The Galaxy, April, 1877 Part 17

There is this difference among old people; although even this has been exaggerated; and it is this which gives a certain color of truth to the notion I have referred to. English men and women do not always grow stout and red-faced as they grow old; but after they have pa.s.sed middle age more of them do tend to rubicundity and to protuberant rotundity of figure than people of the same age do in "America." The cause, I am quite sure, is simply--beer. Both the color and the rotundity come to a large proportion of the Americans who live in England and drink English beer, in English allowance; which, it need hardly be said, could not be the case if there had been any essential change in the type of the race. But among men under forty and women under thirty, the difference either in complexion or figure is almost inappreciable.

As to the women, there are at least as many in England who are spare and angular of figure as here, and of those who have not pa.s.sed thirty I think rather more. The London "Spectator" said some years ago, in discussing the Banting diet, I believe, that "scragginess was more common in England among women than stoutness"; and it is remarkable that the French caricatures of Englishwomen always represent them as thin, bony, and sharp-featured. In this of course there is a little malice; but it shows the impression left upon the French people by their near neighbors. I cannot do better here than to offer my readers, in the following pa.s.sage, a share in one of my letters written home; it has at least the advantage of recording on the spot impressions received by me after careful examination under the most favorable circ.u.mstances. I was writing about the beauty of the parks:

"It is amazing to see the great s.p.a.ce of this little island that these English folk have reserved for air, and health, and beauty; and it is for all, the poorest and meanest as well as the richest and n.o.blest; there are no privileged cla.s.ses in this. As to the effect upon their health, I suppose it must be something, but it shows for very little.

G---- [a gentleman who is very strong upon the subject of degeneracy, which I have always doubted] will laugh and say that it was a foregone conclusion with me, but to set aside my inference he will be obliged to take the position that there is nothing so misleading as facts, except figures. I have now seen many hundreds of thousands of Englishmen and Englishwomen of all cla.s.ses. I have placed myself in positions to examine them closely. At the great Birmingham musical festival my seat gave me full view of the house, chorus and all. The vast hall was filled with people of the middle and upper middle cla.s.ses, and at one end with members of the highest aristocracy, who occupied seats roped off from the rest, and called 'the President's seats'--the President being the Marquis of Hertford. At the end of the performance, both evening and morning, I hastened to a place where a great part of the audience would pa.s.s close before me. At Westminster Abbey I stood again and again at the princ.i.p.al door and watched the congregation as they came out; I have done the same in swarming railway stations; I have walked through country villages and cathedral towns; I know the human physiognomy of all quarters of London pretty well; I have seen the Guards and the heavy dragoons, and I say without any hesitation that thus far I find that the men and the women are generally smaller and less robust than ours, and above all that the women are on the whole sparer and less blooming than ours. The men are ruddier on the whole; that is, there are more ruddy men here; but the number of men without color in their cheeks seems to be nearly the same as with us. The apparent inconsistency of what I have said is due to the fact that the ruddy men and women here are generally so very red that they produce a great impression of redness, an impression that lasts and remains salient in the memory. A delicately graduated and healthy bloom is not very common. And so the fat women are so very fat that they seem to take up a great part of the island. But the little London 'gent,' with whom Leech has made us so familiar, you meet everywhere in the great city. Sunday before last, loitering in the cloisters of Westminster, I stopped to look at a tablet in the wall. There were three of these men before me, and the number soon increased to seven. I looked over _the hats_--round felt hats--of the whole seven without raising my chin.

I remember that like Rosalind I am 'more than common tall,' but I never did anything like that at home. At the Horse Guards they put their finest men as sentinels, mounted, on each side of the gate. Well, they are fine fellows, and would be very uncomfortable chaps to meet, except in a friendly way; a detachment of them riding up St. James's street the other morning, with their cuira.s.ses like mirrors, and the coats of their big black horses almost as bright, was a spectacle which it seemed to me could not be surpa.s.sed for its union of military splendor and the promise of bitter business in a fight; but Maine, or Vermont, or Connecticut, or Kentucky can turn out whole regiments of bigger and stronger men. Colonel M----, whom I met in Canada, said the same to me when he thought he was talking to an Englishman. I wonder that he ever forgave me the things he said to me during his brief self-deception; for they were true. But he was a good fellow and bore no malice.

Nevertheless, you sometimes meet here a very fine man, or a big, blooming beauty, and in either case the impression is stronger and more memorable than in a like case it is apt to be with us; chiefly, I think, because of their dress and 'set up,' which in such cases--as in that of the Guards and Dragoons--is apt to be very p.r.o.nounced."

I will add here, in pa.s.sing, that this English "set up," particularly in the case of almost all Englishmen of any pretensions, is distinctive, and is in a great measure the cause of the impression of superior good looks and strength on their side. It appears in a marked degree in all military persons, rank and file as well as officers, and in the police force, the men of which are on the whole inferior in stature and bulk to ours--leaving the big Broadway squad, most of them Yankees, out of the question--and yet it is far superior in appearance to ours, owing to the "set up" of the men, and the way in which they carry themselves. I observed that although the upper cla.s.ses contained a fair proportion, although no notable excess, of large and well-formed men and women, the burly men and the big-bodied, heavy-limbed women were generally of the lower and the lower middle cla.s.s. This made me wonder where all the pretty housemaids and shop girls came from; for the prettiest faces, the most delicately blooming complexions, and the finest figures that I saw in England were among them. In a letter written from the Rose Inn at Canterbury, a cosy comfortable old hostlery, I find the following pa.s.sage, which is to the purpose:

"I ate my bacon and eggs this morning in the coffee room, where at another table were three queer Englishwomen, yet nice looking--apparently a mother and two daughters. The elder daughter was, I will not say a lathy girl, but very slim not only in the waist, but above and below it. The mother and the younger were plump and rosy, absurdly alike, and with that c.o.c.ked-up nose which is one of the very few distinctive peculiarities of figure that you see here, but even this very rarely; and their black hair was curled in tight curls all over their heads. I was struck by this, because curling hair is comparatively rare here, and I had expected to find it common. It was cut just like a man's, and plainly so because it would have been impossible to dress it if it were allowed to grow long in woman fashion. They were very jolly and pleasant, chaffing each other in low, soft voices, and breaking out in rich, sweet laughter. They looked just like boys masquerading in women's clothes; for the eldest was quite young looking and may have been an elder sister. The youngest, who was some seventeen or eighteen years old, looked very fair and blooming across the room, but when I came close to her, which I had an opportunity of doing, I found that her color, both white and red, was coa.r.s.e, which is very often the case here when there is color. In the mother, or eldest sister, this coa.r.s.eness was apparent even at a distance. But see, Lady ---- and her daughters, although pretty and elegant, had no tinge of color in their cheeks, and they were all as thin as rails, and the girls' hair, as well as their mother's, was as straight as fiddle strings. I came here expecting to see golden curls in plentiful crops, or at least not uncommonly. But it seems to me that I haven't seen a dozen curly-haired children since I have been in the country; and I have seen them--the children--by tens of thousands, and examined them closely, making memorandums of my observation. Nor have the ladies of this family (I am now at ----), Lady ---- and Mrs. ----, any more bloom than this paper, and they are both as thin as Lady ---- and her daughters; Mrs. ---- painfully so. The men, belonging of course to another family, are stout, well-built fellows enough, but the two other guests are as lean as greyhounds. I went to a little dinner party the other evening, and the carriage sent to the station for me (for they think nothing here of asking you fifteen or twenty miles to dinner even when you are not expected to stay over night) took also a Major General Sir ---- ----. I was told that he would join me, and I expected to see a portly, ruddy man of inches, with sweeping whiskers and moustache. I found a short, slender, meek-looking, pale-faced man; but his bearing was very military; he was a charming companion and the pink of courtesy. We entered the drawing-room together of course; but notwithstanding his rank, he waved me in before him, and my plain Mistership was announced before his t.i.tles. I have seen no men here at all equal in face or figure to General Hooker, General Hanc.o.c.k, General Augur, or General Terry, to say nothing of General Scott, who was something out of the common even with us. And Burnside, and McDowell, and Grant, and McClellan are all stouter men than you are apt to find here. The biggest men that I have seen were from the north, Yorkshire and Northumberland. Those of the south, particularly in Kent, are the shortest; although, as a Kent man said to me, they are generally 'stocky.'"[3]

[3] Mr. Jennings, late editor of the New York "Times," now London correspondent of the "World," in a recent letter describing the opening of Parliament by the Queen in person, on which occasion the House of Lords was filled with peers and peeresses, writes thus with regard to the beauty of the women and the presence and figures of the men:

"On this occasion the ladies overflowed the House. Early as it still was, the floor was covered with them--large blocks of the benches were occupied, and the galleries were crowded.

All these ladies were in evening toilets, the peeresses wearing coronets of diamonds--most of them being fairly ablaze with diamonds on head and neck. If the daylight was not very favorable to the shoulders or complexions of some of these n.o.ble dames, the gorgeousness of their costumes and the glitter of their precious stones served to divert attention from the defects of nature or the ravages of time.... Not many of these ladies in the House were very pretty, although here and there was a face such as makes one stop short and hold one's breath, and wonder at the divine perfection of nature's handiwork when she is at her best.... As for the old bald-headed gentlemen, some of them very short and stumpy, they looked painfully like a collection of 'senators' in some opera bouffe. One of them in particular, with four ermine bars on his cloak, denoting his high rank, was exactly like the funny-looking dummy Englishman which the French delight to exhibit in their farces. He had very little hair left to boast of, and that little was very red, and his face was round and red also, and he was altogether so comic a little man that one could not look at him without a smile. I could not find out who he was till the royal procession entered, when he suddenly reappeared in great pomp and state, standing on the throne by the side of her Majesty's chair and carrying the 'Cap of Maintenance.' Then I knew that he was the Marquis of Winchester--fourteenth of that ilk--John Paulet by name, and the Premier Marquis of England. So much for appearances."

Mr. Jennings, it should be remembered, is an Englishman; but he lived eight or ten years in New York; and I may be pardoned for saying that he carried away a constant reminder of "American"

beauty, and a standard of comparison which would be likely to make him fastidious.

A New England man now living in England, who made his house very delightful to me, first by the presence of himself and his family, and next by the kindest and most considerate hospitality, is an ever present rebuke of the stoutest sort to the British notion of the physical degeneracy of the English race in "America." He, a Yankee of the old Puritan emigration, is five feet ten and a half inches high, is forty-eight inches, four good feet, in girth around the chest, weighs two hundred pounds, and yet has not the least appearance of portliness, rather the contrary. He is the only man I ever met whose friendly grip was rather more than I liked to bear. I spoke to his wife about his strength and his figure, and she told me that when he went to get his life insured here the surgeons said that they very rarely saw such a powerful, finely formed, and perfectly healthy man as he is, and never any finer or healthier. That would be impossible. And as he is so was his father. Were they exceptions? Only of a sort that constantly occur among real Yankees--"Americans" whose families have been in the country for generations, and who are the only proper examples of the influence of the climate and the social conditions of the country.

I have, perhaps, said too much upon this subject of the comparative physical condition of the race in the two countries; but I have been led to do so because of the very great inconsistency I found between the facts and the common notion as to stout Englishmen and lean "Americans," blooming, buxom Englishwomen and pale, slender "American"

women--a notion which one writer has repeated, parrot-like, after the other, until even we ourselves have accepted it without question. Like many other notions which no one disputes, it is false. But the world has gone on accepting it and a.s.suming it to be true until it has so taken possession of the general mind that if in a room full of English people only one man were found ruddy and burly, and only one woman blooming and well rounded (and this or something very like it I have seen more than once), they would be picked out and spoken of as English-looking, to the disregard of all the others. The exceptions would be taken as examples of the rule; and this even by the English themselves, so swayed are we by tradition and authority, even in such an everyday matter. Nay, even I myself, skeptical and carping, was thus misled. The steamer, going out, was filled chiefly with English people.

Two of my fellow pa.s.sengers I selected in my mind as notably and typically English, not only in person, but in bearing. They proved to be, one a Ma.s.sachusetts Yankee and the other a Western man; but both had from a.s.sociation contracted English habits of dress and of manner.

Two Englishwomen, however, attracted my particular attention. One was, I think, the very largest human female I ever saw outside of a caravan.

She was a fearful manifestation of the enormous development of solid flesh which the British fair sometimes attain. As she stood by her husband she was the taller from the ear upward. She weighed about twenty stone. I think that a plumb line dropped from the front of her corsage would have reached the deck without touching her skirts. Her tread was hippopotamic. And yet she showed traces of beauty, and not improbably had been a fine fair girl; and even at the present time she managed to effect a very palpable waist. I mused wonderingly upon the process by which she did this; but still more upon that sad gradual enormification by which she pa.s.sed from a tall blooming beauty into her present tremendous proportions. The other was exactly the reverse. She could hardly be called ill looking in the face, but her pale, blank, unfeatured countenance reminded one instantly of a sheep. She was a washed-out, and although young, a faded creature, with no more shoulders or hips than my forefinger. And yet she was a perfect English type, and so like some of John Leech's women that I could not look at her without internal laughter. Her husband--for even such women by some mysterious process known to themselves will get husbands--was like unto her in face, in feature, and in expression; and yet he was so strikingly, so aggressively British in look and in manner that I heard some Yankees on board say that they would like to kick him. And I somewhat shared their prejudice; of which before we landed I learned to be ashamed; for I found him a very intelligent, well-informed, pleasant man, reserved in his manners, and although firm in his opinions, which were strongly British, very respectful of other men's, and very careful of giving offence. His union of firmness and courtesy seemed to me worthy of admiration; and if he did wish to kick any of the Yankees on board, for which in one or two cases I could have forgiven him, I am sure that he never let the desire manifest itself in their presence.

Another prevalent notion, which is reciprocal between the people of the two countries, is mistaken according to my observation. It is generally believed, or at least very often said in "America," that the men in England are very much handsomer than the women; and conversely it is commonly believed in England, or said, that the women in "America" are handsomer than the men. An absurd and truly preposterous notion, as will be seen upon a moment's reflection. For the women in both countries are the mothers of both the men and the women; and the men are the fathers of both the men and the women; and as some of the women are of their fathers' types and some of the men of their mothers', the imputed difference of the two in personal beauty could not be brought about. It is physiologically impossible that the women of a race should be handsomer than the men, and _vice versa_.

It is nevertheless true that the men in England are on the whole more attractive to the eye than the women, and that the women in "America"

are generally much more attractive than the men. The cause of this is a fact very distinctive of the social surface of the two countries. I have spoken of the "set up" and the bearing of the men in England. It is very remarkable, and is far superior to anything of the kind that is found even among the most cultivated people in this country, except in comparatively rare individual cases. But in England it is common; it is the rule. There, from the middle cla.s.ses up, a slovenly man is a rare exception. There men are almost universally neat and tidy, and they carry themselves with a conscious self-respect. They do not slouch.

They do not go about, even in the morning, with coats unb.u.t.toned, skirts flying, and their hands in their overcoat pockets. They dress soberly, quietly, with manly simplicity, but almost always in good taste, and with notable neatness. They are manly looking men, with an air of conscious manhood. Moreover, in England the man is still recognized as the superior. England has been called the purgatory of horses and the paradise of women. But that saying came from the continent of Europe, where women, except in the very highest and most cultivated cla.s.ses, are not treated with that tenderness and consideration for their weakness and their womanly functions which I am inclined to think is somewhat peculiar to the English race. I should call England the paradise of men; for there the world is made for them; and women are happy in making it so. An Englishman who is the head of a family is not only master of his house, but of the whole household. His will is recognized as the law of that household. No one thinks of disputing it. It is not deemed unreasonable that in the house which he provides and keeps up his comfort and his convenience should be first considered, or that, as he is responsible for his household both to the law and to society, authority should go with responsibility. And yet--perhaps for this very reason--wives there have the household affairs more absolutely in their hands than they have here. A man whose absolute authority is acknowledged, practically as well as theoretically, is very ready to make concessions and to rid himself of what at any time he may a.s.sume. Real monarchs, like the Czars or like the Tudors, are careless of the protection of royal etiquette. The consciousness of this acknowledged or rather unquestioned superiority shows itself in the men's faces, and in their bearing, simple and unpretending as their manner is. Besides all this, men in England (I am leaving out of consideration the lower cla.s.ses) show the effect of cultivation, of breeding, of discipline. Even in the middle cla.s.ses they are well informed, and, what is of more importance to the present question, they have been taught to behave themselves respectfully to others. They do so behave; they feel that they ought to do so and that they must. There are two G.o.ds worshipped in England, and one is propriety; and a very good G.o.d he is, when he is not made a Juggernaut.

The result of all this is a very different man in appearance from him who generally pervades "America." The latter may be, and generally is, as handsome physically as the former; he may be, and generally is, as good morally; but the one generally shows for all that he is and perhaps for more, and the other does not, and frequently does for less.

And yet again; among such men in England another sort who, for example, say "hadn't oughter," and "have came," and who spit upon the floor, are not generally found mingling. They are kept in social pens by themselves. And thus in judging of English society they are left out.

A comparative estimate of Englishwomen is too serious and far too complicated a subject to be treated except in an article by itself.

RICHARD GRANT WHITE.

A DEAD VASHTI.

Do we indeed desire the dead should still be near us, at our side?

"I do not know how it is with others," said the spirit, looking away from the Sunday child to the red and spectral moon that was arising from the tossing ocean into a ma.s.s of heavy, broken clouds; "for since my death I have been alone; but when I left my human form I left few of the affections, the pa.s.sions of life, and thus death has made but little change in me. I cannot believe, however, that all the dead carry as much of their old life into the new as I have, for few can be cursed as I have been with a granted prayer. What my life in the world of spirits might have been I cannot tell you; but I know that all I have suffered comes from my folly, my wickedness in praying for my own will!

But my life upon earth had been so complete, so happy, it seemed as if I might be justified in thinking that it ought to give me the same bliss if it was made eternal. My love for Philip was so pure and true that it seemed as fit that it should govern me in one life as in the other! Other women, I suppose, have loved their husbands as well; but few would have had the temerity to stake their eternal happiness on human fidelity as I did! But my love was a part of my being, and I thought no more of its extent or duration than of the density of the air I breathed. It was never put to the test of neglect or misunderstanding, and was never subject to question. Looking back now, it seems impossible that I ever lived without Philip; for all my days before I knew him are but fragments of a half-forgotten time. Of his love I had no doubt. It satisfied me. And we were not only lovers, but also comrades. I was but an amateur where he was a master, but I followed him attentively, eagerly. I like to remember those days, when we wandered like children through the woods, when we climbed, sketched, laughed, and sang together, and I often wonder if any mortals are as happy now. At home we had our hours of work, of merry talk, and happy plans. We had the excitements of the exhibition days, the pleasures of social life, and then we had also my dear little girl, our Nellie!

Sometimes I fancy that such happiness cannot die; that if our words and actions perpetuate themselves, such vivid experiences cannot fade away, and that I may some time find it all pa.s.sed into an eternal form! But these are dreams; for every thing has changed, and I know that nothing can be eternal that is not based upon truth, upon faithfulness.

"You can understand, although you are so young, and are just learning how love transfigures everything, that my life with my husband was so complete that we did not dream of any change; we did not comprehend that we could ever be parted. I have heard women say that they have trembled when they were very happy, knowing that there must be an end to their joy; but I had no such fears. Still it came to me, and in a horrible shape.

"I knew that I was very ill, and that Philip was anxious and wretched, but I never thought that I might die. My fierce pain gave me no hint of death, and so it came almost without warning. I would not believe that I must go away, and that this brief illness meant death was incredible, preposterous! I shrank from thinking of it; I cried out that I would not die; I would not leave Philip! I begged my physicians for life; I entreated Heaven to spare me; I almost broke my husband's heart by my wild cries for life. It was a bitter struggle! I prayed for annihilation--for anything but the knowledge that we were separated. Do not think that I forgot Nellie, or that I did not grieve to part with her; but other mothers have loved their children for the father's sake, and I could have surrendered anything to have kept him. I could trust her to a Higher love, but for us there was nothing but daily, hourly union.

"The night before I died--for who can thrust away the inevitable!--I lay close in Philip's arms as he knelt by my bedside. I was almost helpless, but I clung body and soul to him. It was poor comfort to tell each other that this was but a temporary separation; that we had yet an eternity in which to live together. Eternity was indefinite and far away, while our parting, his lonely life, my waiting hours, were so near. I cannot forget how he wept as he held me close, closer to him, and how his courage failed as he realized how fast my hour of departure was hastening to us! I do not now know how it was that we did not die together that night! We talked of it, and it seemed so easy and natural that we thought we could not help it; but the daylight came, and we were still alive, clinging to each other.

"But this night of agony did more than death alone could have done, for it shaped my future. Out of our frantic grief there came a prayer that has fixed me here, and which has taught me of what love is made!

Together that night we besought Heaven to give me no other happiness than that I had known in life, but to let me linger near my home, and be with my husband until he died. I cried out that any other existence would be h.e.l.l to me; and with desperate hands we beat against the doors of prayer, and pleaded for power to choose our own future.

"The next night I died. All day I had laid on my bed pa.s.sive and quiet.

My grief had worn me out, and I could not have spoken had I wished.

Philip sat by me holding my hand, but he too was silent. I felt vaguely that mine was the easier task; that living could be harder than dying; but I had no words with which to comfort or strengthen him. I could faintly smile when he would bend his head, and kiss my nerveless hand, and I wondered if he knew how much I liked to lie quietly and look at him. Yet I did not care for it all! I remember the watchful indifference with which I regarded my physician's face, and followed the motions of the nurse about the room. I remember my sister's tears, and how little Nellie sat by me on the bed with her doll, until she fell asleep on my pillow. I remember how the hours measured themselves away, how the sunshine deepened and faded, how the night came, and all grew dim and silent. An absolute hush rested upon the earth. The fire blazed, but it had ceased its crackling; the watchers moved noiselessly about the room, the street had become quiet, and everything seemed awaiting some coming, some solemn change. As Philip leaned over me, and I saw his lips move, but heard no sound, I fancied that perhaps my hearing had gone from me, but I cared nothing for it! Then the fire grew dim, the room seemed full of shadows, the lights faded away, and my eyes became heavy, but I did not care to shut them, or to brush away the film that covered them. My breath gained substance, and began to push its way through my lungs, my throat seemed closing, and then suddenly everything changed!

"It is not to my purpose, even were I allowed, to tell you anything of the conditions of my present life, or to explain to you how I can reveal myself to you, and why it was that Philip could never see me.

All that I am to tell you is connected with this earth.

"After the first surprise was over I turned to Philip, who was kneeling by the bed. He could not believe that I was dead, but called vehemently on me to look at him. I remember the joy with which I sprang to his side, and putting my arms around, tried to turn his head away from the dead body to my living, happy face! But it was all in vain, in vain! He was deaf, he was blind to me! Our prayer, our compact was as nothing: he knew only the dead wife! I was as indifferent to the body as to a shadow on the wall; but to be clinging to him unrecognized, unfelt, terrified me, shocked me! I cannot dwell on this, but after all was over, and the body carried away, he was still ignorant of my presence.

I followed his aimless steps through the house; I stood by his chair as he sat idly at his easel; I watched with him through the long nights, but he never suspected that I was there! How often when he has called me have I answered, and when he has prayed for one glimpse of me have I clung to him, but had no sign from him to tell me that he even blindly guessed that our prayer might have been granted! I have put my arms around him; my head has lain upon his shoulder; I have pa.s.sionately called upon him, but still been as empty air! Yet it comforted me to be with him, and I could not doubt that some time he would come to know of my presence. It was impossible, I thought, for him to dwell in such an atmosphere of love and always be unconscious of it. Why, we thought only of each other, we longed only for each other, and so he must at last come to know how near I was, and then, I thought with joy, waiting would lose its pain!

"I could laugh as I now think of this fond and foolish fancy--of my trust in time, in a man's intuition! Why, I did not even know that men do not nurse grief as we do; and I was surprised by Philip's resolute bravery in turning to work, and trying to forget in study all he had lost in love. But do not think it was easy for him! I was much too intimately connected with his art not to be always suggested by it; and my dumb and unknown presence awakened none of the old inspiration of our talks, our mutual sympathy and interest. Sometimes his desire for me became so intense that I felt that my time for recognition had surely come, and I have knelt, clinging to him, waiting for that blessed smile of knowledge, but all in vain!

"Time, however, smoothes all griefs for mortals, and soon life began to run tranquilly in the house. Nellie was happy in my sister's care, and Philip became absorbed in work. The old sparkle and gayety was gone, but youth and vigor were left, so they lived pleasantly enough, and I wandered through the rooms lonely, but not forlorn. I could not be miserable, for I was ever with them. And I could not but be happy in seeing how tenderly I was remembered, how constantly I was thought of by them all. Nothing was changed, for even my work-basket kept its place in Philip's room, and some of my ribbons were still tumbled in with his collars! Thus some years pa.s.sed away. Nellie grew tall and pretty, and Philip became graver, more studious, and was as famous as he was popular. I do not believe that he ever thought of making any change in his life, of filling my place in his home or heart. I never dreamed it was possible! But ignorance is a poor safeguard, and at last the time came when the shadow began to lift from off his life, to deepen over mine. I do not know how to tell you more; the thought of speaking of it almost strikes me dumb; but I must, I must! I am compelled to do it! And it all came of a picture--a picture of youth and beauty; and she--Esther--came to sit for it! You need not expect me to tell you much of her, for some things are impossible; but she had been as a schoolgirl a pet of mine. She was the daughter of a friend, and she was pretty; she was rich; she was good and loving: what else could any mortal ask for? These quiet hours in the studio were pleasant to both of them, and one day Philip broke the silence of years and spoke of me to her. She was glad to talk of me, for she had been fond of me; and she told him of what I had said to her; she brought him a little drawing I had made of Nellie for her. They spoke of me lovingly and gently, but I stood off and wrung my hands in anguish. The most cruel silence would have been better than these confidences which brought them so close together.

"But what a wonderful picture he painted! How fair, how lovely she looked upon the canvas, and how happy she was when the painting was praised! She danced for joy when she first saw it in its frame; but I--I who knew so well what a success it was--I did not rejoice! I did not look at the picture, but instead I watched the soft and tender smile with which Philip regarded her! Need I tell you more?" she said in a husky voice, standing up and clenching her hands. "Must I repeat the history of these days as though it was a story I was telling you!

Have I not suffered penance enough in witnessing a grief I could not comfort, a resignation that I could not share, and a happiness that has made me desperate; but must I also put it all into words? But there was one trial spared me. I did not have to witness the growth of this new love, for I rarely saw them together during the days of courtship. She did not come often to the house after the picture was finished, and so I escaped this much. Yet I knew when they saw each other, and he was no laggard wooer. I never followed him or her, for I could not leave the home where we had lived; but in thought I was never parted from him.

How often have I paced the floor in lonely agony, waiting for his return from her house. I have crouched in the corner, fearing, yet eager to see him enter with the new happiness in his eye, the new elasticity in his step. I saw him grow brighter and gayer; and as he whistled or sang at his work I have fled away in helpless agony. Yet he had not forgotten me; and in the midst of the new life that was thrilling through him I was still dear to him. I cannot pretend to understand a man's love, nor to tell you how faithfulness to an old affection, and desire for one that is new, can dwell in the same heart.

He thought of me tenderly. I was a part of a past too dear to be forgotten; but I did not belong to the present. He had lived without me, and I was no longer necessary to him, but this younger love was very near and real to him.

"At last he brought her home, and with many smiles and happy glances he led Nellie to her new mother. It seemed very proper to the people who filled the house that her grace and youth should mate with his dignity and reputation, and that they should love each other; but none of them saw, few thought of the disembodied wife who was still chained to his side by links he had helped to forge, and who, standing unsuspected in their midst, cursed--not the bride nor her husband--but her own immorality.

"Yet as I watched the merriment with a most bitter scorn of my suffering, and a fancy how Philip might well paint a love dancing on a coffin for his next picture, I yet felt glad to know that I had not been the one who was false to that dreadful night of vows and prayers.

If he had died, _I_ would have been faithful. My need of love would have been as great; I might have longed for protection, for even bread; but I would have had no other husband. I was glad, for it is well to be faithful. A new love may bring new sweetness and content, but constancy has its own sweet rewards, and the widowed heart would seek no strange hand if it did but know what remains to those who are true.

"This was years ago as you count time; but until to-night I have lingered around my home--my old home that was changed and beautified for another mistress. I have nothing to tell you of their life, that does not seem to men to be pleasant. They have been prosperous. They have known many joys and few sorrows. They have travelled. He is famous and he is also rich. Is that not enough? And Nellie, too, has been content. Esther has not allowed the child to miss me; and although other children claim equal love from her father, they have never robbed her. Is not this best? your questioning eyes ask me. Perhaps it is. I have often taken my jealous heart to task; and remembering how solitary Philip's home would have been, how much he has gained in these new loves, I have tried to say it _was_ the best. But he was not bound to me only for life--for my life. Our love reached out toward the other world and swore eternal fidelity, and I--_I_ have not been freed from him.

"But this is not all. I might reconcile myself to this and be content.

I love Philip so truly that I think I could sacrifice my dearest, most selfish wishes to him, and be satisfied to see him prosperous and happy. But whether it is a keener sight that I possess, whether it is a natural change that comes to all who submit to the influence of the world, I know not; but Philip is not the same artist--he is not the same man; but this, I think, no one knows; that his pictures have changed is clear to all. Once he worked for the sake of the best; now he works for 'success'; and Esther rates his paintings at the price they bring. But had I lived even this might have been. Yet this is not all. The sting, the bitterness of my bereavement is in my knowledge that we are parted for ever. If Philip had not grown so far away from me in the years in which he has not known me, I could expect some happy reunion with him; but this man will need me no more in Heaven than he now does upon earth. If I could now return to him and take Esther's place by his side, I would jar upon him, displease him. He might love me, but there would be little affinity between us. And I--have I not changed? has not my ignorance turned to bitterness, my confidence to disbelief? But it seems to me that a little sunshine would bring back all that was sweet or good in me--yet I cannot tell. But this I know: in the future the soul of this man will lay no claim to mine. We get nothing without its price, and Philip has paid for a second love by the loss of all he once thought dearest. Still it may be best, it may be right.

"As for myself, some change is coming to me. It must be so, or I would not be here to-night. You know what perhaps is to occur; you know how long I was to linger; but of this I cannot speak. If I shall never see him again, do you think I can talk of it?

"But, child, it fills me with wonder as I think that the spirit world in which I have so long dwelt, of which I know nothing, is now, perhaps, to be revealed to me. I have no fear of it. I believe that when I enter Paradise--and I cannot believe that its doors are for ever closed against me--that in some way the lost love of my husband, the misled affection of my child, will be made up to me. Heaven defrauds us of nothing; and as we are created to love and be loved, is it not true that there must be compensation somewhere if it is torn from us, or denied to us?

"But be that as it may," she said, looking down upon her companion with sad and tender eyes. "You are a woman, and I have a charge to give you.

I warn you, child, that your love to Heaven cannot be too strong; your love for man too true; but while you give to man the sweetness and comfort of your life, you must look to Heaven alone for faithfulness."