Alice showed her white teeth in a quizzical little smile, and said, after a pause, "To know more odd things than anybody else, to believe your self superior to the canaille, to quote Brahma and the Vedas, to admire Wagner, Swinburne, and Baudelaire, to find moral things immoral because they are not true art, and immoral things moral, because they are true art. I am a critic." Both girls laughed, and Alice continued. "Mrs. Houghton is asking Felix Woodward to sing. He has a fair tenor and sings rather nicely. I like the singing at a kettledrum; it relieves restraint; under cover of it you can talk in your natural tone, and you are not obliged to whisper as if you were at a funeral. He begins. Old Feoli (who has been attaché ever since Washington's time) plays the accompaniment." "Let us listen." "Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great. 'Smile and we smile, the lords of: many lands, Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man, and master of his fate.'" Felix Woodward's voice was strong and clear; and he gave the words with an energy that seemed to bid defiance to Fortune. Helen looked at him with interest. He was young, not particularly handsome; there was an expression of reserved power about him that attracted her. Alice betrayed a little amusement. "You seem interested. He's only a bookkeeper, or something of that kind, out on a holiday. Mrs. Houghton invites him because he is a Southern relative-has seen better days, and that sort of thing. He'd be nice to flirt with, but, of course, no girl who respects herself will ever marry him." "Why not." "Why not! For the very sufficient reason that he has no money." "But she might love him sufficiently" "Pardon me, my dear," interrupted Alice, with an air of patronage, "you are either very hypocritical or very unsophisticated. Love is bad form; but you haven't the slightest occasion to bother about the 'coming man.' the 'coming man.' Mr. Vincy"— A flush reddened Helen's brow. Alice fortunately was enabled to retrieve her mistake. "Let me present Mr. Woodward." Felix Woodward bowed, and said something about a pleasant afternoon. Alice chatted gaily, but with more reserve. "We have been talking of religion," she said, with a determination to force her companion to talk; "Miss Winter is quite devout-enfant de Marie, and all that." "An excellent thing in a woman. Men are religious nowadays because they are good, but no man is good because he is religious. Religion has lost its power. "He is rude," thought Helen, "or too frank.” Her eyes sparkled. She spoke. "If you were a Catholic, Mr. Woodward, you could daily see that religion has not lost its power. "Ah, you are a Catholic, Miss Winter? I know some Catholics, poor and rich; the poor ones, I admit, are devout, because they are taught to be; with the rich and educated ones, religion is a mere æsthetic sentiment. They go to Mass, and like the music and pomp; but that does not prevent them from doing what they please. They are too 'superior' to mingle with the herd of their co-religionists. I admire your religion, Miss Winter; but I think that educated Catholics are generally supercilious to their brethren and apologetic to dissenters, and that the mass is uneducated and ill-bred." Helen was surprised, and somewhat indignant. "He is ill-bred," she thought, "but there is, from his point of view, some truth in what he says." "No doubt the crowds that fol lowed our Lord were uneducated, and I don't suppose they all knew the best-bred manner of eating their loaves and fishes," she said. "Oh, Mr. Vincy!" Alice exclaimed. A gentleman, apparently about forty years of age, stood beside Helen's chair. He wore mutton-chop whiskers, and was attired in the most pronounced English fashion. His head was bald on the top; his face florid; there was no expression about him, except one of exalted self-satisfaction. He was Mr. Vincy, the millionaire. He had made his money by means of a natural aptitude for laying out railroads in Russia. He believed in himself; he wanted a foreign mission and a ladylike wife. You know all about him that is worth knowing, except that he was supposed to be the parti for whom Helen was destined by her parents. Felix Woodward was not handsome; in fact, not as handsome as Mr. Vincy; but he looked like a gentleman, and wore no jewelry, while Mr. Vincy's malachite sleevebuttons, studded each with a ruby, and his gorgeous ring and chain, made Alice curl her lip, while she admired the jewels themselves. "Nice little party; nice little party! You should have seen the reception the Czar gave in my honor, though, after I had finished that railroad to Loutchinova. It was a stunner; no cakes and weak tea. Champagne, worth more than you'd make in four years, sir." "Pardon me, but do you collect the income tax, sir?" Alice held up her handkerchief to prevent giggling. "Permit me to introduce Mr. Woodward, Mr. Vincy?" "Not necessary, not necessary," said Mr. Vincy in swelling tones; 66 we have met before, down town.' "I have forgotten you.' And bowing to the ladies, Felix Woodward went to another part of the room. A frown appeared on Mr. Vincy's pink forehead. "Clerk down town. How does he come here? Mrs. Houghton ought to be more careful.” "This is a republican country, Mr. Vincy," said Helen. "Wrong principle-wrong principle entirely." Alice's nonsense soon made Mr. Vincy regain his good humor. a short time Mrs. Winter, who chaperoned Helen, came up, and the girls separated. Helen rode home in a state of dissatisfaction. Cui bono! Alice made her sad, Mr. Vincy was vulgar and "horrid" (for the first time); the world was hollow. "I will be a nun," she thought. Before they reached her father's house, on Capitol Hill, she forgot this thought in the attempt to discover what interested her in Felix Woodward, who was certainly brusque and ill-bred, and yet there was something about him III. "IPHIGENIA!" MR. WINTER'S pampered London coachman was drunk on the day of Mrs. Houghton's kettledrum, consequently Helen and her chaperon had to wait some time in the hall at Mrs. Houghton's while Jehu clumsily manoeuvred the carriage up to the sidewalk. The strength and chilliness of Washington wind is proverbial; and Mrs. Winter, who was delicate at all times, took cold. She was one of those delicate people who are always on the verge of death apparently, and when, in ten days' time, she died of pneumonia, everybody was surprised, although everybody had expected that sad event for the last ten years. The dead woman and Helen had loved each other devotedly. They had been confidantes, friends, companions to an extent which is very rare nowadays between mothers and daughters. Mrs. Winter had lived a gentle, harmless life, and she died in the Catholic faith. Her husband was of the worldly order. There had been little sympathy between him and his wife, and none whatever between him and Helen. He paid her bills and admired her because other people congratulated him on having such a charming daughter. He was the owner of some very wealth-productive cotton mills in Massachusetts, and just at present he was much preoccupied in lobbying an important bill through Congress, consequently his wife's death was a matter of secondary interest, as she herself had been for a long time. Helen was the only real mourner, and the care and sorrow drove all other thoughts out of her mind. Her days were spent in religious reading and prayer. What is life? she asked herself, and answered, The vestibule of death. These days were bitter-sweet and solemn. It was a relief that her father never required her presence except at dinner, when she usually met Mr. Vincy, who talked of the value of his new cottage at Newport, his railroad to Loutchinova, and his contempt for all men who were not self-made, until his host nipped him with a touch of gentlemanly sarcasm, and reduced the conversation to a monologue on the prospects of his bill. After a time these quiet days grew long. Helen became restless. She was tired of Mr. Vincy. He laughed too loud, and jeered openly at everything he did not understand-religion, art, music. "He is not a gentleman," she thought; "he despises poor people, and respects only those who are wealthy; he thinks that money is everything. I wonder if Mr. Woodward-but why Mr. Woodward? He is no better than anybody else" A knock at her door. Alice Wesley entered, bright, pretty, and voluble as usual. "How well you look in black, dear-like a lady out of Dante Rossetti's poems-mediæval, you know; and you are a girl who need not trouble yourself about your looks either; your beau mon' is secured; at the German the other night, Mr. Vincy posed for a forsaken swain,' you not being there." "Alice!" "What a queer girl you are! You don't seem at all delighted at the prospect of marrying a million. I would be wild with delight, although Mr. Vincy is the most detestably vulgar man I know; still a million". "Alice!" "Oh, what's the use of girls being hypocritical to each other. By the way, I just ran in to borrow a pin for this lace at my neck. I'm in a dreadful hurry to promenade on the Avenue in this lovely sunshine; and I've lost my pin-that lovely one, with the figure of Enone. Can't you lend me one?" Helen produced a box of glittering trifles. Alice selected a large, carved cross of black bog-oak. "This is odd and pretty. Ta! ta! ma belle! I wish you would come with me." "I am going to Vespers. It is a holy day.' "Saint Agnes!" It was just after luncheon. There were several hours to pass before dinner. Helen was in the mood for a long walk. She had it in her mind to ride to Georgetown, and cross the bridge to Arlington. She knew the road, and the sadness of the place harmonized with her melancholy. But she did not care to go through the Virginia woods alone. She finally took an aimless walk, and at vespertime found herself under the arches of St. Dominic's. The majestic swell of the organ, the forms of the fathers in their black and white robes amid the haze of incense, and the atmosphere of prayer, were better for her than the sadness of Arlington; and her mind, heart, and soul were satisfied. Coming out, her eyes were full of the glory of the stained window over the organ, irradiated by golden light, and she did not notice a gentleman at the gate, until he spoke, half-involuntarily, "Miss Winter!" "Mr. Woodward! I have not seen you since Mrs. Houghton's afternoon." There was a pause. Pauses are full of meaning, and this pause meant that one had been thinking of the other. In their thoughts they had become friends; and now it was necessary to go from the ideal to the real. They were both trying to do this. "You have had a sad time since that afternoon." "Very sad.' "You said a few chance words that afternoon which have been in my mind ever since. You said that Catholics were governed by their religion, and that they did not make it a thing of convenience." that your religion is the only one that governs men's passions and impulses. All men need to be restrained and governed. In a few days I will be a Catholic. Pray for me!" He bowed and turned the corner. "He is rude!" thought Helen. "I wanted to talk to him.” And Helen thought of him until she reached Capitol Hill. He had come back to the corner, and watched her until she reached the Avenue. "A true woman," he said; "what a wife she would make for a good man! And yet I know so little of her!" That evening, after dinner, Alice brought back the cross. There was a worried look on her face. "I had an adventure," she said, in an agitated way. "I had not gone far to-day, when I noticed that I was followed by an old woman, with a basket on her arm; a withered, meanly-dressed old woman, Helen; she passed and repassed me, turned around, and looked sharply at me several times; at last, she cried "I meant to say that, whether I out, as if she were about to have a did or not," said Helen. fit, Kathleen, Kathleen, is it you, my child?' Her voice frightened me. I ran into a store, and somebody sent her away. Oh, Helen, if "Well, I thought I knew to the contrary, and I said so; but I have discovered that I judged from superficial premises." "I know you did," she said, earnestly. "I had heard of your charity and goodness" Helen's face reddened, partly from annoyance, partly from pleasure that he should praise her, even with second-hand praise. "I do not like compliments." "I did not mean to compliment you. I meant to show you what your example has led to; but you jumped at a conclusion. Do I look like a man who would pay compli ments?" Helen thought: "What a strange man! His apparent rudeness is only earnestness!" "I have come to the conclusion that common old woman should be my-my-MOTHER!" Moisture came into Helen's eyes. "It would be happiness" 66 Happiness!" cried Alice. "I am nearly wild with dread! That coarse, common thing my mother! I will go away and hide. I will deny her, even if she prove it! I will !” "There is no fear," said Helen, trying to conquer a feeling of repulsion to this heartless Sybarite; "I heard your uncle telling papa that you are the daughter of his brother, who married a poor Irish girl'’— "I know! He says that; but I do not believe it. He will tell me nothing of my parents; and she may be my mother. I will never own her!" Alice's culture and refinement had become weeds which had killed those flowers that spring from the heart and soul. "Mr. Vincy will call to-morrow evening," said Mr. Winter, when Alice had gone. "He intends to propose. Of course, you will say yes. The blood flew to Helen's brow. Papa, I do not love him." "What has that to do with the matter? Don't be foolish, girl. He is worth a million." "I don't care" "I do. My will has been defeated. I was so sure of its success that I mortgaged everything to push it. I must have this millionaire for my sonin-law, or I shall be ruined. You must marry Mr. Vincy." He said all this slowly, calmly, as was his old one, of small white beads, and big black ones, with no crucifix, but only a broken sixpence, the first thing my husband gave me, on the chain?" The woman ran over the words with such trembling eagerness that Helen scarcely understood her at first. Helen hesitated. In a drawer at home lay an old black and white rosary, from which the crucifix had been broken; and to which was attached a broken sixpence. This was the first plaything that Helen remembered. "I have such a rosary," said Helen, "but let us leave the church. We can talk elsewhere." The woman did not heed her. Her wrinkled face turned pale, revealing very plainly the blue circles around her eyes, set there by years of suspense and tears. She staggered and fell against the side of the pew. Helen caught her hands. "Thank you, acushla," said the woman, with a wistful look. "Sure you have her eyes clear as the sky at home! Do you go by the name of Winter ?" "I am Helen Winter." "No." Helen's self-possession was taking leave of her. This woman must be insane, and yet, as usual, Helen could feel, but not think. "You are my girl! My Kathleen !" Kathleen Bryant-aged by care and the hope that maketh the heart sick-prostrated herself in the aisle and said her Nunc Dimittis. After a silence which was eloquent, Kathleen arose, her face bathed in tears. "If you're happier, my child, with your rich friends than you would be with me, stay; but oh, let me see you sometimes." Helen was bewildered. She said, "Come home with me, and speak to Mr. Winter." As they went along Kathleen Bry |