the little shelves she had never touched, and opened it. "I came, I suppose, to say good-bye to Arnheim," he said. "I shall take this book, a favorite of my boyhood, away with me. Well," rousing himself, " that is all." He slipped the book into his pocket as he spoke, and laid his hand on the lock. "If I die," he looked back and said abruptly, "before I return to Europe, Arnheim is yours. I have arranged everything; it was about that I wished to speak to Marie, but your knowing it is the same thing." "Does Arnheim belong to you?" The surprise in her voice brought the color into her cheeks. "To me?" he said wonderingly; "did you not know? Why, to whom did you think it belonged? "I did not think," she faltered; "I fancied it was madame's home." "And so you were happy? Well, do not let the knowledge disturb you. I shall not haunt it, either in fact or fancy. Did you know that these were my rooms,that here, even I was once young and happy? Did you know it?". - as she did not answer. "Yes, but I only learned it yesterday." "And who was unkind enough to disturb your ignorance?" The words, a cry of despair, thrilled through the small room, - words, to the "No one," she faltered. But her voice one who spoke them and to the one who was so low that it did not reach him, and heard them, capable of such different in-he recrossed the small dim room, and terpretation. To the man they were the death-knell of his hopes-if he had had any. The momentary unusual passion died out of voice and look; he turned away, taking a few steps before he spoke again. "You are right," he said slowly. "I have forfeited my chance. I will see my sister and tell her my plans. If you stood once more by her side. "There was no necessity to give them to you," he said; "they might have given you those with pleasanter associations. Well, choose others. There are plenty to choose from." His bitter words brought no reply; the tears were in her eyes, but they did not fall. He perhaps noted it, for "There is no use paining you," he said. Forget what you have heard. This has been my sister's home for years; share it with her, and, for heaven's sake, be as happy as you can." It was so dark now that, standing close as he was, his figure was indistinct in the twilight; but his eyes, meeting hers, seemed to compel her to look at him, the eyes that had failed to meet hers in the great dreary room at Breitstein- the eyes that had haunted her, through the picture that it had grown too dark to see. But though such was the case, almost unconsciously she looked beyond him to that other shadowy resemblance of himself, as if seeking comfort from it. 66 "Was it worth telling?" he answered. "I do not think so. I have learned in all these years to hold my tongue. When words can do no good, silence is best." As if to emphasize his words, he opened the door by which he stood, and passed out into the dark passage, from which, by a steep, narrow staircase, there was communication with the rest of the house. But on the stairs he paused a moment, perhaps connecting some faint hope with the swift soft footsteps he heard crossing the room he had just left; but the sound of a key turned with some difficulty in an unused lock, gave token a moment later of the futility of his hope. When she had accomplished that one act which stood out clear, and had secured Good-bye," he said, "this is good- herself from possible interruption, it bye. You need never fear to find me here seemed to Leigh that all the little strength again, unless," he paused, "unless that had kept her standing through the you send for me. I think we may there-interview deserted her; and, worn and fore look on this as final." All about her, rising slowly, was a cold sea of untranslatable trouble. If she could have understood it, and put it into words, there might have been some amelioration, but it was impossible. She did not even understand what was the pain that was making these moments so unbearable; but there was nothing to be done, least of all, nothing he could do. For it was in a low cry of terror she found a voice at last after he had spoken. "Do not come near me! Do not touch me!" Her face looked white against the dark curtain by which she still stood. He took a step farther back, and "Have I not promised?" he said quietly. "Though, after all," with a thrill of passion in his voice, "it is not surprising you distrust me. You cannot even understand that a promise would be sacred. You doubt even the chance that brought me here to-night, and argue from that the use I might make of my opportunity. When I have gone, look back and think of all the times we have been together not so often after all—and one day you will understand that I have loved you.' He said nothing more. Through the silence and darkness of the little room his tall figure passed; he had reached the door when her voice arrested him. It was cold and quiet, unlike the sharp tones in which she had spoken before. "Tell me this; why did you not tell us, that other night," hesitating a little, "that you were engaged to her?" wearied, as if in truth it was hours instead of minutes since she had entered the room, she sank down on to a chair by the window, her face hidden in her hands, as if to shut out some actual vision that haunted her. The cold waters of fear and trouble that had threatened her so lately had risen higher now, and seemed likely to carry her away. And yet, what did she want? She was safe. He had gone, the door was locked, there was nothing more to fear. But his last words haunted her; they held a reproach, although she did not think such had been meant. Her accusations and Leonard's, he had not answered them; it would have done no good; he had learned to hold his tongue. It seemed like a reproach levelled at the torrent of wild words with which they had assailed him. She too! "Ah, but I was right; he owns it, too. He deceived me, when I trusted him; it would be impossible to trust again. He has spoilt my life, and in exchange he gives me a home. Yes, that is all I have.' She rose impatiently, pushing back the heavy hair from her forehead. "To him it is nothing, nothing; while to me, what is there?" Something made her lift her eyes to the picture, so dimly seen now that it must have been fancy that made her see so distinctly the expression of the dark eyes. Once more she felt the calm stealing over her, heard once more the words quieting her troubled soul, "You may trust me. Other words now in addition, "You will understand one day that I loved you." on, 46 Are you going to bed yet?" she asked when she had done. "You look tired, madame; it would be as well." "No, no. But stay with me," she went "do not leave me alone. Sit down here and knit." And as the other obeyed her, "Margaret," she said, a minute later, coming closer to her, and laying a cold hand on the knitter's busy fingers"where is he? Has he gone? The elder woman's eyes did not meet hers as, "He is writing," she replied. "There is nothing to fear he will not stay long; it is a letter to his sister." "Where?" Her voice was low and earnest, and Margaret stopped working, and took the slender hand in hers. "In the library." She added no comment to her words, and the girl did not seem to expect it. She turned away, and for a long time paced back and forth the length of the two rooms in silence; but at last she stopped and said abruptly, “ Margaret, is she at Ehrenfelt?" "No, madame, she lives in Vienna; she never comes home." - "Why," her voice fell a little, and she stooped to allow of its being heard, "why did she not marry him?" For a minute there was no reply, fully a minute, whilst the knitting fell unnoticed into Margaret's lap, and the girl stood waiting breathlessly. Then, “Oh, I know," she cried, turning away; "you need not say it," with a despairing gesture. "It was because of all that stood between them!" "Dear madame," Margaret's voice trembled, but her words reached the younger woman, and she half paused to hear them, "wrong hurts so many people- and he has been punished!"" But it did not seem as if rebellious youth read in the words aught to pity. Justice! youth is so eager for justice, not recognizing that the sword of justice must be wielded by a passionless hand, not by one that trembles to avenge, and then so often lives to regret the vengeance. In silence after that a long time passed, but at length Leigh paused in her restless pacing to and fro, and once more spoke. "You can go to bed now, Margaret," she said gently; "it was kind of you to stay. Yes, I am tired now. I will try to sleep, and to-morrow to-morrow I shall feel happier." At the words Margaret rose obediently. "It is late," she said; " you will do well to rest. Shall I wait till you are in bed?" 66 No, no, thank you." She held the candle at the door to light the other on her way; but, hidden by a turn in the staircase, Margaret paused and sighed as she heard the unaccustomed sound of the key being turned in the door of the room she had left. Left to herself, Leigh blew out the light and strove to sleep, and for a time a sort of mist spread itself between reality and fancy, and it was only after a time that she realized that the wearing round of thought which was perplexing her brain had intervened again between her and sleep. Presently it grew unbearable, and she got up, and, putting on a dressinggown, leant out into the fresh summer night. Such a soft, warm, starlit night, with a gentle little wind now and again making itself felt, it was soothing, calming. She lingered on, feeling relief. Byand-by, however, she returned to her old occupation of pacing about the room. - "It will tire me," she thought, "and then I shall sleep." She did not lift the curtain and pass into the other room, though each time she turned in her slow, even walk it seemed almost as if it were with an effort she did not do so. Each time she knew that the moment would come when it would be impossible to resist. At last how she had found her way there she was uncertain-she was standing in front of the picture, studying by the light of the lamp she held, the well-known features. The soft voice which had called her hither seemed now to be her own heart speaking, and yet its language was strange and unknown. She could not interpret it, was only conscious of pain. She put down the light, and sought to read the comfort she had so often won from those stern features, but to-night they did not offer comfort. There was reproach in the uplifted eyes, the flashing sword. "You - have young, undisciplined refused to learn the lesson of life. I, through my vow, have reached greater heights than you. Renunciation aims at higher things than you have ever guessed |