AWOMANOF 
 YESTERDAY 
 
 
 CAROLINE -A- MASON 
 
DUKE UNIVERSITY 
 
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A WOMAN OF YESTERDAY 
 
____________ " 
 
 A 
 Woman of Yesterday 
 
 BY 
 
 CAROLINE A. MASON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A MINISTER OF THE WORLD," "THE 
 
 MINISTER OF CARTHAGE," "A WIND 
 
 FLOWER," ETC. 
 
 " There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the 
 ■world, and none of them is without signification." 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. 
 
 1900 
 
Copyright, 1900, by 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 Norwood Press 
 
 J. S. Cusbing & Co. — Berwick & Smith 
 
 Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 
 
Our share of night to bear, 
 Our share of morning, 
 
 Our blank in bliss to fill, 
 Our blank in scorning. 
 
 Here a star, and there a star, 
 
 Some lose their way. 
 Here a mist, and there a mist, 
 
 Afterwards — day ! 
 
 Emily Dickinson. 
 
 e 
 
 ■/1 398 W 
 
Contents 
 
 Book I. Morning 
 Book II. Afternoon 
 Book III. Night 
 
 Page 
 I 
 
 l 3* 
 219 
 
BOOK I 
 
 MORNING 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 I rise and raise my clasped hands to Thee ! 
 Henceforth, the darkness hath no part in me, 
 
 Thy sacrifice this day, — 
 Abiding firm, and with a freeman's might 
 Stemming the waves of passion in the fight. 
 
 — John Henry Newman. 
 
 Where the Monk River makes its way through the 
 mountain wall in one of the northern counties of Ver- 
 mont, lies the small, white village of Haran. Although 
 isolated and remote from the world, unknown and uncon- 
 sidered beyond certain narrow limits, this village pos- 
 sessed, forty years ago, a local importance as being the 
 county town, the seat also of a Young Ladies' Seminary 
 of some reputation, and an Orthodox church which 
 boasted a line of ministers of exalted piety and scholarly 
 attainment. 
 
 The incumbent in the year 1869 was the Rev. Samuel 
 Mallison. His pastorate had now extended over twenty 
 years, and he was reverenced far beyond the bounds of 
 his parish for learning and godliness. 
 
 It was a June Saturday night in that year, and the 
 hour was late. In the low-roofed garret of the parsonage 
 of Haran the figure of a tall, thin girl with a candle in 
 her hand moved swiftly and softly to the head of a steep 
 flight of stairs, which gave access to the garret from the 
 floor below. Some one had called her name. 
 
 " Yes, father," she returned, and a certain vibration 
 of restrained feeling was perceptible in her voice, " it 
 
 3 
 
4 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 was I. I am sorry I disturbed you. Were you 
 asleep ? " 
 
 All was dark below, and no person could be seen, but 
 again came the man's voice. 
 
 " What were you doing, Anna ? " was the question. 
 
 "Only putting away — " here the girl faltered and 
 stopped speaking. The candle in her hand shook, and 
 threw a strange, wavering shadow of her shape upon the 
 long, rough timbers of the wall. The roof was so low 
 where she stood that of necessity her head was bent 
 sharply forward. The outline of her shoulders was 
 meagre and angular; her arms and body had neither the 
 grace of a girl nor the curves of a woman ; they were 
 simply lean and long. There was something of lofti- 
 ness, and even of beauty, in the face, but the cheeks were 
 hollow, the lines all lacking in softness. The ensetnble 
 was grave and strenuous for a girl of eighteen. 
 
 She began again. 
 
 " I was nailing up that box of books, you remember. 
 I thought now, you know, I ought to do it." 
 
 Something like a groan seemed to float up from the 
 darkness below. There was no other reply for a mo- 
 ment, and then the father's voice said slowly : — 
 
 " To take back later such an action is a greater vio- 
 lation of the moral nature than to avoid performing it. 
 If it has been given you as duty, it is well done, but be 
 very sure." 
 
 A smile, brooding, and even sad, altered the girl's 
 face as she reflected for a little. 
 
 " I am very sure," she said softly, but without 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Then, good night. Sleep, now. Let to-morrow 
 take thought for the things of itself, Anna." 
 
Morning r 
 
 "Good night, father." The little lingering of her 
 voice on the last word gave to it the force of a term of 
 endearment, which it would not have occurred to Anna 
 Mallison at that time to add. 
 
 A door closed below, presently, and the house was 
 still. 
 
 The garret extended over the entire house, and its 
 unlighted spaces seemed to stretch indefinitely on all 
 sides from the little circle of light shed by the one 
 candle. The place was wholly open, save that at the 
 front gable, below the highest point in the peak of 
 the roof, a partition of planed but unpainted boards 
 enclosed a small chamber. The narrow door of it stood 
 open. 
 
 As Anna approached this door she cast her glance to a 
 far, dim corner, where in stiff order a wooden box of mod- 
 erate size stood upon a chest. She crossed to the place, 
 passed her hand over the lid of this box, satisfied herself 
 that it was firmly and evenly fastened, and then gath- 
 ered up some nails and a hammer, which she put awav 
 on the ledge formed by a square, projecting rafter. This 
 accomplished, she came back and entered the chamber 
 which was sparely enough furnished, undressed, put out 
 her candle, and sat down in the open gable window. 
 
 Even if to-morrow were left to take thought for the 
 things of itself, there were many yesterdays which she 
 
 wished to meet to-night. And for that to-morrow, 
 
 she was hardly ready to leave all thought of it yet, for 
 she regarded it as the most solemn and important crisis 
 in her eighteen years of life. On the Sabbath, which a 
 few hours would bring, she was to be received into the 
 village church of which her father was pastor, and this 
 event would signify that all her previous existence, the 
 
6 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 time past of her life, was a closed and finished chapter, 
 and that henceforth all things were to become new. 
 Life was to be furnished now with new pleasures, new 
 pains, new motives, new mental occupations. A some- 
 what sterner and sadder life she fancied it, full of self- 
 examination, sacrifice, and high endeavour, for she felt 
 it must suffice her to have wrought her own will in the 
 past, " the will of the flesh," as her father and the Apostle 
 Paul termed it ; a phrase which had but a vague import 
 to her own understanding, and yet exerted a powerful 
 influence upon her conscience. 
 
 To her mind there was an intimate connection be- 
 tween that now sealed box and " the will of the flesh." 
 
 It was when she was fifteen years old that Anna had 
 discovered one day among the ranks of chests and trunks 
 which lined the outer stretches of the-garret, this small box 
 of books, thickly covered with dust. At first she had been 
 greatly surprised, since books were the things her father 
 most earnestly desired and needed, his scanty collection 
 being quite insufficient for his use, and being helped out 
 by no village library. Every book in the house had 
 borne to Anna's imagination a potent dignity and value, 
 for each one embodied a persistent need, and represented 
 an almost severe economy before its possession had been 
 achieved. 
 
 And here were nearly thirty respectably bound volumes 
 packed away for moth and dust alone to live upon — 
 what could it mean ? Had they been forgotten ? Anna 
 had devoured their titles with consuming wonder and 
 curiosity, and with the ardour of the instinctive book- 
 lover. Like Aurora Leigh, she had " found the secret 
 of a garret room." 
 
 There was a volume of Ossian, — heroic, sounding 
 
Morning 7 
 
 words caught her eye as she turned the rough, yellow 
 leaves ; Landor's " Hellenics and Idylls " ; a copy bound 
 in marred, brown leather of Pope's translation of the 
 "Iliad," published, she noted, in 1 806, almost fifty years 
 before she was born ; the poems of Byron, Shelley, 
 Keats, and Coleridge, and of the earlier American poets; 
 and a thin gilded volume of Blake's " Songs of Inno- 
 cence." 
 
 Besides these were worn volumes of Plato, of Greek 
 and Latin poets, and German editions of Faust and 
 Nathan der Weise. At the bottom of the box Anna 
 found a faded commonplace book with her father's 
 name inscribed on the first page, and the date 1840. It 
 contained translations of Greek poetry which she sup- 
 posed to have been made by her father, although of this 
 she was not sure. She did not read them, for she felt 
 that she had no right to explore anything so personal 
 without his permission. This scruple, however, did not 
 extend to the books which filled the box, although Anna 
 felt rather than understood that they had not been packed 
 away together thus by accident, or left by forgetfulness. 
 She perceived that they denoted some decisive experience 
 in her father's inner life, that spiritual personality of the 
 man, which possessed to the young girl's thought an 
 august and even mysterious sacredness. 
 
 Whatever these books had meant to him, and for what- 
 ever reason they had been exiled from his meagre library, 
 they became to his daughter the most brilliant and allur- 
 ing feature of a somewhat colourless girlhood, the charm 
 of them enhanced by secrecy ; for, with the reticence 
 characteristic of the family life, Anna never alluded to 
 her discovery. Neither did she ever remove these liter- 
 ary remains from their seclusion in the garret ; this 
 
8 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 would have seemed an act of violence, but around the 
 box which held them she formed a kind of enclosing 
 barricade of chests and old furniture. The little nook 
 thus formed she regarded as her place of refuge, of 
 private and unguessed delight. A candle at night, and 
 rays of light piercing the wide cracks under the eaves by 
 day, made reading easy to her clear young eyes, even in 
 the dust and dusk of the dim place. And so for two 
 years, through biting cold and searing heat, Anna fed her 
 mind and heart on the poetry which had ruled her 
 father's generation, unknown and unsanctioned by any 
 one. Then one day came a strange event ; she never 
 recalled it without a sense of unshed tears. 
 
 It was late one August afternoon, and, her day's work 
 faithfully performed, Anna had gone up to her garret 
 room to make her simple toilet for the evening meal. 
 There were a few moments to spare, and, as usual, she 
 hastened to her nook, and was soon deep in Prometheus, 
 for Shelley just then controlled her imagination. Her 
 father came into the garret behind her, a very unwonted 
 thing, and Anna heard the sharp, scraping sound as he 
 drew out from the recesses where it had stood for years, 
 a small, brown, hair-covered trunk, studded with brass 
 nails, forming the initials S. D. M. It had been his own 
 during his college days, and had seen but little service 
 since. One of Anna's brothers was to start for college 
 in a day or two, and the old trunk was to serve a second 
 generation in its quest for learning. 
 
 Startled by the unusual noise, Anna rose in her place, 
 and, seeing her father, spoke to him, whereupon he 
 crossed the garret to where she stood ; a small, thin man, 
 bent a little, with a pale brown skin, prominent eyes, 
 and a dome-shaped head, the hair thin on the crown 
 
Morning 9 
 
 even to baldness, but soft and silken and long enough 
 behind the ears to show its tendency to curl. 
 
 " What have you there, Anna ? " Samuel Mallison 
 had asked, peering with short-sighted, searching eyes 
 between the bars of a battered crib which Anna had 
 used as a part of her wall of partition. 
 
 " Poetry, father," she had replied, handing him the 
 book with eager, innocent enthusiasm ; " oh, it is very 
 beautiful ! I love it so." 
 
 Her father, looking at the book, flushed strangely, 
 and a sudden, indescribable change passed over his face. 
 Pushing aside the rubbish which separated him from 
 Anna, he was immediately at her side, and in silence had 
 bent over the box. He had drawn it nearer the light, 
 and seemed looking on the side for some sign or inscrip- 
 tion. There was a piercing eagerness in his eyes. 
 Then Anna had noticed what had escaped her hitherto, 
 the initials, S. D. M., followed by the reference, Mat- 
 thew v. 29, and the date, 1848, written in ink on the 
 lower corner, dim with dust stains and faded with the 
 processes of time. 
 
 Still her father had not spoken, but, sitting down on a 
 chest, he had bent over the box, and had drawn from it 
 one after the other the buried books, with a hand as 
 gentle as if he were touching the tokens of a dead love. 
 Anna had stood aside, silent and abashed, a strange 
 tightening sensation in her throat. Her father seemed 
 to have forgotten her. At last he had reached the old 
 commonplace book underneath all. The flush on his 
 face had deepened, and Anna had thought there were 
 tears in his eyes as he glanced rapidly over its yellowed 
 pages, with the verses in fine, stifF writing and faded ink. 
 Then he had closed the book with a long sigh, had laid 
 
io A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 it carefully back in its place, and rising, had walked up 
 and down in the low garret for many minutes in some 
 evident agitation. 
 
 A sense of guilt and apprehension had fallen upon 
 Anna in her perplexity, but when, in the end, he had 
 come and stood beside her, there was a great gentleness 
 on his face. 
 
 " And so you love those books, my child ? " he had 
 asked her briefly. 
 
 " Yes, father." 
 
 "I understand. I loved them, but I gave them up — 
 twenty years ago, almost. They became a snare." He 
 had been, then, silent a moment, while a peculiar conflict 
 of thought was reflected in his face. " Yes," he con- 
 tinued, as if convinced of something called in doubt, 
 "they became a snare — to me — but for you I cannot 
 decide. It may not be for you to drink of my cup. 
 Who knows ? " and with that he had turned and left her, 
 and left the garret, the trunk forgotten ; and Anna had 
 laid the books back, soberly and with a great heartache, 
 almost as if she were laying dust dear and sacred in its 
 coffin. 
 
 The matter had never been alluded to again between 
 the father and daughter, but Anna knew that she was 
 free to read, and so read on. And still her unalloyed 
 happiness in her hidden treasure was gone. A question, 
 a suspicion, a disturbing doubt, was now attached to it. 
 It was not wrong to read this poetry, but plainly there 
 was a more excellent way, a higher ground which her 
 father had reached, and which, with her inborn passion 
 for perfection, she, too, must some day attain. Slowly 
 and silently this conviction matured within her. 
 
 And so to-night, on the eve of her day of supreme 
 
Morning 1 1 
 
 consecration, Anna, in her turn, had buried out of her 
 sight, as her father had before her, the poetry into which 
 she had been pouring her young awakening life, silently 
 and secretly, but with a fervour which the reader of many 
 books can never know. They had spoken to her in 
 mighty voices, these great spirits, so free, joyous, and 
 mysterious in their power ; but they were not the voice 
 of God, and therefore she must listen to them no more. 
 This had been a tree of life to her, but its fruit was for- 
 bidden. The axe must thenceforth be laid unflinchingly 
 at the root of the tree. Such was the initial impulse, 
 single, stern, and absolute, of Anna's awakening religious 
 nature. 
 
 Theologians in the sixties did not talk of the imma- 
 nence of God. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 Children of men ! the unseen Power whose eye 
 Forever doth accompany mankind, 
 Hath looked on no religion scornfully 
 That man did ever find. 
 
 Which has not taught weak wills how much they can ? 
 Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain ? 
 Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : 
 Tbou must be born again ! 
 
 — Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Anna Malltson's working theory of the human family 
 in its moral and religious relations (and she recognized 
 no other as of importance) was as destitute of shading 
 as a carpenter's house plan. Indeed, her hypothesis un- 
 consciously bore a certain pictorial resemblance to the 
 ground plan of a colonial house — a hall running through 
 the middle with two rooms on each side ! There was, 
 straight through the centre of her moral universe, a wide, 
 divisive, neutral passage in which dwelt uneasily all peo- 
 ple who had not been regenerated, but who had not re- 
 jected salvation formally and forever. Here were such 
 heathen and young children, and such thoughtless and 
 unhardened impenitent as might yet listen to the divine 
 call. At the right of this central hall, following Anna's 
 scheme of the race, were two wide rooms : the first bright 
 with a subdued and varied light ; the second, opening 
 beyond the first, overflowing with undimmed and celes- 
 tial radiance. The first was the Church, the place of 
 saints on earth, the second was heaven, easily reached 
 
M 
 
 orning 13 
 
 from the first. But the entrance to the first room from 
 the central space was obscure, difficult, and mysterious, 
 and few were they who found it. 
 
 At the left of the great hall were likewise two vast 
 connecting chambers. A wide door stood ever open 
 into the first, through which a throng continually passed. 
 Here were dimness and dread, lighted only by false and 
 baleful gleams ; and in the room beyond, the blackness 
 of darkness, and that forever. 
 
 This first room was the abode of those who deliber- 
 ately chose the world and turned away from God, whose 
 fitting end was in the awful gloom of that place of tor- 
 ment and wailing beyond. 
 
 Above the right-hand division, high and lifted up, 
 dwelt in unthinkable glory the God of her fathers, holy, 
 but to her subconscious sense, ineffective, else why 
 were earthquakes, murders, prisons, insanities ? and why, 
 indeed, those populous chambers on the left ? 
 
 Over them presided a rapid, hurtling Spirit, always 
 engaged in her imagination in falling like lightning from 
 heaven. He was Miltonic necessarily, but also much 
 like one of Ossian's heroes, and, on the whole, a more 
 imposing force than the Creator whose power he seemed 
 so successfully to have usurped. 
 
 In fine, Anna believed in two gods, an infinite spirit 
 of good, and an infinite spirit of evil, although she would 
 have called herself strictly monotheistic. 
 
 The neutral space between the realms of the Good 
 and Evil was the battleground of these two mighty spir- 
 its. Here prophets, apostles, and preachers were calling 
 loudly and untiringly upon all men to repent, and to 
 find the entrance to the company of the redeemed. 
 From time to time some swift and valorous spirit of 
 
14 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 man or angel would even make excursion into the dim 
 outer room on the left, and bring thence a scorched and 
 spotted soul, saved, but so as by fire. But such events 
 were rare and not to be presumed upon or expected. 
 
 It was all perfectly clear to Anna, the classification 
 and grouping precise, exact, and satisfactory. Black 
 was very black; and white, very white. She had herself 
 until very recently belonged in the neutral hall, but she 
 now believed herself to be " experiencing religion," a 
 fine old phrase, which was in effect to be pressing suc- 
 cessfully through that obscure opening which led into 
 the outer court of heaven. 
 
 But just here there was a weakness in the system. 
 Theologians and preachers like her father boldly declared 
 the contrary, and asserted that the processes of entering 
 the kingdom of heaven were as marked and unmistak- 
 able as the great general divisions of saints and sinners. 
 The conversion of Saul of Tarsus was always depicted 
 as norm and type. To be sure, all the processes were 
 not in each case marked by equal distinctness, but the 
 logical order was the same. In the first stage of the 
 progress the sinner was said to be " under conviction " 
 or " experiencing a sense of sin " ; and the more bitter 
 and overwhelming was this first phase, the better was 
 the diagnosis from the professional point of view. At 
 this point the penitent was to realize that, whatever his 
 former life had been, even if a life of prayer and unself- 
 ish devotion, it had been wholly displeasing to God, and 
 that, as tending to self-righteousness, such a life was 
 peculiarly dangerous. By nature, there could not be in 
 the human character any real moral excellence, or what 
 was more technically known as "evangelical virtue." 
 
 All this Samuel Mallison had recently set forth in a 
 
Morning 15 
 
 series of sermons on " Human Depravity ; its Degree, 
 its Extent, its Derivation, and its Punishment," which 
 had been considered of extraordinary value and merit. 
 
 But it was just here that his daughter, for all the 
 logic and learning to which she was privileged to listen, 
 stumbled and stood still. For weeks her spiritual de- 
 velopment appeared to be arrested. She was silent, 
 uncommunicative, and disappointing to all the older 
 members and office-bearers in her father's church. 
 
 " What is the matter with Anna ? " was the frequent 
 question put to Mrs. Mallison in the parish. " Why 
 don't she come out ? " 
 
 " Oh, she is under conviction all the time," would be 
 the reply, with a somewhat decided shake of the head. 
 " We let her alone pretty much, Mr. Mallison and I. 
 It isn't best to say too much, you know, when anybody 
 has reached that point. We can see that conscience is 
 Working with her." 
 
 The questioner would depart with the belief that Anna's 
 conviction was of an unusually profound and interest- 
 ing nature, like a disease with a complication ; but if 
 they had asked Anna herself, she might have told them 
 that it was from the absence of this conviction, rather 
 than from its intensity, that she was suffering. She was 
 too honest to assume a virtue, or even a vice, if she had 
 it not, and seek it as she would, a poignant sense of sin 
 did not visit her. She had cast about her, and searched 
 her own heart and life in a distinct embarrassment at 
 finding so few clearly defined and indubitable sins of 
 which to plead guilty ; she had even secretly reproached 
 her parents in her heart for having insisted upon an 
 almost faultless standard of daily living, since conform- 
 ity to their will seemed to be in itself a snare, and to 
 
1 6 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 place her at a distinct disadvantage now as compared 
 with the flagrant sinner. Why had they taught her to 
 pray, since she was now told that the prayers of the 
 unregenerate were displeasing to God ? 
 
 She used to sit during the Sunday morning service 
 and look at the neighbours in their pews around her, at 
 their children and grandchildren, and at the members of 
 her own family, seeking to find a person whom she was 
 conscious of having wronged, or toward whom she cher- 
 ished a feeling of enmity or envy. The only result of 
 this species of self-examination had been to bring to her 
 remembrance a childish, half-forgotten grudge against a 
 girl with fair curls, Malvina Loveland by name, who had 
 once ridiculed her at school, for wearing one of Lucia's 
 dresses made over. Anna drew this dim and fading fault 
 remorselessly up to the light, and formally and forever 
 forgave the unconscious " Mally." But the longing for 
 a deep experience of the " exceeding sinfulness of sin " 
 remained unsatisfied. Like many another sincere and 
 seeking soul of that day, she yearned in vain to fill out 
 in its rigid precision of sequence that spiritual programme 
 which the theologians prescribed. 
 
 Her father gave her free access to the precious, if nar- 
 row, resources of his library, and she read the Edwards, 
 both elder and younger, the elder Dwight, Bunyan, Bax- 
 ter, and the rest, in place of her dear pagans whose end 
 she now clearly foresaw. She read of the " depraved 
 moral conduct of every infant who lives so long as to 
 be capable of moral action " ; she read that " the heart 
 of Man, after all abatements are made for certain inno- 
 cent and amiable characteristics, is set to do evil in a 
 most affecting and dreadful manner " ; and that " the 
 darling and customary pleasures of men furnish an 
 
Morning 17 
 
 advantageous proof of the extreme depravity of our 
 nature." 
 
 " Was I a very wicked little child ? " she asked her 
 mother one day. 
 
 " Wicked ! " cried her mother, artlessly, resenting 
 the thought. "You were like a little angel, Benigna, 
 even from the very first. So was it that I gave you my 
 sainted mother's name. Even your looks were all love; 
 all saw it, and strangers too. You a bad child, indeed 
 who never gave your mother a harsh word or a heart- 
 ache since you were born ! " 
 
 Anna Benigna, for so her mother called her, bent anc 
 kissed her mother, a rare caress in that family. 
 
 " I am glad I pleased you," she whispered. Thert 
 were tears in her eyes, and as she walked without furthei 
 word from the room, her mother perceived the signifi- 
 cance of question and reply, and pondered long. 
 
 Then suddenly, as ice breaks up in the spring, and 
 the freshet bears down everything before it, a moment 
 of crisis and perception came, one of those moments 
 which, albeit varying with each human experience, 
 remains in each supreme. 
 
 Under all her outward conformity to law and love, 
 Anna realized now that there had lain for years a deep, 
 half-conscious resentment toward the Creator, a cold dis- 
 like of God. How could he look upon her with approval 
 while such a disposition remained in her heart ? She 
 had loved the human ; she had not loved the divine. 
 
 A sense of the absolute and eternal Good from which 
 she was alienated, to which she was antagonistic, smote 
 her with force. She now seemed to herself in the pres- 
 ence of God as a speck of dust against a dazzling 
 mountain of snow — incalculably small, hatefully im- 
 c 
 
1 8 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 pure. A passion of contrition and surrender mastered 
 her ; vague regenerating fires tried her soul ; and then 
 came an exhaustion of spirit, as of a child whom its 
 Father has chastened, and who is reconciled and at 
 peace. This succession of emotions she was able to 
 recall distinctly as long as she lived. 
 
 This had been a month ago. Anna had recounted 
 these spiritual exercises to her father, and he had told her 
 that they denoted conversion, and advised her presenting 
 herself to the church for admission. This she had 
 done, but when he asked her, further, to what cause, if 
 any, she ascribed this past sense of enmity against God, 
 she had been silent. 
 
 However, her father was fully satisfied. Like a 
 physician with a well-declared fever of a certain type, 
 he felt it to be a clear case. Considering his child's 
 blameless innocence of life, it was an unexpectedly satis- 
 factory one from the theologian's point of view. 
 
 As she sat now in the warm gloom of the June night, 
 with the dark trees murmuring softly under the wind, 
 and the sky with many stars bending near, only the 
 gable jutting above her head to keep its splendours off", 
 Anna travelled back in thought to her childish days and 
 found there the answer to her father's question. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 Nay, but I think the whisper crept 
 
 Like growth through childhood. Work and play, 
 
 Things common to the course of day, 
 
 Awed thee with meanings unfulfuTd ; 
 
 And all through girlhood, something still'd 
 
 Thy senses like the birth of light, 
 
 When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night 
 
 Or washed thy garments in the stream. 
 
 — Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 
 
 Until her twelfth year Anna had not encountered the 
 severities of Calvinistic theology, Samuel Mallison having 
 intrusted the spiritual guidance of his children, during 
 their earlier years, to their mother. Anna was the 
 youngest child. Mrs. Mallison was of a German Mora- 
 vian family who, coming from Pennsylvania, had settled 
 on the eastern boundary of New York early in the cen- 
 tury. She possessed the serene and trustful temperament 
 of her people. The subtleties of her husband's religious 
 system were beyond her simple ken ; she loved to sing 
 the hymns of Zinzendorf, as she sewed and spun and 
 ordered her household in true German Hausfraulichkeit, 
 a sincere, devout, affectionate soul who had found the 
 tone of the frigid little north New England community 
 more chilling than she dared to own. 
 
 From her Anna inherited her warm impulses, her 
 abounding delight in nature, her susceptibility to the 
 simplest impressions of sweet and common things. 
 Gulielma Mallison understood the child when she 
 came running to her one early spring morning from 
 
 x 9 
 
20 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 the parsonage garden, where the dark brown earth was 
 freshly upturned and young green things were springing,- 
 and had tears in her eyes, veiling wonder, and a shy 
 thrill of joy in all her small birdlike frame, and had 
 asked, her hands clasped upon her breast : — 
 
 " Why am I so happy, mother, that I can't bear it ? 
 Why does something ache so here ? " 
 
 " It is because thou art in God's beautiful world, little 
 Benigna," the mother had said, "and thou art God's 
 child. He is near thee, and thy heart yearns to him. 
 Be glad in God." 
 
 In his study, through the open door, Samuel Mallison 
 heard these words, and, whatever his perplexity as to 
 their doctrinal inconsistency, he did not gainsay them. 
 From his point of view at this time little Anna was 
 entirely out of relation to God and out of harmony with 
 his being, and it would have been impossible for her to 
 please him. But just then an old question, which would 
 not always down, had forced its way to his mind — 
 What if there were a wrong link somewhere in the logic ? 
 What if the love of God were something greater than 
 the schoolmen guessed ? 
 
 But on a certain winter night Anna's childhood died, 
 and the battle of her life began. 
 
 Well she remembered every physical sensation even, 
 accompanying that experience. 
 
 It had been a snowy Saturday night, and she had come 
 in from the warm kitchen where, in a round washing- 
 day tub, drawn close to the hot stove, she had taken a 
 merry, splashing bath, after the regular order of exercises 
 for Saturday night at the parsonage. Her older sister, 
 Lucia, had presided over the function, and when it was 
 accomplished she had been closely wrapped in a pale 
 
Morning 21 
 
 straw-hued, homespun flannel sheet, over her nightclothes, 
 preparatory to facing the rigours of the bitterly cold hall 
 and stairs, and the little bedroom above. 
 
 So she had trailed into the living-room, where the 
 boys and her parents were gathered around a large table. 
 The room was not very brightly lighted by the single oil 
 lamp, but a great fire crackled loudly in the stove, and 
 the rattle of the hard snowflakes on the window panes 
 and the whistling of the wind outside gave keen empha- 
 sis to the sense of cheerful safety and comfort. 
 
 Warm and languid from the heat of her bath, Anna 
 had sat down on a low seat and dropped her head on her 
 mother's knees, feeling an indescribable sensation of 
 happy lassitude and physical well-being. She recalled 
 how interested she had been in the shrivelled whiteness 
 of her own long, little fingers, and how soft and woolly 
 that dear old blanket had felt ; it was on her bed now, 
 with her mother's maiden name worked in cross-stitch 
 jn one corner, in pale pink crewel. 
 
 They had been waiting for her, to proceed with the 
 evening devotions, and her father had at once begun to 
 read a part of a sermon from one of the standard divines 
 who, though somewhat out of fashion in the centres of 
 progressive thought, were still held infallible in these 
 remoter regions. 
 
 The subject was " The Benevolence of God in Inflict- 
 ing Punishment," from a work entitled « The Effects of 
 the Fall." 
 
 Anna did not listen very closely for a time, but pres- 
 ently her attention was caught and held. The writer 
 was seeking to prove that " the damnation of a large 
 part of the human race directly subserved the general 
 happiness of mankind and the glory of God." That 
 
ii A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 even if he had saved none of the sons of men, but " had 
 left them to the endless torment they had so justly de- 
 served," and "had glorified himself in their eternal ruin, 
 they would have had no cause to complain." That the 
 best of what were illusively known as " good works," 
 were " no more than splendid sins." That no doubt, 
 if any heathen could be found who was truly virtuous 
 and holy, who loved God in the strictly evangelical 
 sense, as infinitely great, wise, and holy, and who kept all 
 his perfect law without infraction, such heathen might 
 be saved. But as there was no evidence that any such 
 heathen ever had existed, or ever could exist, there was 
 no reason to believe that any had been saved. As the 
 heathen still formed a vast proportion of the population 
 of the globe, and as only a small fraction of those nations 
 commonly known as Christian had actually and experi- 
 mentally come under the law of grace, the only conclu- 
 sion possible was, that a vast proportion of the human 
 family throughout all ages and down to the present time 
 " were serving the purposes of God's infinite wisdom 
 and benevolence in their creation in endless misery or 
 torment." 
 
 The triumphant logic of the old divine, which Mrs. 
 Mallison secretly found discomfiting but accepted calmly 
 enough considering its terrific import, and which her 
 husband read with the sad and solemn pathos of one to 
 whom it was a mournful verity, had a curious effect 
 upon little Anna. For the first time the real meaning 
 of familiar words like these smote full and sharp upon 
 her mind, and in the physical lassitude of the moment 
 acted like a bodily injury upon her. She grew whiter 
 and whiter, and she touched and grasped the soft blanket 
 about her with powerless fingers, to convince herself 
 
Morning 23 
 
 that she could feel and find what was familiar, faintness 
 being an absolutely unknown sensation. 
 
 Suddenly, with an imperious impulse, and a singular 
 effect of childish courage which dared to do an unheard- 
 of thing, she rose and said with perfect apparent com- 
 posure, breaking in upon the reading: — 
 
 " I am too tired to stay here any longer, I am going 
 upstairs now," and so left the room. Her mother had 
 watched the slight figure in its close drapery with anxious 
 eyes until the door closed upon her, but had not thought 
 of following. This reading was a solemn function not 
 to be lightly interrupted. 
 
 Upstairs, Anna had betaken herself hastily to bed, and 
 lay there, motionless, somewhat alarmed at her own revo- 
 lutionary action, and with little to say when questioned 
 by her mother presently. 
 
 But when the house was still, and the night advancing 
 to its mid depth of darkness, the child, still lying with 
 wide, wakeful eyes, cried silently with a piteous conscious- 
 ness of desolation and sorrow. A sense of the bitter- 
 ness of a world where millions of helpless human spirits 
 were shut up to endless agony had overwhelmed her, and 
 a spirit of rebellion against God who willed it so for his 
 own glory had taken intense possession of her thought. 
 
 In the passion of her childish resentment and grief 
 and worn by the unwonted wakefulness, her breath came 
 in long, quivering sobs which were heard in the next 
 room, and brought her father to her side. 
 
 She could answer nothing to his questions, but he 
 found her hands cold, and her pulse weak and rapid. 
 
 " You did not eat your supper to-night, little Anna," 
 he said gently, remembering her faint appetite for the 
 frugal fare of the parsonage table. 
 
24 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Anna only sobbed more convulsively. She had ex- 
 pected severity and blame, feeling verily guilty in spirit. 
 
 Samuel Mallison said nothing more, but Anna, wonder- 
 ing, heard him go downstairs, heard doors open and 
 shut, and then silence fell again. Ten minutes later her 
 father stood again by the bedside in the icy chill of the 
 winter midnight in the unwarmed chamber, and he had 
 brought a bowl of broth, hot and smoking, bread, too, 
 and, most unwonted pampering, a piece of the rare pound- 
 cake, kept for company and never given to children 
 except on high holidays. 
 
 Neither of them spoke, but Samuel Mallison, for all 
 the cold, sat on the bed's edge while Anna ate and 
 drank, drawing her frail little body to rest against his 
 own. 
 
 The broth was salted for Anna by her tears, and the 
 long-drawn sobs, coming at intervals, half choked her as 
 she ate, but she was comforted at last and fortified against 
 the woe of the world, and she pressed her cheek against 
 tier father's arm with a sense of the infinite sweetness of 
 fatherhood warm at her heart. As she finished the last 
 crumb of cake, she thought : — 
 
 u If only God had been kind like my father! I was 
 naughty, and that only makes him good to me and piti- 
 ful." But she said nothing, only looked with a world 
 of wondering gratefulness in her large innocent eyes up 
 into her father's face, finding some perplexity that cake 
 and broth should reconcile her to the everlasting torment 
 of the majority of mankind, but wisely concluding to 
 make the best of it since such seemed to be the effect, 
 and, as it was now undoubtedly high time, to go to sleep. 
 
 Finding her bright and well next morning, the Malli- 
 sons, father and mother, had thought little more of that 
 
Morning 25 
 
 Saturday night revolt, which they, indeed, had not known 
 as such ; but, as she looked back over her years to-night, 
 in her gable window, Anna perceived that from that time 
 there had always been in the secret place of her heart a 
 sense of enmity against a God who was not kind like her 
 father. To-night she knew herself, at last, reconciled ; 
 faith had triumphed and declared that even the darkest 
 decree of God's great will must be right, since he was 
 the absolutely Good. But her heart yearned with mighty 
 yearning for the subjects of his just wrath, and as she 
 knelt in the darkness and silence she gave herself with 
 simple, unreserved sincerity to the service of the lost 
 among men. 
 
 Rising from her knees, Anna felt a strange glow and 
 exaltation of spirit. In her own personal life sin had 
 been met and vanquished. Tremendous apostolic asser- 
 tions buoyed her soul upward like strong wings: "free 
 from the law of sin and of death," " passed from death 
 unto life," " All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, 
 and Christ is God's." Thus she felt her finite linked to 
 the infinite. Her spirit was suffused with thrilling and 
 unspeakable joy ; God was closer than breathing and 
 nearer than hands and feet. 
 
 But, as she stood rapt and absorbed, there came up 
 through the hush of the night from the dim street below 
 a strange sound, and she was caught back by it, and 
 listened painfully. It was a little child crying piteously. 
 
 Peering down through the clustering branches, below 
 her window, Anna could discern by the dim light of the 
 stars the shape of a woman, forlorn and spiritless, pass- 
 ing silently along the shadowed way. Behind her fol- 
 lowed the crying child, with weary little feet stumbling 
 at every stone. The woman carried something in her 
 
16 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 arms, hidden by an apron ; she turned and looked at the 
 child, and shook her head, but did not speak. 
 
 This woman, who moved abroad only at night, was 
 the village outcast, and the child was her child, born in 
 sin. 
 
 Vague and uncomprehended to Anna's mind was the 
 abyss into which this woman had fallen, but she felt it 
 to be black and bottomless, and to place an everlasting 
 separation between her and the good. She drew back 
 from the window, a sharp pain, made of pity and horror, 
 at her heart, sin embodied thus confronting her. She 
 felt as Sir Launfal felt when he saw the leper. 
 
 Lying down to rest at last, Anna slept, in spite of 
 spiritual ecstasies and sufferings, the sound sleep of a 
 healthy girl who is fortunate enough to forget the ulti- 
 mate destinies of human souls, her own with the rest, 
 for certain favoured hours. 
 
 It was long before her sleep was disturbed by dreams, 
 but an hour before sunrise she awoke with a pervading 
 sense of exquisite happiness brought over with her from 
 a dream just dreamed. It was a still dream of seeing, 
 not of doing. She had seen the form of a man of 
 heroic aspect, old rather than young, with a grey head, 
 leonine and majestic, strong stern features, a glance 
 mild and yet searching and subduing; a man imperial 
 and lofty, and above his fellows, but whether as king 
 or saint or soldier she could not guess. But here was 
 made visible a power, a freedom, and a greatness for 
 which her own nature, she felt in a swift flash of self- 
 revelation, passionately cried out, which it had nowhere 
 found, and to which it bowed in a curious delight 
 hitherto unknown. This only happened : this mysteri- 
 ous personality, more than human, she thought, if less 
 
Morning 27 
 
 than divine, had looked kindly upon her, in her weak, 
 childish abasement, and had shed into her eyes, and so 
 into her heart, the impossible, inexplicable happiness with 
 which she awoke. She did not sleep again. This wak- 
 ing consciousness enamoured her. 
 
 What did it mean ? Anna asked herself all day. Was 
 it a dream sent from God at this solemn hour of dedica- 
 tion ? If so, what did it prefigure ? Even at the sacra- 
 mental feast, her first communion, that majestic head, 
 with the controlling sweetness of the eyes upon her, 
 came before her vision, and made her heart beat fast. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 The fiend that man harries 
 Is love of the Best. 
 
 — The Spbynx, R. W. Emirson. 
 
 Malvina Loveland, the girl whom Anna had found 
 solace in forgiving for her childish offence, had " come 
 out," as Haran people said, at the same time with 
 Anna. 
 
 This fact, and the compunction in Anna's heart tow- 
 ard her early foe, had drawn the two girls together, 
 and they became friends. They talked of the interests 
 of the cause of religion, and read biographies together, 
 or rather, Anna read aloud while her friend diligently 
 produced lace work with a small shuttle, or hemstitched 
 linen ruffles ; but both cared less for these several occu- 
 pations than for the sense of mingling their young, 
 unfolding perceptions. 
 
 Anna had need of a friend ; Lucia, her sister, was 
 many years older, and had long ago married a farmer, 
 and departed deeper into the hills, where she worked 
 with the immoderate industry of New England women, 
 bore many children, and lived a life into which Anna 
 did not enter deeply. The Mallison boys were away 
 from home, studying and working, and the parsonage 
 was a silent place. Anna adored her father with the 
 restrained ardour of her kind, and loved her mother with 
 a great tenderness, but she was actively intimate with 
 neither, and thus greatly alone. 
 
 Mally was noticeably pretty, and Anna thought her 
 28 
 
Morning 29 
 
 beauty angelic. She was capable, clever, quick, and 
 impulsive, one of the women who can do anything they 
 see done, strongly imitative and impressionable. She 
 developed rapidly, while Anna matured slowly. Anna 
 had nobleness, Mally had facility. Anna, beside Mally, 
 looked uncomfortably tall, with her angular thinness and 
 her dark, grave face. She had masses of lustreless brown 
 hair, a clear hrune skin like her father, and, like him, 
 singularly fine hands. Her eyes were her mother's, 
 and her only beauty, — golden brown, and of limpid 
 clearness. 
 
 To both these girls their religion was a system of 
 prohibition and of an abnormal development of con- 
 science. The negative, net the positive, side was up- 
 permost to them. " Thou shalt not " was written over 
 every device and desire which did not minister directly 
 to the furtherance of the local conception of religion. 
 Both were eager to grasp the positive side, to convert 
 the world, to see Satan chained, and themselves to con- 
 tribute to this desirable consummation ; but they were 
 doubtful how to begin. Both were ardent controversial- 
 ists after the manner of their day, and Anna read sys- 
 tematic theology with her father with extraordinary 
 relish. 
 
 They waited and wondered, each longing for her des- 
 tiny to disclose itself decisively. But with Anna a hid- 
 den life budded beneath the surface, unknown even to 
 Mally. The romantic and poetic impulses of her na- 
 ture, no longer directly nourished by the poets whom 
 she had put away from her by force, stirred in her heart, 
 and fed themselves, in silence, on the life of nature, and 
 on the delicate, evanescent imaginings of her awakening 
 womanhood. 
 
3<d A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Below the surface of her conscious thoughts a strange 
 inarticulate passion for power and freedom beat and 
 throbbed, and would not be stilled, despite her quiet, 
 conscientious conformity to the narrow conditions of the 
 world about her. She did not know what freedom was, 
 but she felt that she was not free ; neither did she clearly 
 know what the power meant for which she longed, but 
 she felt the absence of it in every one she had ever met. 
 It was mysterious, indefinable — once only had she en- 
 countered it, and that was in a dream. 
 
 Thus a nature simple and single, with all its forces 
 apparently bent one way, and with few avenues, or none, 
 by which to import conflicting influences, was, in fact, 
 already incipiently subject to the complexities of instinct, 
 of motive, and desire, which weave the bewildering net- 
 work of human experience. 
 
 When Anna was twenty, an event occurred of much 
 importance in its bearing on her life. Under the direc- 
 tion of an old friend of Samuel Mallison, the Rev. 
 Dr. Durham of Boston, a general secretary for Foreign 
 Missions, a series of meetings was held in Haran for the 
 promotion of an interest in this cause. Dr. Durham 
 was entertained, during the time of the convention, at 
 the parsonage ; he was a genial and kindly man, and be- 
 came in his way an especial friend of Anna, in whom 
 he manifested a marked interest. 
 
 From the country round about, during the week, men 
 and women thronged to Haran ; and at an evening meet- 
 ing to be addressed by a woman who had been a mis- 
 sionary in India, the white meeting-house was filled. 
 Many in the congregation had never seen a missionary ; 
 many more had never heard a woman speak in public. 
 Curiosity ran high. 
 
Morning 31 
 
 The speaker was a little sallow woman, in a plain and 
 unbecoming grey gown, who stepped timidly to the edge 
 of the platform, laying a small hand which trembled visi- 
 bly on the cold mahogany pulpit, as if to conciliate it 
 for her intrusion and to crave its support. 
 
 She spoke in a shrill crescendo, without the graces or 
 arts of a skilled speaker, and she made no appeal to the 
 emotions of the hearers. It was rather a dry and unim- 
 aginative account of the work done at an obscure moun- 
 tain station, with statistics of no great impressiveness, 
 and careful attention to accuracy of detail. But she 
 had the advantage of sowing her seed on virgin soil. It 
 was not important at that day and to those isolated and 
 simple-minded people that the missionary should speak 
 with enticing words, or attempt dramatic effect. She 
 was herself there before them in flesh and blood, and no 
 great time before she had been on heathen ground, had 
 come into actual combat, face to face, with wild, savage 
 men and strange, outlandish women, who knew not God, 
 and who veritably and visibly bowed down to wood and 
 stone. 
 
 For the hour, that little woman of weak bodily pres- 
 ence and commonplace intellect became the incarnation 
 of Christianity seeking a lost world, and she herself was 
 far greater to their thought than anything she could have 
 said. 
 
 At the end of her report, for it was that rather than 
 appeal or address, she told the story of a high-caste 
 Hindu woman to whom she had sought to give the gos- 
 pel message. This woman had turned upon her with 
 grave wonder and had asked, u How long have you 
 known this ? about this Jesus ? " 
 
 " Oh, for many years, all my life in fact." 
 
22 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 "Then," said the woman, solemnly, u why did you not 
 come to tell us before ? " 
 
 Without comment or enlargement, having told of this 
 occurrence, the speaker turned and walked shyly from 
 the platform, leaving an unusual hush in the assembly, as 
 if an event, a result of some sort, were waited for. 
 
 Toward the end of the church, where she was seated 
 with her mother, Anna Mallison rose in her place, made 
 her way out into the middle aisle, and then, with her head 
 a little bent, but her face neither pale nor agitated, walked 
 quietly to the foot of the platform. Samuel Mallison, 
 who was seated with Dr. Durham behind the pulpit, 
 rose and stood, just above, as if to receive her, looking 
 down with solemn eyes. Some one who saw Anna's 
 face said that, as she looked up into that of her father 
 thus bent above her, the smile which suddenly illumi- 
 nated it was beyond earthly beauty. It was a look in 
 which two human spirits, and those father and child, 
 purged as far as might be of earthliness, met in angelic 
 interchange, pure and high. 
 
 Turning about, thus facing the great congregation, 
 Anna, who had never before spoken in a public gather- 
 ing of any sort, however small, said in a voice which 
 was clear and distinct, though not loud : — 
 
 " I wish to offer myself to this society to go, if they 
 will send me, to some heathen people, to tell them that 
 Christ has died to save them. I am ready to go at once, 
 if it is thought best." 
 
 The gravity and simplicity, and absence of self-con- 
 sciousness, of the girl's words and bearing, and the pro- 
 found sympathy of the people who saw and heard her, 
 combined to produce an overpowering impression. As 
 the meeting broke up, women were weeping all over 
 
Morning 33 
 
 the house, and sturdy unemotional men were deeply 
 moved. 
 
 Anna, seeing that many would surround her and 
 speak their sympathy or give their praise, which she 
 dreaded and feared to hear, turned with swift steps to 
 the door nearest her, and so escaped into the outer dark- 
 ness of the night, no one following. 
 
 But, as she hurried with light steps across the village 
 green and reached the parsonage gate, she found Mally 
 waiting to waylay her. 
 
 " Oh, Anna," she cried, and her tears flowed fast, 
 "you will go away from me, from all of us ! How can 
 you put this great distance between us ? " 
 
 " How can I do anything else, Mally ? " Anna an- 
 swered softly. " It is what I have been waiting for ; I 
 think I was never truly happy until to-night. All my 
 life before I have been unsatisfied, and something has 
 ached and hurt whenever I stopped to feel it." 
 
 " And to-night you are really happy ? " cried her 
 friend, half enviously, and yet by no means drawn to 
 devote herself to the medley of crocodiles, dark-skinned 
 babies, and cars of Juggernaut, which signified India to 
 her mind. 
 
 " Oh, at last ! " Anna exclaimed, and with a long 
 breath of relief. " Will it not bring peace, Mally, to 
 know that I am surely doing His will ? It will be like 
 pure sunshine after living in a fog these past years." 
 
 " Then weren't you really happy when you were con- 
 verted and joined the church ? " asked Mally, naively. 
 
 " Partly. But just to be happy because you are saved 
 yourself — why, it does not last. And you know, dear, 
 we could never find anybody's soul to work for here in 
 Haran ; at least, we didn't know how," and Anna be- 
 
 D 
 
34 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 came silent, the vision of one solitary outcast coming 
 before her, with whom she had been forbidden even to 
 speak. But Mally refused to be comforted thus, and 
 went her way with many tears. 
 
 There were more tears for Anna to encounter that 
 night, for her mother came home broken-hearted. The 
 Lord had answered her husband's daily prayer, and had 
 graciously chosen one of their own family to preach the 
 gospel to the heathen, and the answered prayer was more 
 than the loving soul could sustain. Like Jacob, she 
 could get no farther than the wail, " If I am bereaved, 
 I am bereaved." 
 
 Not so Samuel Mallison. Too long had he schooled 
 himself to the sacrifice of his dearest human and earthly 
 desires. The long discipline of his life stood him now 
 in good stead. Coming into the room where Anna was 
 vainly seeking to comfort her mother, he laid his hands 
 in blessing on her head, and with a look upward which 
 stilled the weeping woman, he pronounced the ancient 
 words : — 
 
 " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according 
 
 to thy word ; 
 For mine eyes have seen thy salvation." 
 
 And yet Anna was the very apple of his eye. Of 
 such fibre was the altruism of that rugged first growth. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Life ! life ! thou sea-fugue, writ from cast to west, 
 Love, Love alone can pore 
 On thy dissolving score 
 Of harsh half-phrasings, 
 
 Blotted ere writ, 
 And double erasings 
 Of chords most fit. 
 
 — Sidney Lanier. 
 
 From the time of the missionary meeting and the 
 announcement of his daughter's determination to devote 
 herself to the service of Christ in a heathen land, Samuel 
 Mallison's health declined rapidly. His Nunc Dimittis 
 was of literal import, and prophetic. 
 
 Whether the death which all who loved him saw that 
 he was soon to accomplish could be called dying of 
 heart-break or dying of fulfilled desire, would have been 
 hard to determine. Heart and flesh cried out against 
 the separation from his best-beloved child, while the 
 triumphant spirit blessed God for answered prayer, and 
 for the fruition in that cherished life of his child of 
 hopes and aspirations which had been but scantily ful- 
 filled in his own. 
 
 " I have not been a successful man, Anna," he said 
 to her one autumn day when they were alone in his 
 study. He sat erect in his straight chair, but with an 
 unmistakable languor in every line of face and frame, 
 and with a feverish brightness in his prominent dark 
 eyes. 
 
 Anna laid her hand upon his with endless gentleness. 
 35 
 
36 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " No man in Haran is so beloved, father. No man 
 has done so much good." 
 
 " Perhaps," he answered sadly, " and I am satisfied. 
 It is the will of God. Anna, I have seemed, perhaps, 
 cold and silent, and without feeling as you have seen me; 
 but the fire within has burned unceasingly, and I am 
 consumed." 
 
 The last words were spoken lower and with an un- 
 conscious pathos which moved Anna unspeakably. 
 
 " I do not understand, father dear, not fully. Can 
 you tell me all ? I love you so." 
 
 They were the simplest words of the most natural 
 affection, and yet it was the first time in her life that 
 Anna had spoken after this sort to her father. 
 
 " My girl," he said simply, taking her hand within 
 his own. Then, after a pause, he continued speaking. 
 
 " It is after this manner that life has gone with me. 
 I believe I ought to retrace my past with you — for per- 
 haps there may be light upon your path, if you know all. 
 When I entered the ministry it was with sincerely right 
 purpose ; all the influences of my life pointed me in that 
 direction, but it was, perhaps, more as an intellectual and 
 congenial profession than from deeper reasons. I began 
 mv ministry, in 1 841, in Boston. I was considered to 
 have certain gifts which were valued in that day, and all 
 went well, on the surface. But it was the period of a 
 literary awakening in our nation, of which Boston was 
 the centre of influence. An American literature was 
 just becoming a visible reality, and a new impulse was at 
 work and stirring everywhere. Men of original force 
 were suddenly multiplied before us, and the contagion of 
 intellectual ambition was felt in an altogether new degree. 
 To me it became all-controlling. Transcendental phi- 
 
Morning 37 
 
 losophy, Platonism, and classic learning acquired for me 
 a supreme attraction, and I gave myself more and more 
 to the study of them, and to the translation of Greek 
 poetry. This had no unfavourable effect upon my preach- 
 ing in the opinion of my congregation, rather the reverse, 
 and I may say without vanity that I had reached com- 
 paratively early a certain eminence to which I was by no 
 means indifferent." 
 
 Samuel Mallison paused a moment, while Anna 
 silently reflected that this narrative would in the end 
 explain the buried books of her dear old garret delight. 
 
 " Learning was young among us in those days, 
 Anna," Samuel Mallison began again humbly, after a 
 little space, "else this would not have happened; in 
 the year 1848 I received a call to a professorship of the 
 Greek language and literature in Harvard College." 
 
 Anna felt her own young blood rush to her cheeks in 
 pride and wonder and amazement. To her little-village 
 simplicity and scanty experience this seemed a surpassing 
 distinction, and one which placed her father among the 
 great men of the earth. 
 
 " The day after the mind of the authorities had been 
 made known to me, was the day of my life which I 
 remember best," Samuel Mallison continued. 
 
 " I went to my study that morning with a programme 
 of what would take place somewhat definitely before 
 my mind. I was about to seek, humbly and devoutly, 
 an interview with God, in which I would lay before 
 him this new and momentous opening in my life, and 
 seek to have his will for me made clear. What this 
 will would be, or what I should take it to be, was, just 
 below the surface of my mind, a foregone conclusion. 
 In fact, my letter of acceptance was substantially framed 
 
38 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 in my mind already. I had never been favoured with 
 voices and visions and revelations clear and conclusive 
 in my religious experience, and I foresaw a decision 
 based upon general reasonableness and preference, 
 touched with a pleasant sense of the divine favour, 
 which might naturally be expected to rest upon so 
 congenial a course, and one so worthily justified by 
 precedent. I read, as a preparatory exercise, with per- 
 fect satisfaction, the twelfth chapter of John's Gospel, 
 then closed my Bible and knelt in prayer. This was 
 exactly as I had foreseen — an orderly series of exer- 
 cises befitting my position. But, oh ; how mechanical, 
 how cold, how barren ! With such perfunctory prac- 
 tices I could think to take leave of the sacred calling 
 of the ministry, so dead had my spirit grown to the 
 claims of the blessed gospel, and its mission of salvation 
 to a lost and perishing world ! 
 
 " I knelt and thought to pray, but, like the king in 
 'Hamlet,' my words flew up, my thoughts remained 
 below. Between me and Him whom I would have 
 approached, interposed, like a palpable barrier, a solemn 
 reiterated echo of words just read : ' Verily, verily, I 
 say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the 
 ground and die, it abideth alone ; but if it die, it bring- 
 eth forth much fruit. He that loveth his life shall 
 lose it.' 
 
 " I rose from my knees and walked up and down the 
 room in great anxiety of spirit. This new work which 
 I thought to undertake was educational, ennobling, nec- 
 essary ; in no way contrary to sound doctrine, in no 
 way a betrayal of sacred responsibility ; I was fitted for 
 it by nature, by tastes, and attainments. Why was it 
 opened to me ? To mock me ? to tempt ? I could 
 
Morning 39 
 
 not believe it, I had welcomed it as coming in the provi- 
 dence of God. 
 
 " But my heart-searching grew swift and deep, and 
 it was given me to see the absoluteness, the finality, of 
 the vows which I had assumed, from which I straight- 
 way realized that no argument of those with which I 
 was equipped sufficed to release me. Feebly and im- 
 perfectly, yet sensibly, I began to grasp the import of 
 what the apostle calls the fellowship of Christ's suffer- 
 ings, the being made conformable unto his death. Oh, 
 the depth of the mystery hid in that saying ! All these 
 years I have sounded it — Anna, all these years I have 
 died, in my own natural life — I have striven to give all 
 I had to give, but the 'much fruit' — where has it 
 been ? " 
 
 An expression of pain, hardly less than agony, was 
 impressed upon Samuel Mallison's face, and Anna hid 
 her eyes, finding it too bitter to bear to see him suffer 
 thus. 
 
 " I put it all away from me, then and there. Nothing 
 was possible but for me to decline the invitation which 
 had been given, you can see. Further, I saw that my 
 studies had been my snare. My love of poetry and 
 philosophy and learning, the prominence of my pulpit, 
 the social and intellectual affinities I had formed, all had 
 contributed to my spiritual deadness and decline. It 
 was then that I put away in that box, now upstairs, the 
 books which had particularly ministered to the tastes 
 which had led me so far from the true conception of my 
 life work. Never since that day have I allowed myself 
 to follow the instinct for poetic expression. That long- 
 ing had to be cut out, even if some life-blood flowed in 
 the doing it. Henceforth, I wished to know nothing 
 
40 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 but Christ, and him — Anna, do not fail to grasp this 
 — him, not triumphant, but crucified. The offence of 
 the cross to the natural spirit, how hardly can it be over- 
 come ! No child's play, no easy and harmonious growth 
 in grace, has it been to me, but a conflict all the way. 
 Your mother has a different type of religious life. Be 
 thankful if her temperament shall prove to be yours. 
 
 "That is the story. I left my church not very long 
 after and sought this rugged, remote section, because it 
 offered hard work and a needy field, which some men 
 shunned. Some years before I had met your mother, and 
 we were married. Twenty years of my life and its best 
 activity have been spent here in Haran. Those first 
 few years and what made life to me in them I have looked 
 upon as a false start. From that day, I sought only this 
 one gift : an especial enduement of the Holy Spirit to 
 give me power with men unto salvation. I desired this 
 gift supremely, but I have not received it in any signal 
 manner. My ministry has not been wholly unfruitful, 
 but it has been lacking in the results for which I hoped ; 
 I have not had power with God and men, as have some 
 of my more favoured brethren. The end is near now, 
 very near, but I come with almost empty hands and a 
 humbled, contrite heart to meet my Judge. But, my 
 child, whatever the conflicts of the past years, the last 
 thing which I could wish for to-day would be to have 
 reversed that early decision. My life, from the merely 
 human point of view, might, perhaps, on the line of intel- 
 lectual effort have been counted successful, while as a 
 minister of Christ it has not been so to any marked de- 
 gree : but what is success, and what failure, when the 
 things of time fade before our eyes ? " 
 
 Samuel Mallison's head drooped upon one supporting 
 
Morning 41 
 
 hand, and an expression of solemn musing rested on his 
 face, while Anna's tears flowed fast. 
 
 " Just to do our own little day's work faithfully, not 
 knowing what its part may be in the great whole, just 
 to hold fast to the word of God and the testimony of 
 Jesus, and, having begun the race, to continue to the end 
 — is not this enough ? " 
 
 There was silence between them for some moments, 
 and then the father said, making a sign to Anna to 
 
 rise : — 
 
 " I want you to leave me now, dear child. I must 
 rest. The one earthly hope to which I still cling is that 
 to you may be given the reward of ' much fruit,' which 
 I have failed to win. Remember this, if all the other 
 teaching I have given you shall be forgotten in the years 
 which are to try you, of what stuff you are made : tvith 
 greatness we have nothing at all to do ; faithfulness only is 
 
 our part." 
 
 Anna Mallison listened to these words with reverent 
 sympathy and loving response, but the deeper meaning 
 of them did not reveal itself to her, her time for per- 
 ception being not yet fully come. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 O Joy, hast thou a shape ? 
 
 Hast thou a breath ? 
 
 How fillest thou the soundless air ? 
 
 Tell me the pillars of thy house ! 
 
 What rest they on ? Do they escape 
 
 The victory of Death ? 
 
 — H. H. 
 
 In the largest theatre of the New England city of 
 Springfield on a night in December, an immense assem- 
 bly of people was gathered. Every gallery was crowded 
 to its utmost, and the house, from floor to roof, was a 
 dense mass of human beings. On the stage were musi- 
 cal instruments, but the customary scenery was with- 
 drawn, save that the background showed a Neapolitan 
 villa situated on the slope of a Swiss mountain, at the 
 base of which an ultramarine ocean heaved stormily. 
 Against the incongruity of this unstable structure were 
 massed several hundred men and women, and before 
 them a musical leader, baton in hand. At an appointed 
 signal the great chorus stood, and with them, at the ges- 
 ture of a man, himself seated near the centre of the fore- 
 ground of the stage, the whole audience, with a rushing 
 sound like the sea or the wind, rose also. 
 
 Then there was sung by the chorus, with trained per- 
 fection, an old hymn, the words of which, as well as the 
 melody, were of quaint and almost childish simplicity : — 
 
 "Alas, and did my Saviour bleed ? 
 And did my Sovereign die ? 
 42 
 
Morning 43 
 
 Would he devote that sacred head 
 
 For such a worm as I ? 
 Was it for crimes that I had done 
 
 He groaned upon the tree ? 
 Amazing pity, grace unknown, 
 
 And love beyond degree." 
 
 With a swift motion of his baton the leader indicated 
 that the whole assembly was to join in singing the refrain, 
 in lowered voices. There followed in a deep murmur 
 of a pathos quite indescribable : — 
 
 "Remember me, remember me, 
 Oh, Lord, remember me ! 
 And when thou sittest on thy throne 
 Dear Lord, remember me." 
 
 At the close of this hymn many people in all parts of 
 the house were in tears, but the hush of motionless silence 
 following was complete, and the eyes of all were riveted 
 upon that central figure on the stage, the man who now 
 rose and, advancing to the front, began to address them. 
 
 This man was of majestic personal presence and his 
 speech was with marked power. Thinly veiled under a 
 manner of unusual restraint and quietness lay a genius 
 for emotional appeal and for persuasion. There was in 
 his manner and speech an utter absence of excitability, 
 and yet a quality which excited ; a capacity for impas- 
 sioned eloquence, apparently controlled and held back 
 by the speaker's will. The congregation listened with 
 absorbed attention. 
 
 At the close of the address, which was designed to 
 move all the impenitent or irresolute persons present to 
 an immediate confession of their need of a Saviour, the 
 speaker asked those of this class who were present and 
 
44 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 were so inclined to advance and take certain seats, 
 directly in front of the stage, which had been reserved 
 for them. 
 
 A close observer would have been interested in watch- 
 ing the man as this part of the evening's work was 
 ushered in. The restrained intensity of his manner was 
 noticeably augmented ; his eyes moved slowly and search- 
 ingly from one part of the house to another with a gaze 
 which no trifler and no awakened soul might escape. 
 The expression of his face was sternly solemn, even 
 tragical, as of one undergoing an actual travail of spirit. 
 He stood absolutely motionless save for a single and 
 significant gesture of his right hand, an upward gesture 
 made with peculiar slowness and with dramatic effect. 
 It was at once entreating, subduing, and commanding. 
 
 At the first moment no person stirred ; but presently, 
 as if drawn by an irresistible magnetism, a stream of 
 men and women could be seen advancing down the vari- 
 ous aisles, with fixed look, pallid faces, and sometimes 
 with tears. Upon such the speaker bent a look of gen- 
 tleness and encouragement, in which his features would 
 be momentarily relaxed, only to resume the profound 
 solemnity already spoken of, as he lifted his eyes again 
 to the unmoved masses still confronting him. 
 
 The chorus, without rising, now chanted softly the 
 words of vivid appeal : — 
 
 "Why not to-night ? Why not to-night ? 
 Thou wouldst be saved, why not to-night ? ' ' 
 
 Many moments passed. The company of seekers 
 now numbered a hundred. Beneath the absolute out- 
 ward restraint which held all, an inner excitement grew 
 steadily in intensity, and the subtle contagion of " the 
 
Morning 45 
 
 crowd " assumed an irresistible sway. It might have 
 become alarming. It possessed elements of terror just 
 below the surface. A climax was reached when a man 
 of gigantic frame and brutalized features, in the upper 
 gallery, stepped forward, and with a gesture rude and 
 almost wild, flung out his arms toward the evangelist, 
 and called through the silence of the place : — 
 
 "I give in — you knew I'd have to. Yes, I'm 
 comin'." And then, turning, clattered down the bare 
 gallery stairs, only to reappear presently below, with his 
 coarse head bent and big tears flowing down his purple 
 cheeks. 
 
 Gradually the stream of seekers abated, and the aisles 
 became empty. Thus far no word of appeal or warn- 
 ing had been added to the sermon ; save for the re- 
 strained monotony of the music this extraordinary scene 
 had taken place in complete silence. 
 
 Then the speaker's voice was heard again, and in it 
 was a strange emotional quality which had been previ- 
 ously unnoticed, and before which the pride and will of 
 many melted within them. 
 
 " The people of this company are dismissed to their 
 homes," he said, in gentle, measured tones ; " my work 
 now is for those who have feared God rather than men. 
 They will remain. Let all others go without unneces- 
 sary delay, or stopping for speech with one another. 
 The Spirit is here." 
 
 The benediction followed, but as they broke up, scores 
 hitherto irresolute turned and joined the company of 
 seekers in the front of the house. 
 
 When the speaker, the house being otherwise emp- 
 tied, came down to the anxious and disquieted little 
 company waiting for his guidance, he stood before them 
 
46 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 in silence for a little space, and then, turning to a group 
 of clergymen who were associated with him, he said : — 
 
 " Pardon me, but I believe I will leave these friends 
 in your hands, brethren. I wish to return immediately 
 to my lodging," and saying nothing further in explana- 
 tion or apology, he departed, with evident haste. 
 
 When he reached the lobby of the theatre he found 
 three men watching who hastened toward him, their 
 spokesman, with outstretched hand, introducing himself 
 and his companions and adding, with eager cordiality: — 
 
 " This is so much better than we expected. We 
 were prepared to wait for you some time." 
 
 The man received the greeting gravely, and, indeed, 
 silently. 
 
 " Will you come with us now to our hotel ? We 
 wish to confer with you. We have come from New 
 York for that purpose." 
 
 " Will you not let me know what you wish here, at 
 once ? " was the rejoinder. " I am in some haste." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly, if you prefer it," said the other, 
 cheerfully, hiding a shade of discomfiture. Then, with 
 a change to serious emphasis, he proceeded : " We 
 want you to undertake a v/ork in New York this winter, 
 as soon as possible, in fact. A large group of prominent 
 churches is ready to unite in the movement, and unlim- 
 ited resources will be placed at your disposal. Your own 
 compensation, pardon me for alluding to it, will be any- 
 thing you will name — that is a matter of indifference to 
 the committee, save that it be large enough. We are 
 ready to build you a tabernacle two hundred feet square, 
 — larger if you like." 
 
 The man addressed involuntarily laid his hand on his 
 breast ; a letter in the pocket under his hand, from Chi- 
 
Morning 47 
 
 cago, specified a tabernacle three hundred feet square. 
 He smiled slightly ; even religious zeal was a size larger 
 in Chicago than elsewhere. 
 
 Further details were mentioned, but the evangelist 
 seemed to give them a forced and mechanical attention. 
 Then, rather suddenly, he broke in with a word of 
 apology. 
 
 " I am fully sensible, gentlemen," he went on, " of 
 the confidence you have manifested in me, and I would, 
 under other conditions, have accepted your proposition. 
 But the very circumstance of your making it to-night 
 hastens an action on my part which I have been ap- 
 proaching, but had not, until now, definitely determined 
 upon. I am about to withdraw from this work, and can 
 form no engagements, however promising. I shall close 
 the meetings here as soon as I can honourably do so, and 
 these meetings are, for the present certainly, my last." 
 
 The blank faces of the three men before him seemed 
 to demand a v/ord or two more. 
 
 " My reasons ? " he asked with curt and almost chill- 
 ing brevity. " Pardon me. They are personal to 
 myself. Good evening. No one can regret your dis- 
 appointment more than I." With these words the 
 speaker turned abruptly from the little group and left 
 the theatre. In great amazement and perplexity the 
 committee of three presently followed his example. 
 
 Here was an accredited and earnest man, no irrespon- 
 sible religious tramp, who possessed, apparently in a 
 superlative degree, the gift of winning souls for which 
 Samuel Mallison had given his all, if in vain, and for 
 lack of which he might fairly be said to be dying, being 
 one who could have lived on spiritual joy, if such had 
 ever been his portion. And this man, possessing this 
 
48 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 coveted and crowning religious endowment, was delib- 
 erately putting it aside, and refusing to use it. What 
 
 did it signify ? 
 
 Anna Mallison had left Haran, in its ice-bound valley, 
 early that morning, and, by travelling through snowdrifts 
 in a sleigh all the forenoon, had been favoured to get 
 as far as Springfield on her journey, at nine o'clock of 
 that same evening. She was bound for Boston, where she 
 was to go before the missionary board to be examined as 
 to her fitness and promise for a worker on the " foreign 
 field." 
 
 At the Springfield station Anna had been met by the 
 little missionary lady whom she had heard and met in 
 Haran on her night of great decision. By her she had 
 been conducted to a hotel, shown to a room, affection- 
 ately if reticently counselled, and then left to sleep and 
 be ready for another early start on the following morn- 
 ing. It was the first time Anna had ever been in a city, 
 and she was bewildered by the noise and lights in the 
 streets through which she had been hurriedly driven. 
 
 Left alone, she looked about her at the stiff order of 
 the narrow hotel chamber, the first she had ever inhab- 
 ited, the showy, shabby carpet, the cheap carvings of 
 the furniture, the long mirror in which she herself stood, 
 still and dreary, and a rushing wave of heart-sickness 
 swept over her. Her anxiety for her father became 
 suddenly poignant; a sense of the sadness of his life 
 tore her heart with fierce pain : she realized now, as 
 she had failed to before, how fast his strength declined. 
 She longed to know how that moment fared with him, 
 and how the next would. A wild purpose seized her 
 
Morning 49 
 
 to return the next morning to Haran, and let all other 
 purposes go until some later time. 
 
 However, in spite of all this anxiety and doubt, 
 Anna's physical weariness was sufficient to bring sleep 
 apace, when once her head was on the pillow, and all 
 the distant murmur of the city and the sudden, uncom- 
 prehended noises of the great house were soon lost to 
 her. Thus she failed to hear a man who entered the 
 room next to hers within the same hour, who closed the 
 door with some emphasis and locked it fast ; who, after 
 that, walked up and down within the narrow limits of 
 that room with uniform, slow step, and who continued 
 to do this until the December dawn filtered through the 
 dim windows. All was still in that next room when 
 Anna awoke. The anxiety and homesickness of the 
 night before were gone, and in their place was that 
 mysterious joy which once before on a June night had 
 strangely visited her. Again, in her dream, she had 
 seen the face which ever since had dominated her ; as 
 before, it was majestic, free, and strong. As before, it 
 had bent to her, — 
 
 "Bent down and smiled." 
 
 She rose hastily, glad and awed and greatly wonder- 
 ing. At six o'clock she was ready and went down to 
 the great dining-hall, dark save for the wan light of a 
 single gas jet under which she sat down, silent and 
 alone, and was served by a heavy-eyed, untidy man- 
 servant, with an indifferent breakfast. She swallowed 
 a few mouthfuls by force of will, then gathered up her 
 humble belongings, and started out alone into the icy 
 chill of the grey morning. It was too early for her 
 friend from the Orient to brave the rigours of the un- 
 
 E 
 
50 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 accustomed winter. It was all comfortless, dreary, and 
 inauspicious ; small cheer for a young girl starting on 
 such an errand, but there was no sinking now of her 
 spirit. She walked to the Springfield station in the light 
 and warmth of that inexplicable radiance of her dream, 
 and so pursued her journey to Boston. 
 
 FROM ANNA MALLISON S NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 Do you believe in the mutual penetration of mind ? Do you 
 believe that, independent of word and voice, independent of 
 distance, from one end of the world to the other, minds can in- 
 fluence and penetrate one another ? . . . Do you not know a 
 soul can feel within it another soul which touches it ? 
 
 — Pere Gratry. 
 
 "January 28, 18 JO. — A week to-day since my father 
 was buried. It is late at night, and I have come up to 
 my little roof room, but I cannot sleep. I have been 
 with my mother, and we have cried together, until she 
 sleeps at last, so tired, and her dear face changed so 
 sadly that, as she slept, I was almost afraid. And yet 
 she is greatly upheld, and as gentle and uncomplaining 
 as it is possible to be. 
 
 But for me, knowing my father, and trying to find 
 the meaning of his life, these days give me less grief 
 than wonder and perplexity. For a time after my 
 father told me the story of his past, after I knew what 
 he might have been, knew his great renunciation, his 
 utter humilitv, his leaving all to seek one only thing, 
 and that a gift for others, and even that being denied 
 him, so that to himself his life seemed a failure, and 
 its supreme sacrifice unsanctioned and unblessed — after 
 
Morning 51 
 
 this I could hardly bear the heart-break of it all. So 
 pure, so blameless, so devoted a life, and yet, to his own 
 thought, so unfruitful. Just a narrow little village 
 church, with its narrow little victories and defeats, and 
 its monotony of spiritual ebb and flow — this was the 
 sum of his achievement. Was it not hard of God ? 
 This he would not have said, but my undisciplined heart 
 has cried out in bitterness and rebellion. I have been 
 in deep doubt and darkness. 
 
 To-night it is given me to see it all in light, and I am 
 reconciled. The word which changed my father's life 
 was that great word of the Master, " Except a corn of 
 wheat fall into the ground and die y it abideth alone." 
 That dying, the utterness of it, was what we did not 
 comprehend. I think my father understood before he 
 left us, although he could not express it. But all along 
 he had felt that in dying in his own personal life to the 
 world and to his ambition, he was meeting the condi- 
 tion, and that in his own personal life the fruits of that 
 death were to be manifest, that he should be set for the 
 salvation of many. But God sees not with our short 
 vision. Days with him are years, and years days ; and 
 our whole life but a vapour, which appeareth for a little 
 time, and then vanisheth away. 
 
 This has come to me : My father's sacrifice has borne 
 in the life of one of his children, if not in all, the fruit 
 of an especial dedication of that life to the service of 
 God. If he had not been the man he was, if he had 
 not laid down his life daily and hourly in humble self- 
 surrender to the Divine Will, never, never should I have 
 dreamed of giving myself to the work to which I am 
 now pledged. His life, in its deepest working, had been 
 wrought into mine, so that unconsciously I willed to be 
 
5 2 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 what he would have willed to have me. So, then, it is 
 no more I alone, but the spirit, the will, the nature of 
 my father that worketh in me. 
 
 The God of my father — this phrase, so common, so 
 almost commonplace before, has suddenly taken to itself 
 an extraordinary significance. My father's God, my 
 God, who began in my father's willing sacrifice of all 
 the noblest powers of his manhood his purpose of grace, 
 will now, in his good pleasure, carry on the one work, 
 the same so begun, through me, all unworthy as I am, 
 timid, trembling, but a child. A child, and yet called 
 with this high calling ; child of a saint, called solemnly, 
 sacredly, in the very depths of my being, deeper than I 
 feel, higher than I know, to be my father's child, to be 
 the continuance, the fulfilment of his dying life, to fin- 
 ish what he began, to bring to fruitage the seed he died 
 to sow. How sublime, how sweet, how awful the voca- 
 tion wherewith I am called ! 
 
 Then look upon me, O my God, my father's God ! 
 Behold my weakness ; raise it into power ; turn my dull 
 mind to light, my hard and narrow heart to a flame of 
 love ; make me thy minister, thy messenger, fulfil in me 
 all thy great will. 
 
 February 20. — To-night I am alone in the old home, 
 not our home any more. It is stripped already of all that 
 made it home, but, bare and grim as it is, I love it, and 
 leave it with a sorrow my heart is yet too tired to realize. 
 They have consented to let me sleep this one last night 
 in my own little room. This poor bed is to be left, 
 being not worth removing, and all that clothes it goes 
 with me. So, like a pilgrim, under a tent roof for a 
 single night, I lie alone, and look up beyond the dear old 
 gable and see the winter stars. 
 
Morning 53 
 
 They shine upon his grave, and the snow already has 
 drifted over it, and my heart bleeds. Why will they not 
 let us pray for our dead as the Romish people do ? Oh, 
 kind little father, gone what dim, dazzling wav I do not 
 know, will they let you be happy at last ? Will God let 
 you see why ? 
 
 February 21. — It was a strange night, and yet most 
 beautiful. 
 
 I hardly slept, but prayed until nearly dawn. Then 
 I slept a short time, and woke to find my limbs racked 
 with pain from the bitter chill of the room, and tears 
 running down my face. Almost as if I were carrying 
 out an order given me in my sleep, I hurried on my 
 clothing, and, taking my candle, came down the stairs, 
 both flights, through the empty, echoing house, to the 
 rooms below. I was so cold that I shook from head to 
 foot. Then I found in the kitchen wood left from our 
 store, and I brought it into the east room, the parlour, 
 where we laid my father after his death, and where I had 
 sat beside his dear form each night. The great fire- 
 place was bare and empty, like the room, but the andirons 
 were left. 
 
 I laid the wood across and started the fire, and it 
 blazed and gave light, and threw strange shadows about 
 the room, and I kneeled beside it, on the hearth, as I 
 used sometimes when I was a little child, and warmed 
 my hands, and still I cried, and there was no one to 
 comfort me. 
 
 Mally says she would have been afraid — in that 
 room. I cannot understand. It is because her dear- 
 est have not died. What of him could have been any- 
 thing but precious? To have felt his spirit near me! 
 That would indeed have been holy consolation. 
 
54 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 But what if that were true ? I do not know. While 
 I so crouched in the chimney corner, my heart bleeding, 
 and the tears bathing my poor face, there was a soft 
 touch, lighter than the flight of a thistledown, passing 
 over my head, as if the gentlest hand God himself could 
 make gentle had smoothed my hair, and sought to com- 
 fort me. 
 
 Then some one said : " I came here to be with you." 
 But I do not know whether it was I who so said in my 
 own heart, or whether the words were spoken to my ear. 
 I only know that I was comforted, and the fire warmed 
 my aching limbs, and my head drooped against the wall, 
 and I slept with long sobs, as I slept once when I was 
 a child, and my dear father ministered to me. 
 
 It was broad daylight when I awoke, and I felt soothed 
 and strongo I rose to go and make ready to lock and 
 leave the house. But first I knelt and prayed, and I am 
 praying still. 
 
 Live in me, O God, as my father lives in me, and as 
 thou didst live in him. Let me live the life and die 
 the death which he sought to live, to die, for thee. 
 Give thou unto him through me abiding fruit in the 
 salvation of souls ; and grant us such grace as that we 
 may humbly and worthily fulfil thy gracious will, I 
 on earth, as he in heaven. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 She [Dorothea] could not reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life involving 
 eternal consequences, with a keen interest in gimp, and artificial protrusions of 
 drapery. — Middlemarch, George Eliot. 
 
 A small house in a small street of a small provincial 
 city. A faded brown house with its front door directly 
 on the street, the steps jutting into the sidewalk. A 
 narrow strip of yard overlaid with grimy snow separated 
 this house from others on either side, equally unnotable 
 and uninteresting, the dwellings of mechanics and small 
 tradesmen. 
 
 It was the close of a rough March day, the wind had 
 not died with sunsetting, and a thin, piercing rain, colder 
 than snow, was driven before it into the very teeth of 
 the few passers-by. 
 
 A tall woman, in a straight black dress with a dyed 
 black shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders, was 
 making her way down the street dead against the wind, 
 which beat her hair out into wet strands and bound her 
 skirts hard about the slender long limbs. She made no 
 useless attempt to hold an umbrella ; in fact, she carried 
 none, but was heavily burdened with four or five large 
 books. She was girlish in figure after a severe sort, her 
 step steady, her movement without impatience or flutter- 
 ing, in spite of the struggle with the wind. Seeing her 
 face, the absorbedness of sorrow in it was profound 
 enough to explain indifference to sharper bufFetings than 
 those of the wind. It was Anna Mallison. 
 
 55 
 
56 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 When she reached the house she deposited her books 
 on the icy step and drew from her pocket with stiffened, 
 aching fingers a key with which she unlocked the door. 
 The house was unlighted, and its close, airless precincts 
 apparently empty. 
 
 Stooping, Anna gathered her books again and closed 
 the door, then groped her way to a steep staircase, a 
 weary sigh escaping her as if in spite of herself. The 
 room which she entered, silent and dark at her coming, 
 showed itself, when she had lighted a lamp, a low but 
 spacious living room, stiffly and even meagrely furnished. 
 Opening beyond it was a smaller bedroom. 
 
 Having laid aside shawl and bonnet, Anna made prep- 
 aration for a simple evening meal for two persons. Not 
 until these were made did she stop to realize that she 
 was chilled and that her shoes were wet through. Char- 
 acteristically it was of the shoes she took cognizance 
 rather than of her feet — circumstances having thus far 
 led her to regard health as an easier thing to acquire than 
 food and raiment. 
 
 There was a sudden outburst now, from below, of 
 merry voices, both a man's voice and a girl's, in loud 
 and cheerful banter, then the house door shut with a 
 bang, there was a quick step on the stairs, and a gay, 
 fluttering, wind-blown figure of a pretty girl appeared in 
 the upper sitting room. It was Mally Loveland, Anna's 
 early Haran friend and companion. 
 
 " Holloa, Anna ! " she called lightly, " lucky for me 
 you got in first ! A fire is a good thing, I tell you, on a 
 night like this." Mally's voice had acquired a new ring 
 of self-confident vivacity. 
 
 " You're a little late, Mally," remarked Anna, quietly, 
 as she returned to the room. " Shall I make tea ? " 
 
Morning 57 
 
 " Oh, yes, do ; there's a dear. Oh, such fun as we've 
 been having at the Aliens' ! But I'm so chilly and damp, 
 you know ; and just look, Anna, at the ribbons on my 
 hat." Mally held up to view a pretentious structure of 
 ribbon and velvet which had plainly suffered many things 
 of the elements. 
 
 " Too bad. I hope you won't go out again to-night, 
 your cold was so bad yesterday. It is a wretched night." 
 
 "Oh, I must go out, my dear — must indeed! 
 Couldn't disappoint the girls, you know." 
 
 " Nor even the boys ? " asked Anna smiling. 
 
 Mally laughed at this, evidently pleased. In a few 
 moments she was ready and they took their places at 
 the tea-table, Mally quieting herself with an effort, in 
 order to ask a brief blessing upon the meal. It was 
 her turn to-night. The two cooperated in their reli- 
 gious exercises of a general character, as well as in their 
 housekeeping. 
 
 Destiny, so eagerly challenged by these two village 
 girls in the eventless isolation of their life in Haran, 
 seemed at last to have declared itself decisively : both 
 were to catch men, — Anna in the apostolic sense, Mally 
 in a different one. 
 
 Anna's journey to Boston, three months earlier, had 
 been successful. She had returned under appointment 
 as a missionary to India ; but being still too young to go 
 out, the Board had advised her to spend the following 
 two years in studies especially designed to develop her 
 usefulness in work among the heathen. In January 
 Samuel Mallison had died. The parsonage, where the 
 children had been born and nurtured, could thus no 
 longer be their home. It must be made ready now for a 
 successor. 
 
58 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 It had been a sorrowful breaking up, and when the 
 melancholy work was done, and the home effaced for- 
 ever, the mother, patient and uncomplaining, departed 
 with Lucia to the lonely farmhouse among the hills, to 
 take on again, in her later years of life, the many cares 
 of tending little children. It was then that Anna, 
 accompanied by her friend Mally, had come to Burling- 
 ton with the purpose of studying at a collegiate institute, 
 which offered opportunity for more advanced study than 
 could be had in Haran. Anna was hard at work every 
 morning on Paley's "Evidences" and Butler's "Analogy," 
 while her afternoons were spent in the small hospital of 
 the town, in an informal nurses' class, as it was even 
 then considered a useful thing for missionaries to go out 
 with some equipment for healing the bodies of men as 
 well as their souls. Mally, by her own account, was 
 " taking " music, painting, and French. 
 
 As they sat at their little table now, with its meagre 
 and humble fare, but its indefinable expression of refine- 
 ment, Anna and Mally were in striking contrast. 
 
 It has been said before that Anna matured slowly. 
 There was still in her face, despite its sadness, the grave 
 wonder, the artless simplicity, and the sweet unconscious- 
 ness of a child. Her figure was angular and undeveloped ; 
 her black dress, absolutely, harshly plain, and of coarse 
 stuff; her face, far too thin and colourless for beauty. 
 She was, plainly, underfed and overworked ; but there 
 was, nevertheless, a dignity and a distinction in her 
 aspect which emphasized Mally's provincialness, not- 
 withstanding the little fashionable touches about dress 
 and coiffure which the latter had swiftly and instinctively 
 adapted to her own use. 
 
 Anna had the repose of a person who is not con- 
 
Morning 59 
 
 cerned at all as to the impression she makes, or desirous 
 of making any personal impression whatever. Mally 
 had the restlessness, the vivacity, the eagerness, of a 
 woman who wishes everywhere and at every time to 
 make herself felt, to be the central figure. She was 
 born an egotist, and even " divine grace," in the devo- 
 tional phraseology of that time, had not been sufficient to 
 overcome her natural bent. At the present time, in fact, 
 egotism was having comparatively easy work with her, 
 and an indefinite truce with the religious conflicts of ear- 
 lier days had been tacitly declared. That spiritual expe- 
 rience had been sincere, and it had lasted several years. 
 Fortunately, to Mally's unspoken thought, she had been 
 favoured during those years to work out her salvation, 
 which was now, according to a prime doctrine of the 
 church, secured to her against all accidents. This being 
 so, no one need be concerned for her ; and if she were 
 herself satisfied with a low spiritual attainment, it was 
 nobody's business but her own. 
 
 She had, to her own naive surprise, met with a marked 
 degree of social success in a certain middle-class stratum 
 of the small town. She was pretty, clever, adaptive; the 
 young men and women of her set said she was " such 
 good company." This was high praise. In Haran the 
 natural order for a marriageable girl was to be soberly 
 and decorously and protractedly wooed by one young 
 man, to whom, in process of time, she was married. 
 Here Mally found a far more stimulating social condi- 
 tion. Not one man, but many, might be the portion of 
 a popular girl, and Mally found the strength of numbers 
 very great. The sex instinct, the ruling desire to attract 
 men, sprang into vigorous action, and became, for a time 
 at least, predominant. Women of whom this is true 
 
60 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 are often very good women, with energy and common 
 sense, but it is important for their friends, for various 
 reasons, to hold the master key to their character. 
 
 Anna Mallison, at this period of her life as sexless in 
 her conscious life as a star, looked on at this rapid and 
 unlooked-for development of Mally's nature in infinite 
 perplexity. She had always liked certain men, even out- 
 side her own kindred, but it was because they were wise 
 or good or sincere, not because they were men. A thirst 
 for admiration being thus far undeclared in her own life, 
 Mally became inexplicable to her; she did not hold the 
 key to her character, and involuntarily she withdrew 
 more and more into herself, her only friend becoming 
 thus uncomprehended. If she felt this in any degree, 
 Mally, being closely occupied with more tangible con- 
 sideration, paid small heed to it. 
 
 While they were taking tea, Anna kept her eyes fixed 
 on the mantel clock, and, having eaten hastily, rose from 
 her place. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Mally, looking up. 
 " Oh, of course; but, dear me, Anna, I never would bother 
 to get things ready for old Marm Wilson, after the way 
 she grumbles at you. Sit down, do. You'll never get 
 any thanks, I can tell you that ; and what's the use ? " 
 
 Anna was at the door already. "I think it's late 
 enough now to be safe. She only grumbles, you know, 
 if the oil and wood burn out awhile before she gets here. 
 She was to work quite near on Hill Street, to-day, so she 
 will surely be in early." 
 
 " Oh, well, go on if you've a mind to. I suppose it 
 is forlorn on a night like this for the poor old creature to 
 find her house all dark and cold," Mally spoke carelessly, 
 half to herself. Anna was already half-way downstairs. 
 
Morning 61 
 
 Mrs. Wilson was their houseowner, a seamstress of 
 narrow means and narrower life whose upper rooms they 
 rented. 
 
 An hour later the upper sitting room was suddenly 
 enlivened and almost filled, as far as seating capacity was 
 concerned, by a group of Mally's friends, who had come 
 to escort her to an evening gathering. These young 
 men and maidens, whom Anna had scarcely seen before, 
 seemed to explain the new Mally to her, and to place 
 her at a different angle, as one of a class, not one by her- 
 self. The girls all wore a profusion of ribbons and 
 curls, and were all in an effervescence of noisy excite- 
 ment regarding the effect of the dampness on their hair 
 and their finery ; they whispered and giggled together, 
 and pouted at the young men, or tossed their heads and 
 assumed exaggerated airs of being shocked at the per- 
 sonal remarks which these attendants volunteered, and 
 with which they were, in fact, palpably delighted. 
 
 Anna, who attempted some quiet civilities from time 
 to time, was regarded with undisguised indifference, as 
 not being " one of the set." 
 
 After the young people had left the house, however, 
 Mally's companion on their expedition, a young man 
 somewhat above the others in intelligence, said to her: — 
 
 " What an unusual girl that friend of yours, that Miss 
 Mallison, is. I never met any one just like her. She 
 strikes me as a girl who would keep a fellow at a mighty 
 distance; but if she ever did care for him, he wouldn't 
 mind dying for her, you know, and all that sort of thing. 
 But she isn't one of the kind you like to play games 
 with." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 She was a queen of noble Nature's crowning, 
 
 A smile of hers was like an act of grace ; 
 
 She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning, 
 
 Like daily beauties of the vulgar race j 
 
 But, if she smiled, a light was on her face, 
 
 A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam 
 
 Of peaceful radiance. 
 
 — Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 To the surprise of both the friends, Anna, who had 
 gone about her rigorous tasks unseen and unnoted hith- 
 erto, began about this time to come into a certain com- 
 parative prominence in the quiet little city. 
 
 A day or two after the evening described in the last 
 chapter, Anna received a note from Mrs. Ingraham, the 
 wife of a distinguished citizen of the town, a man of 
 great wealth, and a well-known senator. The Ingra- 
 hams were, perhaps, the most highly placed family in 
 the little town, by right of distinguished antecedents, of 
 wealth, and of habit of life. They belonged to that 
 singularly privileged class, which Anna Mallison had 
 not hitherto encountered, who have both will and 
 power to appropriate the most select of all things which 
 minister to the individual development, whether things 
 material, things intellectual, or things spiritual. Thus 
 Mrs. Ingraham and her daughters were women of fash- 
 ion, prominent figures at the state functions of their 
 own state, and well known in the inner circles of 
 Washington society. They dressed superlatively well 
 in clothes that came from Paris. At the same time 
 
 62 
 
Morning 63 
 
 they were as much at home among literary as among 
 fashionable folk, and Mrs. Ingraham at least was under- 
 stood to be devotedly religious, with an especial pen- 
 chant for foreign missions. In fine, all things were 
 theirs. 
 
 Thus it was an event for Anna Mallison, in her dull, 
 low-ceiled upper room, to open and read the note of 
 Mrs. Senator Ingraham to herself, — a note written in 
 graceful, flowing hand, on sumptuous, ivorylike paper, 
 squarely folded, with a crest on the seal, and the faintest 
 suggestion of violets escaping almost before perceived. 
 The note was delicately courteous, a marvel of gracious 
 tact. Mrs. Ingraham had heard through a friend that 
 Miss Mallison was under appointment as a missionary to 
 India, and had sincerely wished to meet her. On Fri- 
 day evening a dear Christian worker from Boston, now 
 her guest, was to hold a little parlour meeting at the 
 house for the help and encouragement of friends who 
 were interested in a higher Christian life. Would not 
 Miss Mallison give them all the pleasure of making one 
 of that number ? Mrs. Ingraham would esteem it a 
 personal favour; and if Miss Mallison felt that she 
 could tell the little company something of the experi- 
 ence she had had in being led into this beautiful life- 
 work, it would be most acceptable. However, this 
 was by no means urged, but merely suggested and left 
 entirely to Miss Mallison's preference. 
 
 The man who had brought the note waited on the 
 narrow walk below for Anna's answer. He wore a 
 sober but handsome livery. 
 
 This was the first invitation of the kind which Anna 
 had received, but she had now somewhat accustomed 
 herself, by the advice of the Board, to speaking in 
 
64 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 women's missionary meetings, and it seemed to her 
 right to say yes. Accordingly, on untinted note-paper 
 of a very common grade, she said yes in a natural and 
 simple way, and made haste to give the note to the 
 man at the door below, whom she felt distressed to keep 
 waiting. 
 
 This man removed his shining hat in respectful 
 acknowledgment as he took the note, and told Anna 
 that Mrs. Ingraham had asked him to say, having for- 
 gotten to mention it in her note, that in case Miss 
 Mallison would be so kind as to come, Mrs. Ingraham 
 would send the carriage for her at half-past seven on 
 Friday evening. 
 
 Anna felt that she ought to deprecate so much atten- 
 tion, and timidly attempted to do so; but the man plainly 
 was not further empowered to treat in the matter, and, 
 bowing respectfully, departed with Anna's pallid, long 
 and narrow envelope in his well-gloved hand. 
 
 When Mally came in, Anna handed her Mrs. Ingra- 
 ham's note. Mally's face flushed noticeably as she read 
 it. It was not easy for her to have her quiet friend thus 
 preferred. 
 
 "You'll go, of course ? " she commented rather coldly, 
 as she handed it back. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I should think you would by all means. Who 
 wouldn't ? I've heard lots about Mrs. Ingraham ; she 
 believes in a very high religious life, you know, and those 
 rich higher-life people live high, I can tell you. There'll 
 be a supper, depend on that, and it will be a fine one." 
 
 " Oh, I don't think there will be anything of that 
 kind," interposed Anna, hastily. 
 
 " You see ! " cried Mally, with an air of superior 
 
Morning 6$ 
 
 wisdom and wide social experience. " Oh my ! if I 
 should tell you all I've heard about those Ingrahams, 
 you'd be surprised. One night they have a prayer- 
 meeting and the next night a dance. It's all right, I 
 suppose. Kind of new, that's all." 
 
 On the following evening, when the luxurious Ingra- 
 ham carriage was driven up before Mrs. Wilson's poor 
 little house, many eyes peered narrowly from neighbours' 
 windows to catch the unwonted sight ; and Anna, slip- 
 ping hastily out of the Wilson door, felt an access of 
 humility in this exaltation of herself, for such she knew 
 it seemed to her neighbours, transient though it was. 
 She had suffered a guilty and apologetic consciousness 
 all day toward Mally, who had treated her with a 
 slight coolness and indifference, which afflicted Anna 
 keenly. 
 
 When Anna entered the hall of the Ingraham house, 
 a small, stout woman, in a brown dress and smooth hair, 
 came out to greet her, and took her hand between both 
 her own, which were white and soft and heavily weighted 
 with diamonds. Anna found the diamonds confusing, 
 but she knew the hands were kind. Mrs. Ingraham's 
 manner, of sincere kindliness and dignity, put Anna 
 wholly at her ease, and she looked about her, presently, 
 at the subdued luxury and elegance of her surroundings 
 with a frank, childlike pleasure. Her absolute uncon- 
 sciousness of herself saved Anna from the awkwardness 
 which her unusual height, her angular thinness, and her 
 unaccustomedness to social contact might otherwise have 
 produced. She wore her " other dress," which was of 
 plain black poplin, but quite new, and not ungraceful in 
 its straight untortured lines ; and as she entered the great 
 drawing-room, with its splendours of costly art, and met 
 
66 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 the eyes of many people who were watching her entrance, 
 the quiet gravity and simplicity of her bearing were hardly 
 less than grace. 
 
 Two women, dressed with elegance and apparently 
 not deeply touched with religiousness, commented apart 
 a little later, having met and spoken in turn with the 
 lady from Boston and the young missionary elect. 
 
 "What do you think of Mrs. Ingraham's new saints ? " 
 asked one, whose black dress was heavily studded with 
 jet ornaments. 
 
 "I like the young missionary better than the Bos- 
 tonian, myself," was the reply. The speaker had red 
 hair and an exquisite figure. " Isn't she curious, though ? " 
 she continued. " Manners, you know, but absolutely no 
 manner ! I never encountered a woman before, even at 
 her age, who positively had none." 
 
 " That is what ails her, isn't it ? " returned her beaded 
 friend. "You've just hit it. And you can see that 
 tremendously developed missionary conscience of hers 
 in every line of her face and figure, don't you know you 
 can?"' 
 
 " Figure, my dear ? She has none. I never saw 
 such an utter absence of the superfluous ! " 
 
 Here they both laughed clandestinely behind their 
 laced handkerchiefs. 
 
 " Do you know how I should describe that girl ? " 
 challenged the Titian beauty, recovering. 
 
 " Cleverly, without doubt." 
 
 " I should call her a scaffolding over a conscience." 
 
 " That is really very good, Evelyn. You can see 
 that she is not even consciously a woman yet. She 
 knows nothing of life or of herself or of this goodly 
 frame, the earth, save what that New England con- 
 
Morning 67 
 
 science of hers has interpreted to her. Her horizon is 
 as narrow as her chest." 
 
 " Poor thing. How will she bear life, I wonder ! " 
 and the words died into a whisper, for at that moment 
 the little talking, moving groups of men and women 
 were called to take the chairs, which had been arranged 
 in comfortable order, and give attention to what was to 
 follow. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 When the soul, growing clearer, 
 
 Sees God no nearer ; 
 
 When the soul, mounting higher, 
 
 To God comes no nigher ; 
 
 But the arch-fiend Pride 
 
 Mounts at her side, 
 
 And, when she fain would soar, 
 
 Makes idols to adore, 
 
 Changing the pure emotion 
 
 Of her high devotion 
 
 To a skin-deep sense 
 
 Of her own eloquence ; 
 
 Strong to deceive, strong to enslave — 
 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 — Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Anna was the first to speak. When she rose and 
 faced the little audience, made up of fashionable women, 
 professional men, and a sprinkling of the more clearly 
 defined religious " workers," she did not feel the coldness 
 underlying their courteous attention. The Titian beauty 
 fixed upon her eyes full of unconsciously patronizing 
 kindness, and Mrs. Ingraham smiled at her with sympa- 
 thetic encouragement, but they might have spared them- 
 selves the effort. Anna did not perceive or consider 
 these things. She was not thinking of them at all, nor 
 of herself. 
 
 The peculiar twofold consecration which rested upon 
 her spirit in regard to her missionary vocation, as a call 
 to fulfil at once the Divine Will and the will of her 
 father, was so profound and so solemn as to remove 
 
 68 
 
Morning 69 
 
 her from personal and passing cares. She would not 
 herself have chosen to appear before these people and to 
 speak to them of her supreme interest; but to do so had 
 been laid upon her as duty, and Anna's conception of 
 duty, by reason of the " tremendously developed con- 
 science " which the worldly-wise women had discerned 
 in her, was of something to be done. She did this duty 
 with the simple directness of a soldier under command. 
 She stood erect and motionless, with no nervous work- 
 ing of hands or trembling of lips, and spoke in a clear, 
 low voice, in which alone, by reason of a peculiar vibrant 
 pathos, the profound, undeclared passion of her nature 
 was suggested. 
 
 Her critics of the early evening had been right in find- 
 ing her destitute of manner. There was no slightest 
 evidence as she spoke of the orator's instinct — the 
 magnetism of kindling eye and changing expression, of 
 the conciliation and subtle flattery of her hearers. Nei- 
 ther had she fervid personal raptures nor spiritual tri- 
 umphs to communicate. Of the picturesque and pathetic 
 elements of the situation she made no use whatever. 
 She had simply an absolute, dominating conviction that 
 the heathen were lost ; that they could only be saved by 
 the knowledge of Christ ; that this knowledge must be 
 conveyed to them by the disciples of Christ at his com- 
 mand ; and that she, Anna Mallison, was humbly grateful 
 that she was permitted to devote herself to a service so 
 obviously necessary. Of these things she spoke; of the 
 sacred sense of living out her father's disappointed life 
 she naturally could not speak. 
 
 It was not the speech which Mrs. Ingraham and her 
 guests had expected. They had looked to have their 
 sympathies aroused by a pathetic recital of sacrifice and 
 
70 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 exalted self-devotion. Anna, on the contrary, was un- 
 conscious of sacrifice, and felt herself simply grateful for 
 the privilege of carrying out her innermost desires. 
 
 The people who heard her felt that to give up " the 
 world " was a mighty thing. Anna did not yet know 
 what " the world " was. To their anticipation, she had 
 been a figure almost as romantic and moving as a young 
 novitiate about to take conventual vows ; to herself, she 
 was an enlisted soldier who has received marching orders, 
 and whose heart exults soberly, since there are ties which 
 may be broken, and death, perhaps, awaiting, but even 
 so exults with joyful response. 
 
 Thus, to most of those who heard her, Anna's little 
 speech was a distinct disappointment ; the very loftiness 
 of her conception of her calling made it featureless, and 
 robbed it of adaptation to easy emotional effect. The 
 ladies who had discussed her before her speech found, 
 after it, that it was, after all, exactly what might have 
 been expected — altogether of a piece with the austerity 
 of her figure, and her sad, colourless face, no warmth, 
 no emotion — just the hard Puritan conscience at its 
 hardest. 
 
 There were two or three only who felt the spiritual 
 elevation belonging to the girl and to what she said, and 
 the underlying pathos of her high restraint, as too great 
 to put into the conventional phrases of sympathy and 
 praise, and so kept silence. 
 
 There was a brief pause after Anna returned to her 
 seat, during which people stirred and spoke in low tones, 
 and the beaded lady leaned over and thanked Anna for 
 her "charming little talk." Then Mrs. Westervelt, the 
 guest from Boston came forward and began speaking 
 with a winning smile, a gentle, soothing voice, and an 
 
Morning 71 
 
 affectionate reference to " the dear, sweet young sister." 
 She had the ease and flexibility of the practised public 
 speaker; the winning and dimpled smile with which she 
 won the company at the start was in frequent use, and 
 she made constant motions with a pair of very white 
 hands. She was quietly dressed, and yet, after the 
 straightness of Anna's poor best gown, her attire had 
 its own air of handsome comfort. The perfect com- 
 mand of her voice and of herself established instantane- 
 ously a rapport with her audience, of which Anna, in her 
 inexperience, had never dreamed. 
 
 Her beloved Mrs. Ingraham, she said, had asked her 
 to tell the dear friends of some wonderful answers to 
 prayer which she had recently experienced, but before 
 doing this she craved the privilege of reading a few 
 verses of Scripture. 
 
 She then read certain passages from the prophecy of 
 Zechariah, detached from one another, taken entirely 
 from their historic setting, but fitted together with some 
 care. The speaker explained that she had, in her earlier 
 Christian life, found some difficulty in interpreting this 
 rather obscure passage, but in the new life of complete 
 sanctification, into which it had been her glorious privi- 
 lege to enter, she had come to see all Scripture by a 
 new and marvellous light. No longer did she trust to 
 the dry and formal explanations of scholars, many of 
 whom, it was but too well known, had never had the 
 deep things of God revealed to them, and who had been 
 led into many errors by their pride of learning. All 
 that kind of study was past for her, for the dear Lord 
 himself showed her, when she lifted her heart to him, 
 just what he meant in his blessed word. This had been 
 her experience in regard to the passage just read. To 
 
72 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 the natural mind there were difficulties in it, but just 
 below the surface was the great precious truth which 
 God would have all his children receive. It had been 
 given her that when she came to the beautiful home of 
 Mrs. Ingraham, and should be called upon to speak to 
 these friends, she must bring them this particular pas- 
 sage. But it had looked dark to her, and she was in 
 doubt how to interpret it. But as she had been in the 
 cars, coming up from Boston, she had said : "Now, Lord, 
 those dear friends in Burlington will want to know just 
 what you meant by that sweet portion of your word, 
 and I do not feel that I can tell them unless you en- 
 lighten me. What is it that is intended by the two 
 staves in the hand of the prophet, one called Beauty and 
 one called Bands ? " 
 
 Then the dear Lord had sweetly spoken in the secret 
 place of her heart, as distinctly as if with an audible 
 voice : " My child, the old life of formalism, of cold- 
 ness, and of worldly pleasure in which many Christians 
 live is the staff called Bands. The higher life, the life 
 of answered prayer, the life of perfect sanctification and 
 fulness of blessing, is Beauty. Take this message to 
 my dear children in Burlington." 
 
 Oh, how simple! Oh, how sweet! Who would weary 
 heart and brain over the interpretations of rationalistic 
 German commentators, when we could thus have the 
 direct interpretation of his own word by the Lord himself? 
 
 Thus Mrs. Westervelt proceeded at some length on 
 this line, and then, with tearful eyes and an added inten- 
 sity of the personal element, she rehearsed the answers 
 to prayer which her friend, Mrs. Ingraham, had rightly 
 called wonderful. Thus, in carrying on the work of 
 preaching perfect sanctification in Boston, a room had 
 
Morning 73 
 
 been needed for meetings. Two or three of the little 
 band had prayed, and within a week they had had a most 
 suitable room offered them by a precious sister, but it was 
 unfurnished. The details of securing the equipment of 
 this room were now described. Each piece of furniture, 
 the speaker declared, had been directly given in answer 
 to special prayer and by a marvellous interposition. If 
 any natural means had been at work by which persons 
 in sympathy with their efforts were led to supply their 
 obvious needs, these were not mentioned. Plainly it 
 was Mrs. Westervelt's conception of a perfect relation 
 to God that the one sustaining it should receive constant 
 miraculous testimony of the divine favour. The privilege 
 of attaining this condition was presented with fervid 
 emphasis. It was the high and perfect life! Who 
 would live on the old plane when this was what God 
 had for them ? Oh, how beautiful it was to trust ! 
 Why should we ever doubt, when we were so plainly 
 told that ivbatsoever we ask we shall receive ? 
 
 As Mrs. Westervelt went on, many of her hearers 
 were moved to tears, and a continuous response of sym- 
 pathetic looks and subdued exclamations followed her 
 recital of her surprising experiences. The wealthy 
 women present felt that this was certainly a fine thing 
 for those who could not get what they wanted by ordi- 
 nary business methods, but were, perhaps, secretly glad 
 that they were not themselves called upon to test their 
 relation to God quite so pointedly. The poorer and 
 humbler guests wept profusely, thinking how long they 
 had stumbled on in the dull and inferior practice of 
 working painfully for many needed things, which might 
 all have been miraculously given them, if they had only 
 been favourites of God, like Mrs. Westervelt, or, as she 
 
 J 
 
74 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 would have said, " had only just stepped out into the 
 fulness." 
 
 Anna Mallison sat and listened in unspeakable aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 This was as absolutely new a gospel to her as the 
 gospel of Christ to a disciple of Buddha. It was her 
 first contact with sentimental religion. 
 
 The God of her father had been the immutable and 
 eternal Creator, the high and holy One inhabiting eter- 
 nity, the Judge of all the earth. Through the Incarna- 
 tion the just anger of this Holy Being toward sinful men 
 had been appeased. But although in Christ there had 
 been found access to God and an Intercessor, never had 
 it entered into the heart of Samuel Mallison or those 
 whom he led to regard themselves as occupying a posi- 
 tion other than of deepest humility, self-distrust, awe, 
 and reverence. 
 
 Mrs. Westervelt's phraseology was almost like a for- 
 eign tongue to Anna. The constant use of terms of 
 familiar endearment in speaking of the Almighty ; the 
 application of affectionate and flattering adjectives on all 
 sides ; the sense of a peculiar and intimate relation estab- 
 lished between herself and God ; and the free-and-easy 
 conversational, in fact, rather colloquial, style in which 
 she held herself privileged to communicate with him, 
 — were almost amazing to her. And beneath all these 
 superficial marks of a new cult, lay the deeper sense 
 of the inherent disparity. Religion to Anna had been, 
 it has been said earlier, a system of prohibitions, of self- 
 denials, of self-abasement, with only at rare intervals the 
 illumination of a profound sense of the love of God. 
 Here was a religion which held up a species of luxurious 
 spiritual enjoyment, of unrestrained freedom in approach- 
 
Morning 75 
 
 ing God, of an indubitable sense of being personally on 
 the best of terms with him, as the privilege of all true 
 believers. 
 
 The conception of prayer which Mrs. Westervelt had 
 demonstrated was not less surprising to Anna. She knew 
 that there were wide and sweeping scriptural promises 
 with regard to prayer, but she had always felt a deep 
 mystery attaching itself to them. For herself, she had 
 never ventured to intrude her temporal gratifications and 
 designs upon the attention of her God, but had rather 
 felt a sober silence regarding these things to best befit a 
 sinful creature coming before a holy Creator. Half re- 
 volting, but half smitten with compunction, the thought 
 now flashed through her mind that, if she had only prayed 
 after this new sort, her father might have received the 
 oranges for which he had sorely longed in the months 
 before his death. This luxury was not to be obtained 
 in Haran, and had therefore been patiently foregone, 
 heaven and Burlington having seemed equally inaccessi- 
 ble at the time. 
 
 Mrs. Westervelt sat down, and the meeting broke up, 
 a swarm of enthusiastic, tearful women rushing to sur- 
 round her and pour out their effusive appreciation of her 
 wonderful address. Anna stood bewildered and alone, 
 doubting within herself. Had it all been the highest 
 consecration, as it undoubtedly desired to be ? or had it 
 been the highest presumption, the old temptation of 
 spiritual pride, assuming a new guise ? 
 
 Two clergymen of the city, who had been attentive 
 listeners during the whole evening, not being moved to 
 pour out their admiration upon either speaker, quietly 
 strayed across the hall into Mr. Ingraham's library. 
 The senator himself was absent. 
 
y6 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Well, Nichols," said Dr. Harvey, the older man, 
 who had a shrewd, kindly, smooth-shaven face, " what 
 do you think of that for Old Testament exegesis ? " 
 
 " It was pretty stiff to have the responsibility for it 
 2;iven to the Lord," returned his friend. " I almost felt 
 like interrupting her to say that, with all due respect, the 
 Lord never told her any such thing, her interpretation 
 being monstrously untrue." 
 
 " It was awful, simply awful," said the other, with slow 
 emphasis. "Such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
 might make men, as well as angels, weep. And then 
 her familiarity with the Lord, Nichols, — why, man, she 
 positively patronized the Almighty ! " 
 
 " It is true, and yet, do you know, Doctor, that woman 
 has some extraordinary elements for success in such 
 work ? " 
 
 " If she hadn't, she would be of no importance, my 
 dear fellow. She has a fine homiletic instinct. That is 
 just where the danger lies. But, after all, she represents 
 only one danger — there are others. She is simply the 
 modern mystic — a kind of latter-dav, diluted Madame 
 Guyon. Too much of the thing is a trifle nauseous, 
 perhaps, but it represents the revolt of devout souls, in 
 every age, from formalism, and is inevitably an excess, 
 like all revolt. Doubtless there will be such revolt, 
 world without end, and it will have its uses." 
 
 " It was fairly pathetic to see how eagerly those 
 women rushed forward to receive her; evidently that's 
 the message they are pining for. They don't go for us 
 that way, Doctor." 
 
 " No; and they didn't for that first speaker, Mallison's 
 daughter. I knew him. Poor man, what a mystic he 
 might have made, if he had let himself go ! This girl is 
 
Morning 77 
 
 much like him — the old New England type; religion 
 with all colour and sentiment clean purged out of it. 
 Cold as ice, chaste as snow, the antipodes of the 
 Guyon-Westervelt danger. Talk of holiness, — poor 
 Mallison, — he was the holiest man I ever knew, and in 
 this life the least rewarded," and the old clergyman 
 shook his head with a mournful smile. 
 
 14 1 fancied, when I heard her speak, although I had 
 no idea who she was, that this daughter of his had not 
 exactly revelled in the luxury of religion." 
 
 " No ; but I tell you, Nichols, she is none the worse 
 for that, at her age. There is a hardihood, an uncon- 
 scious, sturdy fortitude in that earlier type, which we 
 mightily need in the world to-day. To me, that girl 
 was positively beautiful, because — notice what I say, 
 Nichols — she is absolutely true." 
 
 " Very likely." 
 
 " Yes ; but when you have thought it over, tell me, 
 some day, how many men and women you know of 
 whom you can say that. If you know one, you will do 
 well." 
 
 Dr. Harvey, as he said these words, rose to leave the 
 library, but stopped and stood, as there appeared at that 
 moment at the hall door the figure of a man who was 
 apparently passing through the hall. So silent and so 
 sudden was his coming, and so singular his aspect, that 
 the younger of the two men, perceiving him, started vio- 
 lently in involuntary surprise, and was conscious of a 
 disagreeable sensation along the course of his veins. 
 
 This man, who had approached the door with noise- 
 less steps, might have been young, or might have been 
 old. Fie was of unusual height, with narrow shoulders, 
 short body, and disproportionate length of limb. His 
 
78 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 face, an elongated oval, was of as smooth surface as that 
 of a woman, and of the shape and pale even colour of an 
 egg. The enormous forehead, the eyes, small and nar- 
 row, set wide apart and obliquely, the flattened nose, the 
 straight, wide, almost lipless mouth, combined with an 
 expression of crafty complacence to give the man a sin- 
 gularly alien semblance. As he stood, he smiled slowly, 
 a smile which emphasized both the craftiness and the 
 complacency of his expression, and remarked in a high, 
 thin voice : — 
 
 "Just going, Doctor? Make yourself at home here, 
 that's all right." 
 
 He carried a rather large, morocco-bound note-book 
 in one hand, and a silver pencil-case in the other. His 
 hands were extremely delicate and white, with sinuous, 
 flexible fingers, of such phenomenal length as to suggest 
 an extra, simian joint. They conveyed to the young 
 clergyman a sense of expressing the same craft as the 
 face, and a yet more palpable cruelty. The unpleasant 
 impression became more pronounced, for, seeing the 
 hands, young Nichols involuntarily shivered. 
 
 Probably this fact was not noticed by the newcomer, 
 but, having thus spoken and smiling one more chilling 
 smile, he passed on to the other end of the hall. 
 
 Eyes rather than voice asked in astonishment, " Who 
 is that ? " 
 
 " Oliver Ingraham, the senator's son," was the elder 
 clergyman's reply, as they left the library together, " the 
 son of his first wife." Dr. Harvey was Mrs. Ingraham's 
 pastor. 
 
 " Incredible ! " cried the other, under his breath. " I 
 never saw him, never heard of his existence." 
 
 The other shook his head with gravely troubled look. 
 
Morning 79 
 
 " He is only here when it becomes impossible to keep 
 
 him elsewhere." 
 
 " Is he insane ? imbecile ? what is he ? " 
 
 " Not the first, not the second. I cannot answer the 
 
 third question." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 She sitteth in a silence of her own ; 
 
 Behind her, on the ground, a red rose lies ; 
 
 Her thinking brow is bent, nor doth arise 
 
 Her gaze from that shut book whose word unknown 
 
 Her firm hands hide from her ; there all alone 
 
 She sitteth in thought trouble, maidenwise. 
 
 — R. W. Gilder. 
 
 An October morning, and breakfast-time in the In- 
 graham household. Great doors stood open into the 
 dining room, where the vast round table could be seen 
 with its glittering array of silver, and the grace and 
 colour of exquisite flowers. 
 
 A slender girl, as graceful and charming in her simple 
 morning dress as the flowers she had just placed on the 
 table, stood in the doorway, waiting, a shade of impa- 
 tience on her face. Behind her, at one of the dining- 
 room windows, stood Oliver Ingraham, her half-brother. 
 Mrs. Ingraham, with her other daughters, one older, one 
 younger, were in the adjoining library. Outside, in the 
 hall, a man paced up and down with impatience which 
 he did not attempt to conceal. This was Mr. Ingra- 
 ham himself, a man of good height, fine, erect figure, 
 and youthful energy of motion and bearing. His hair 
 was grey, as also his heavy mustache and imperial ; 
 his eyes grey also, keen, clear, but inclined to wander 
 with disconcerting swiftness ; he had a high, beaklike 
 nose, and a fine, carefully kept skin, in which a network 
 of dark red veins betrayed the high liver. He was at 
 
 So 
 
Morning 81 
 
 once peremptory and gracious, military and courtly, a 
 man of the world and of affairs on a large scale. 
 
 With watch in hand he entered the library and ap- 
 proached his wife. 
 
 " Cornelia," he said, smiling with good-tempered sar- 
 casm, " does it strike you that the show is a little late in 
 opening ? I dislike to mention it, but it is already ten 
 minutes past eight. I am not familiar with the social 
 customs of Abyssinia, nor even of Macedonia, but in 
 the United States it is considered good form for guests, 
 albeit lions, to come to breakfast on time. Even the 
 Hyrcan tiger, I understand, is usually prompt in his 
 attendance on that function — " 
 
 " Papa ! " cried his youngest daughter, Louise, " you 
 are perfectly dreadful." 
 
 Mrs. Ingraham looked up into her husband's face 
 with her mild, conciliating smile. 
 
 " I am so sorry, Justin," she said softly, " but I sup- 
 pose the poor dear creatures are very tired after the 
 meeting last night, and their journey, and all — " 
 
 There was a slight noise on the stairs as she spoke, 
 and Mr. Ingraham faced about with military precision to 
 receive in succession a number of ladies, who filed into 
 the room, and were warmly greeted and promptly pre- 
 sented to him by his wife. Two were visitors from 
 New York, substantial " Board women " ; other two, 
 returned missionaries from Japan ; the last to enter was 
 a shy, brown little person with soft dark eyes, a native 
 Hindu, who could only communicate with her host by 
 a gentle, pleading smile. All were in attendance on 
 a great missionary conference held in Burlington that 
 week, drawing its supporters from all New England 
 and New York. 
 
 G 
 
82 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Shall we go to breakfast, Cornelia ? " Mr. Ingraham 
 asked, having infused sudden courage into the trembling 
 breast of the little native by his gallant attention. " Are 
 we all here ? " 
 
 "Why, no, papa," interposed his youngest daughter; 
 tt we must wait for Mr. Burgess." 
 
 " Mr. Burgess ? " repeated her father, in a musing 
 tone. " I do not recall that I have met him. Is the 
 gentleman an invalid ? " 
 
 " At least the gentleman is here, papa," murmured 
 Louise, directing his attention to a young man who at 
 the moment entered the room, and approached Mrs. 
 Ingraham with a few words of courteous apology. 
 
 Meeting him, Mr. Ingraham saw a slender, youthful 
 figure, somewhat below the average of masculine height, 
 a man of delicate physique, perhaps five and twenty 
 years old, with a serious, sensitive face, and earnest blue 
 eyes looking out through glasses ; a young man who 
 presented himself with quiet self-possession, and bore 
 the unmistakable marks of good breeding. 
 
 As they took their places around the breakfast table, 
 Keith Burgess, for this was the young man's name, 
 found himself seated opposite Oliver, with whom he 
 was not drawn to converse, and between the second 
 Miss Ingraham and the little Aroona-bia. Conversation 
 with the latter being necessarily of an extremely limited 
 nature, her gentle lisping of "yes" and "thank you" 
 being somewhat indiscriminate, the guest found himself 
 shortly occupied exclusively with his very pretty neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 " You know, Mr. Burgess," she was presently saying, 
 " I almost feel that I know you already." 
 
 " How so ? " asked Keith, simply. It was plain that, 
 
Morning 83 
 
 although accustomed to the refinements of life, this was 
 not a man accomplished in social subtleties. There 
 was, in fact, a curiously unworldly expression in the 
 young fellow's eyes, and somewhat of thoughtful intro- 
 spection. 
 
 " Why, you see mamma and some of her friends who 
 heard you speak last spring have told us so much about 
 you." 
 
 Keith bowed slightly, without reply. 
 
 " And you can't think, Mr. Burgess, how delighted 
 we are to have you come to Burlington. We were so 
 afraid you would leave for the East before we could 
 hear you, and I assure you that would have been a great 
 disappointment. I think you sail' in the spring, do you 
 not ? " 
 
 " Yes, in May, as soon as I graduate." 
 
 " And it is for India ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. It is not fully determined, but that 
 would be my choice, and I believe the Board incline 
 that way." 
 
 The pretty Miss Ingraham, whose name was Ger- 
 trude, sighed a very little. 
 
 " It is all so wonderful, so almost incredible, to me 
 that any one young and like other people, don't you 
 know ? can really go," she said gently. " There are 
 people to whom it seems perfectly natural. Mamma 
 has a new protegee who is to go out as a missionary 
 teacher a year from this fall. She is very young, only 
 twenty-one, and we all think she is lovely ; but still, for 
 her it seems really the only thing to be expected. She 
 has the genuine missionary air already, and you would 
 know she could not be anything else, somehow." 
 
 Keith looked civilly, but not keenly, interested. 
 
84 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " I wonder if it is any one I have heard of," he re- 
 marked. " It is our Board that sends her ? " 
 
 " Yes. Her name is Mallison, Anna Mallison. Her 
 father was a country minister up in the mountainous 
 part of the state. Poor thing ! She will find India 
 quite a change after Vermont winters, I should think." 
 
 " An improvement, perhaps," said Keith, smiling. 
 " But really, Miss Ingraham, going back to what you 
 said a moment ago, why should it seem so incredible for 
 a man who has devoted himself to the service of God, 
 truly and unreservedly, to be willing to go where what 
 little he can do is most needed ? Many men fe o to for- 
 eign countries and remain the better part of their lives 
 for business purposes : men in the navy ; Englishmen, 
 of course, of social and political ambitions, by hundreds. 
 Do you ever feel that there is anything extraordinary or 
 superhuman in what they do ? " 
 
 Gertrude Ingraham was looking at the young man 
 with almost devout attention. 
 
 " No," she answered, shaking her head with pretty 
 humility, seeing which way he led. 
 
 " Then why," pursued Keith Burgess, leaning over to 
 look steadily in her face with his earnest eyes, and low- 
 ering his voice to a deeper emphasis, " why do you 
 wonder that now and then a man should be willing to 
 do for the Lord Jesus Christ and the salvation of souls 
 what a hundred men do as a matter of course for their 
 own selfish ambition and the gaining of money ? " 
 
 The girl looked down, the brightness of her face soft- 
 ened by serious feeling. 
 
 " The only wonder, Miss Ingraham, is that so few 
 do it. For my own part I do not see how a fellow 
 who goes into the ministry, as things are now, can do 
 
Morning 85 
 
 anything else," and Keith turned back to his neglected 
 breakfast. Thereafter he was drawn into conversation, 
 across the mute languor of the little Hindu, with his 
 host, who had questions to ask regarding Fulham, which 
 had been his college. 
 
 At four o'clock that afternoon, Keith Burgess, sitting 
 in a large congregation in Dr. Harvey's stately church, 
 listening with consciously declining interest to a lono- 
 statistical report which was being read from the pulpit, 
 felt himself touched on the shoulder. Looking up he 
 saw the Rev. Frank Nichols, pastor of a mission church 
 in the city. He had known him well in college, a clear- 
 eyed, well set-up young cleric. Nichols invited him by 
 a word and look to follow him, and together they quietly 
 left the assembly. 
 
 When they had reached the street and the crisp 
 autumn air, Keith shook himself with a motion of 
 relief. 
 
 " Is there anything more tiresome than such a succes- 
 sion of meetings ? " he exclaimed. " Shall we walk ? 
 I am in a hurry to climb one of these hills." 
 
 "We must do it later," returned Nichols; "but if 
 you are not too tired I want to take you down this 
 street and on a block or two to my church. The 
 women are having a meeting there this afternoon." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember ; but will it be in order for 
 us to intrude ? " 
 
 "Yes, that will be all right. The brethren drop in 
 quietly now and then, and are welcome. You needn't 
 stay long, for you are tired, I know by your face ; but I 
 tell you what it is, Burgess, I want you to hear Anna 
 Mallison." 
 
 Anna Mallison ! again that name which he had heard 
 
86 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 in the morning. It began to have a strangely musical 
 quality to Keith's ears. 
 
 " I have heard her name. She is under appointment, 
 I believe. A good speaker ? " 
 
 " No, not a particularly good speaker, but, as Dr. 
 Harvey once said to me, an absolutely true nature. She 
 is a young woman of strong personality, but singularly 
 destitute of the desire to impress herself, and with a cer- 
 tain touch of the unconsciously heroic about her which 
 you feel but cannot describe. I have never met a girl 
 of precisely her type before, myself, and I am curious to 
 know what you will think of her." 
 
 Entering the small, unpretentious church, Nichols and 
 his friend sat down in the first row of seats, next to the 
 central aisle. The room was nearly full ; several women 
 were upon the platform, from which the pulpit had been 
 removed. One woman was speaking in a high-keyed, 
 plaintive voice. 
 
 It was not a stable or quiet audience ; some were 
 leaving their seats, others coming in, many turning 
 their heads to catch glimpses of expected friends. Be- 
 hind the young men came in two girls who remained 
 standing close beside them in the aisle for a little space. 
 One of these girls had pretty, fair hair and peachy cheeks; 
 she was dressed in deep blue with touches of gilt cord 
 and buttons, giving a kind of coquettish military jaunti- 
 ness to her appearance. She wore a small round hat, of 
 dark blue, which set off her pretty hair charmingly. Her 
 manner was full of quick, eager animation ; she smiled 
 much and whispered to her companion continually. This 
 companion stood motionless and unresponsive to the fre- 
 quent appeals made to her, a quiet face and figure, a dress 
 and bonnet of plain and unadorned black, ill suited to 
 
Morning 87 
 
 her youth ; but it was her face and figure rather than 
 the other to which Keith Burgess found his attention 
 riveted. He knew intuitively, before Nichols told him, 
 that this was Anna Mallison ; but without this knowledge 
 he felt that he must still have kept his eyes upon her 
 face. The repose of it, the purity and elevation of the 
 look, the serene, serious sweetness, were what he had 
 seen in the faces of angels men have dreamed of rather 
 than of women they have loved. But that she was 
 after all a woman, with a woman's sensitiveness and 
 impressibility, he fancied was manifest when, having 
 .perhaps felt his look resting thus intently on her face, 
 Anna turned and their eyes met in an instant's direct, 
 uninterrupted gaze, whereupon a deep flush rose and 
 spread over the clear brown pallor of her face, and she 
 turned, and bent to speak to her friend, as if to cover a 
 slight confusion. 
 
 The friend was Mally Loveland, and she was finding 
 her position a particularly satisfactory one at the moment, 
 being aware that Mr. Nichols was so placed as to take 
 in the best points of her new fall costume in a side view. 
 It was for him, not for Anna, that she had been using so 
 much of nervous energy in the last few minutes. 
 
 A lady who had left the platform for the purpose now 
 came down the aisle, and, taking Anna Mallison by the 
 hand with a word of welcome, conducted her to the front 
 of the church. Mally, thus left alone, fluttered into 'a 
 place made for her, seeming to discover Mr. Nichols as 
 she turned, and smiling surprise and pleasure upon him. 
 
 Just before Anna began to address the gathering, while 
 a hymn was sung, Keith Burgess quietly made his way 
 to a seat near the front of the church, at the side of the 
 platform. He had excused himself to Nichols, who had 
 
88 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 then asked and obtained permission to sit beside Mally, 
 an incident productive of a vast amount of conscious and 
 fluttering delight on the part of that young lady. 
 
 The austerity of Anna Mallison's religious life had, 
 under the influence of Mrs. Westervelt and her disciple, 
 Mrs. Ingraham, relaxed within a few months to a marked 
 degree. New conceptions of a relation of joyful assur- 
 ance, of conscious acceptance with God, had risen within 
 her, with the perception that religion was not exclusively 
 prohibition, and conscience its only energy. Something 
 of warmth and brightness had been infused into her chill, 
 colourless, outward life, furthermore, by the intercourse, 
 with the Ingrahams which had followed her first visit. 
 She was still in a manner ice-bound in her interior life 
 and in her capacity for expression, but the ice was 
 beginning to yield and here and there to break up a 
 little. 
 
 Thus, in the manner with which she spoke on this 
 occasion, there was something of gentleness, and a less 
 uncompromising self-restraint than when she had first 
 spoken before an audience. She was still noticeably 
 reserved, still innocent of the orator's arts, or of con- 
 scious seeking to produce an effect ; she still delivered 
 herself of her simple message as if it were a duty to be 
 discharged rather than an opportunity to be grasped. 
 But through the coldness of all this neutrality there 
 pierced now and then a ray of the radiant purity and 
 loftiness of the girl's inner nature, and this time those 
 who heard her did not pity or patronize her in their 
 thoughts. 
 
 Keith Burgess watched her from the place he had 
 chosen. Her tall, meagre figure in its nunlike dress was 
 sharply outlined against a palely tinted window opposite, 
 
Morning 89 
 
 through which the October sun shone. She stood with- 
 out support of table or desk, her hands falling straight at 
 her sides, and looked directly at the people she addressed, 
 fearless, since burdened with the sense of immortal 
 destinies, not with a consciousness of herself. Keith 
 noted the hand which fell against the straight black folds 
 of her dress ; its fine shape and delicate texture alone 
 expressed her ladyhood. She could not have been called 
 pretty, but her face thus seen in profile was almost beau- 
 tiful, the hollowness of the cheeks and the stringent 
 thinness of all the contours being less obvious. 
 
 But Keith Burgess was not occupied with Anna's face 
 and figure to any serious degree. He knew instinctively 
 that she was of good birth and breeding ; he saw that, 
 though severe and angular in person and manner, she 
 was womanly, noble, refined. He divined, as no one 
 could have failed to divine, the essential truth and purity 
 of her nature. From her simple, unfeigned utterance 
 he perceived the high earnestness and consecration with 
 which she was entering upon missionary labour. Perceiv- 
 ing all those things, the young man looked and listened 
 with a sudden, momentous question taking swift shape 
 in his mind. 
 
 He remained until the close of the meeting; and met 
 Anna, introducing himself, as he preferred doing. She 
 received his few expressions of satisfaction in hearing her 
 with scant response, and apparently with neither sur- 
 prise or gratification. He did not like her the less for 
 that. 
 
 The Ingrahams found Keith sober and preoccupied at 
 dinner that night, but, as he was to be chief speaker at 
 the evening session of the convention, they thought this 
 natural and in order. He was liked and was treated with 
 
go A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 especial consideration by them all, and even Mr. Ingra- 
 ham did him the honour of going to the church to hear 
 him speak. He had no sympathy with his wife's pen- 
 chant for missions, but he thought Burgess was " a 
 nice little fellow," and he wanted to see what kind of 
 a speech he could make. 
 
 The different members of the family and their guests 
 came home one after another late in the evening, and, 
 as they met, exchanged enthusiastic expressions concern- 
 ing the eloquence of Keith Burgess. Mrs. Ingraham and 
 the Board ladies thought the dear young man had a 
 wonderful gift; Aroona-bia smiled tenderly in assent; 
 the girls said he was simply perfect ; and Mr. Ingraham 
 admitted that, when he had worked off some of his 
 " sophomoric effervescence," he might make a good deal 
 of an orator, and added, under his breath, it was nothing 
 less than a crime to send a delicate, talented boy like that 
 to make food for those barbarians, whose souls weren't 
 worth the sacrifice, even if he could save them, which he 
 couldn't. 
 
 " Very true, dear," rejoined his wife ; " no man can 
 save another's soul ; he can only lead him to the dear 
 Lord's feet." 
 
 The senator bit short a sharp reply, and just then 
 Keith himself appeared, looking pale and exhausted, 
 deprecating wearily the praise they were eager to bestow 
 upon him, and begging to be excused if he withdrew at 
 once to his room. 
 
 As the sound of his footsteps was lost in the hall 
 above, Mrs. Ingraham said : — 
 
 " I am sorry Mr. Burgess was so tired. I invited 
 Anna Mallison to come here for the night, and I wanted 
 him to meet her. Mrs. Churchill has asked the oppor- 
 
Morning 91 
 
 tunity for a little talk with Anna in the morning, and it 
 will be convenient for her to be here. It is so far to her 
 rooms, you know." 
 
 " I should think the house was full already, mamma," 
 remarked Gertrude Ingraham. "Where can we put 
 her ? " 
 
 "Oh, she will not mind going up to the south room 
 in the third story, my dear. I told Jane to have it in 
 order." 
 
 Just then Miss Ingraham came into the house and 
 Anna Mallison was with her. ■ 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Moving Finger writes ; and having writ, 
 Moves on : nor all your Piety nor Wit 
 
 Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, 
 Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. 
 
 — The Rubaiyat. 
 
 In a few moments after he had reached his room 
 Keith Burgess heard a knock at his door. Opening it, 
 he found a neat, white-capped maid who bore a tray ; 
 entering demurely, she placed it upon a small table, re- 
 marking that Mrs. Ingraham thought he would need 
 refreshment. The tray held an exquisite china service 
 for one person, a pot of chocolate, and delicate rolls and 
 cakes. 
 
 " Miss Gertrude said I was to light your fire," the 
 maid said, proceeding to remove the fender and strike a 
 match for the purpose. 
 
 " Very well," replied Keith, walking to the other side 
 of the room. The night air was sharp, and he liked the 
 notion. 
 
 A moment later the maid withdrew, with the noiseless, 
 unobtrusive step and movement of the well-trained ser- 
 vant, and Keith, when he turned, found the room al- 
 ready enlivened by the firelight. The table was drawn 
 to a cosey corner on the hearth-rug, a deep cushioned 
 easy-chair beside it. The fragrant steam of the hot 
 chocolate rose invitingly, and as Keith threw himself 
 with a long sigh of comfort into the chair, he detected 
 another fragrance, and perceived, lying upon the plate, 
 
 92 
 
Morning 93 
 
 a single rose, and around the stem a slip of white paper. 
 On the paper, Keith found a few words written : " You 
 must let me thank you for the great uplift you have 
 given me to-night. Gertrude Ingraham." 
 
 The young man, rising, put the flower in a clean 
 glass vase on his mantle, and the note in the inner com- 
 partment of his writing-case, touching both with careful 
 gentleness. Then, returning to the fireside, he fell to 
 drinking and eating with cordial satisfaction in all this 
 creature comfort; but as he ate and drank and grew 
 warm, he was thinking steadily. 
 
 He was not minded to flatter himself unduly, but 
 what was he justified in inferring from Gertrude's action 
 and from other small signs which he had seen ? Simply, 
 that she liked him ; honoured him above his due ; prob- 
 ably idealized him ; possibly, if he sought her deeper 
 regard, might respond. 
 
 He liked her thoroughly. What man would not ? 
 She was very pretty, and her beauty was enhanced by 
 faultless dress, — no small thing in itself. Her manners 
 were charming, with the charm of a sweet nature, aided 
 by the polish of high social intercourse; she had the 
 thousand little nameless, flattering graces of the woman, 
 who, old or young, instinctively knows how to put a 
 man at his best. Furthermore, Keith was not insensible 
 to the background against which this girl was set. The 
 aristocratic, powerful family connection, the magnificent 
 home, the wealth and grace and ease of life, the fine 
 manners and habits of thought and conduct belonging to 
 the Ingrahams, were not matters of naught to him. He 
 liked all these things. What was more, he knew per- 
 fectly that there was no element of temptation in them 
 to lead him from his chosen path of altruism ; Mrs. In- 
 
94 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 graham's well-known missionary ardour and Gertrude's 
 delicate sympathy were guarantee for that. They un- 
 derstood perfectly that within six months he would de- 
 part for an exile of perhaps a lifetime, in an alien and 
 uncongenial land, where he would work under condi- 
 tions of life repulsive and depressing to the last degree. 
 Nevertheless, he believed without vanity that Gertrude 
 Ingraham, knowing all, foreseeing all, could care for him. 
 
 Keith Burgess had come, suddenly perhaps, but defi- 
 nitely, to the conclusion that he wanted a wife ; and, 
 furthermore, that he wanted a wife who would go out 
 with him to India six months hence. Consequently, as 
 he sat by the fire which Gertrude Ingraham had lighted 
 for him, he pursued this line of thought with significant 
 persistence. 
 
 A curious condition, however, attended his reflections. 
 While he sat by Gertrude's fire, tasted her dainty food, 
 inhaled the fragrance of the rose she had sent him, and 
 thought of her in all her beauty and grace, he did not see 
 her. Instead of her figure, there stood constantly before 
 the eye of his mind the tall, austere form of Anna Mal- 
 lison, in the unsoftened simplicity of her manner and 
 apparel, and in her passionless, unresponding repose. 
 He thought of Gertrude Ingraham, but he saw Anna 
 Mallison. 
 
 She had travelled the way that he had come. Out- 
 wardly there might be coldness between them, but in- 
 wardly there must be the profoundest basis of sympathy. 
 The same master conviction had won and held their two 
 souls. He could not have known her better, it seemed 
 to him, had he known her all his life. The things 
 which would have repelled another man were what 
 drew him all the more to her. It was not the passion 
 
Morning 95 
 
 of love which had so suddenly awakened within him, 
 but a mighty longing for what Keith Burgess had thus 
 far gone through life without, — a true and satisfying 
 sympathy with his religious life and its aspirations. A 
 girl like Gertrude Ingraham might accept his religion 
 and the shape it took, but it would be because she cared 
 for him ; a girl like Anna Mallison might, perhaps, 
 accept him, but it would be because of his religion and 
 the shape it had taken. At this crisis of his life the 
 enthusiasm for his calling ruled him as no human love 
 could, and by it all the issues of life must stand or fall. 
 
 Hours passed. The fire died out to a core of dull 
 red embers, the single rose drooped on its stem, the tray 
 of food stood despoiled and indifferent ; the words of the 
 small white paper were forgotten, and Keith Burgess, 
 throwing himself upon his knees, prayed thus to God : — 
 
 " Oh, my Lord, if thou wilt grant me so great a good 
 as to win her for my wife, if thou wilt bless me in seek- 
 ing her, if it is according to thy will that our lives should 
 be united, and that together we should carry the cross 
 of Christ to the lost, grant me, O Lord, a sign. But if 
 it be not thy will, make this, too, known to me. Thy 
 will I seek, O my God, in this, in all things." 
 
 Then, being wearied in brain and body, he slept heav- 
 ily until morning. 
 
 When, just before the breakfast hour, Keith stepped 
 into the hall, he paused a moment, hearing a step on the 
 stairs above him leading from the third story rooms. 
 He advanced slowly to the head of the next staircase, 
 and not until he reached it did he see who it was de- 
 scending from above. Then, lifting his eyes, he saw 
 Anna Mallison. 
 
 Her presence in this house, at this hour, so surpris- 
 
g6 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 ing, so unlooked-for, so almost unnatural, since her 
 home was elsewhere in the city — what did it mean? 
 It was the sign he had craved. How else could he 
 interpret it ? 
 
 The blood rushed in sudden flow to his heart, leaving 
 his face colourless. 
 
 Anna, not being surprised to meet him thus, was 
 simply saying " Good morning," and passing down the 
 stairs. Keith put out his hand and stopped her going. 
 
 So marvellous did her presence seem to him that he 
 forthwith spoke out with unconventional directness the 
 thought in his mind. 
 
 "I think you do not know just what it means that 
 you are here, in this house, this morning." 
 
 Mally Loveland would have flashed some pert re- 
 joinder to a comment like this; Gertrude Ingraham, in 
 a similar situation, would have looked at Keith Burgess 
 with pretty wonder and smiling question. 
 
 Anna Mallison, seeing the pallor and emotion of his 
 face, and having become wonted to the supernatural 
 interpretation of the small events of human life, only 
 said gravely and without obvious surprise: — 
 
 " I do not, perhaps, know all that it means. I trust 
 it means no trouble to any one — to you." 
 
 " No," he answered, a slight tremor in his voice ; " I 
 cannot believe that it does. You came under the divine 
 leading, no matter how or why you seemed to yourself 
 to come. You came as a sign. I had asked a sign of 
 God. I did not dream of your presence in this house. 
 Seeing you now, so unexpectedly, how can I doubt any 
 further ? It is the will of God." 
 
 Anna looked straight into Keith's face, a deep shadow 
 of perplexity on her own, but she did not speak. 
 
Morning 97 
 
 He smiled slightly. 
 
 "You cannot understand, and no wonder. I am 
 speaking to you as I have no right to — in the dark. 
 It is for you to say whether, by and by, before I go 
 to-morrow morning, I may explain my meaning and try 
 to make clear to you what is so clear to me." 
 
 It was Anna now who grew perturbed, for the signifi- 
 cance of his words, although veiled, was manifest. She 
 turned and descended the stairs without speaking, Keith 
 Burgess following her in silence. She did not herself 
 understand her own sharp recoil and dismay, but all the 
 maiden instinct of defence was in alarm within her. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs they both paused for an 
 instant, and Keith asked in a low voice : — 
 
 " Will you walk with me on these hills somewhere, 
 alone, this afternoon at four o'clock ? " 
 
 A sudden great sense of revolt arose in the girl's 
 heart, and broke in a faint sob upon her lips. She did 
 not want to walk on the hills with him — with any man. 
 She did not want to hear what he had to say. But he 
 had said it was the will of God, their thus meeting. He 
 had sought that awful, irrefragable will, and she had acted, 
 it seemed, in obedience to it in coming to this house. 
 What was she, to be found fighting against God ? 
 
 She felt herself constrained to say yes. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 ... I made answer to my friend : " Of a surety I have now set my feet 
 on that point of life beyond the which he must not pass who would return. ' ' 
 
 — Tbe New Life, Dante. 
 
 " I ask you, Anna Mallison, to go out with me to 
 my work in India in May, as my wife." 
 
 Thus Keith Burgess, having recounted the story of 
 the lights and leadings of the past twenty-four hours. 
 
 They were standing, and faced one another in a yel- 
 low beech wood where the sky above their heads was 
 shut out by the sun-lightened paving of the clustering 
 leaves. 
 
 As she came down the woodland path Anna had 
 broken off a long stem of goldenrod, and she held it 
 hung like an inverted torch at her side, like a sad vestal 
 virgin at some ancient funeral rites. 
 
 "Forgive me for bringing this to you so swiftly. I 
 know it seems hasty, perhaps unreasonably so. But to 
 me no time or acquaintance, however extended, could 
 change my wish. And, you see, my time is so very 
 short, now ! " 
 
 Keith Burgess looked with his whole soul's sincerity 
 into Anna's face, and the integrity of his purpose, of 
 his whole nature, could not be mistaken. 
 
 "It is not the suddenness, I think," she replied slowly, 
 with unconscious coldness ; " like you, I feel that the 
 great facts of God's will and providence may be made 
 clear to us instantly. " 
 
 Then she hesitated and paused. 
 
Morning 99 
 
 " Please go on," the young man said gently. 
 
 " It is only," she answered, with a pathos which a 
 woman would have understood, " that I did not want to 
 be married at all. I had never thought of it as being a 
 thing I needed to be troubled about." 
 
 Keith Burgess smiled faintly at her frankness, which 
 was not cruel of intention, he knew, but his smile touched 
 Anna's heart. 
 
 " I did not wish to trouble you," he said quietly. 
 
 " Please do not misunderstand me. It was not the 
 way to express it — my words sounded unkind, I am 
 afraid. I should learn better ways of gentler speaking. 
 Other women seem to have them naturally." 
 
 " I like it that you are honest, even if it hurts," said 
 Keith, steadily. 
 
 " I did not mean that you trouble me — not exactly. 
 Only that my life looked so plain and clear to me, and 
 this is so surprising — it seems to change things so." 
 
 " Only by a little outward difference. I should not 
 dare to ask you to go as my wife if I did not believe 
 that you could work more effectively so, perhaps," he 
 added timidly, " even more happily, if I had strength 
 and protection to give you, and a home of some sort, 
 however poor, in that strange land." 
 
 Something in the quality of his voice brought swift 
 tears to Anna's eyes. It was so new to have some one 
 thinking and caring for her ease and happiness. It had 
 so long been her part to do this for others, to forget 
 herself, and take it quite for granted that others should 
 forget her. 
 
 He saw his advantage, and sought to follow it. 
 
 " The thought of marriage is unwelcome to you," he 
 said earnestly, "because it is foreign and unfamiliar. I 
 
ioo A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 think you are very different from most girls of your age, 
 and have lived a different inward life, higher and purer, 
 and free from personal aims in a wonderful way. But 
 even so, regarding marriage I believe you are wrong. 
 You think of it as an interruption, almost as a decline 
 from the life you had meant to live. On the contrary, 
 God has made it to be the very best life, the normal and 
 fulfilled life, in which each is at the strongest and best. 
 Where my work for God and men might fall utterly to 
 the ground, you, by your purer insight, might help me 
 to make it availing; and perhaps the poor service I could 
 give might help a little to carry forward your work." 
 
 Anna lifted her hand in a slight, expressive gesture. 
 
 " Look at the whole thing a moment," cried Keith, 
 with sudden boldness, " as if you were not you and I 
 not I. Here are two persons, man and woman, of the 
 same age within two or three years, led of the same 
 Spirit to the same purpose and consecration and calling ; 
 both ready to go out to the same unknown land, lonely 
 and apart, and there to work as best they may far from 
 any human being they have ever seen or known. Such 
 were we. And now God, looking upon us, sees that 
 each needs the other, and in his good providence he 
 leads us here to this place. I see you, and instantly my 
 heart goes out to you as the companion, the other self, 
 I need. My soul recognizes in you its counterpart. 
 God, in answer to my prayer that he will make known 
 his will, suddenly, most unexpectedly, as I start on the 
 new day, brings you before me before I have spoken or 
 met with man or woman, as the first, best light of morn- 
 ing. What does God mean ? Ask yourself, Anna Mal- 
 lison, ask him. For my own part, I cannot doubt his 
 will. I have no right to thrust my conviction upon 
 
Morning 101 
 
 you forcibly, but to me this is as clearly the call of God 
 as my call to the foreign field or to the divine service." 
 
 They were still standing face to face, and while Keith 
 spoke Anna looked into his eyes with the serious direct- 
 ness of one listening to an argument of weighty but 
 impersonal import. With all his conviction and earnest- 
 ness, he was as passionless as she, save for his religious 
 passion. A strange wooing ! 
 
 Anna turned now and walked on along the mossy path 
 in silence. 
 
 " Take time to consider, — all the time you need. Do 
 not try to decide now," said Keith, walking at her side. 
 She made no reply ; in fact, she did not realize that he 
 spoke. Her mind was working in intense concentration. 
 
 Keith Burgess alone she would have turned away 
 without a moment's doubt, but he had, or seemed to 
 have, a mighty Ally. She did not fear him in rejecting 
 nor desire him in accepting, but to reject God ! — that 
 she feared ; to accept God in every manifestation of 
 his will was her deepest desire. 
 
 But what if Keith were wrong in his conviction ? 
 Her pale face flushed with a flame of indignation as she 
 thought of it, that a man, whom she had never met or 
 known, sought or desired, could suddenly invade the 
 very citadel of her will, and summon her to surrender 
 her very life into his keeping, in the great Name, when, 
 perhaps, he was self-deceived, was coming in his own 
 name, to do his own will. She looked aside at Keith's 
 face as he walked by her, in sudden distrust. It wore 
 no flush of passion, and in the blue eyes was the light 
 less of earthly love than of heavenly. It was a look 
 pure and high, such as a man might fitly wear as he 
 approached the sacrament. A sudden awe fell upon 
 
102 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Anna, as if she were looking upon one who had talked 
 with God, and her eyes fell, the lashes weighted with 
 heavy, unshed tears. 
 
 " He is better than I," she thought; " a man like this 
 could not lead me wrong." 
 
 White and cold, and with a strange sinking at her 
 heart, she turned to him soon, and stopped where she 
 stood. 
 
 He looked into her face, his own suffused with emo- 
 tion. She held out both her hands, the goldenrod, 
 which she had held until now, falling to the ground. 
 Keith Burgess took them in both his, and Anna felt 
 that his hands trembled far more than did her own. 
 
 " I believe you were right," she said simply. " It is 
 the will of God." 
 
 He kissed her then on her brow and on her lips, the 
 salutation disturbing her no more than if he had been 
 her brother. 
 
 " Please, will you let me go home now, alone, Mr. 
 Burgess ? " she asked humbly, like a child. 
 
 Keith was disappointed, but consented at once. 
 
 " Only," he said, " you should not call me Mr. Bur- 
 gess. My name for you is Keith." 
 
 " Not yet," she answered. " In outward things and 
 ways remember, please, that we are perfect strangers. It 
 is only in the spirit that we have met." 
 
 Then she left him, and Keith Burgess stood watching 
 the tall, dark figure swiftly receding down the wood walk 
 in the yellow light. His look was wistful. He longed 
 to go after her, but he forebore. 
 
 Anna hastened down into the city streets and to the 
 hospital where she was on duty every afternoon. There 
 was plenty of work awaiting her, and not for a moment 
 
Morning 103 
 
 was she free or left alone to think her own thoughts. 
 Six o'clock found her back in her own rooms at Mrs. 
 Wilson's. They were low and dull after the fine spa- 
 ciousness of the Ingraham house, but that was a matter 
 of little note to Anna. 
 
 Mally was there with a friend whom she had brought 
 home with her to tea. Anna washed the dishes while 
 these two diligently revised the trimming of their hats 
 which in some particular, wholly imperceptible to Anna's 
 untrained eye, fell below the standard of latest fashion. 
 
 It was not until the girls left the house, at seven 
 o'clock, and all her duties, trivial and homely and weary- 
 ing, were done, that Anna, alone at last, could yield to 
 the overpowering weariness which was upon her. 
 
 She carried the lamp, whose flame seemed to pierce 
 her aching eyes, into the next room, and then, lying on 
 the hard haircloth sofa with her head propped on one 
 hand, she closed her eyes, thankful at last to be where 
 she could let a few tears fall with no one to wonder or 
 question. The quiet patience inbred in the constitution 
 of the girl's nature controlled her mood ; there was no 
 struggle of revolt from the vow she had taken and the 
 future to which she had pledged herself, but an unspeak- 
 able homesickness had taken possession of her. She 
 liked and reverenced Keith Burgess, no doubt she would 
 love him very truly by and by, but just now he seemed 
 to have turned her out of her own life and to have taken 
 control where she had hitherto, with God, been supreme. 
 It all gave her the same feeling she had suffered when, 
 after her father's death, they had been obliged to give 
 up their home for the coming in of a new leader for the 
 little flock her father had led so long. She knew there 
 was no real analogy between the two experiences, she 
 
104 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 could reason clearly agaiRst herself, but she could not 
 control the piteous heart-sickness which settled down 
 upon her in the dim room, in the silent, empty house. 
 
 Many women have suffered a reaction like this in the 
 hour of committing themselves, from the fear that this is 
 not the supreme love, the love of the life-time; the mis- 
 giving lest this man is not, after all, the man for whom 
 they can forsake all others and unto whom they can 
 cleave with a perfect heart to the end. These were not, 
 however, the considerations which weighed upon Anna 
 Mallison. It was, as she had herself expressed it, very 
 simply, that she had not thought about marriage at all. 
 She had no ideal of manhood in her mind from this 
 point of view. It was not that she craved the love of a 
 stronger man or a man abler or better in any way than 
 Keith Burgess ; she merely preferred no man. She had 
 not awakened to love ; the deeper forces of her woman's 
 nature were sleeping still. 
 
 But there was not for an instant, in Anna's mind, the 
 thought of withdrawing from her plighted word to Keith. 
 She believed that he had come to her, as he believed, 
 under the divine light and leading. She turned to walk 
 in the new path marked out for her, faithfully and obe- 
 diently, but pausing a moment to look with aching eyes 
 and heart down the dear, familiar path which she was 
 leaving. But Anna was too tired to think long, or even 
 to feel, and so fell asleep shortly, in the stiff, angular 
 position in which she lay, the tears undried upon her 
 cheeks. The sound of the knocker on the house door, 
 hard, metallic, but without resonance, suddenly roused 
 her, and she sprang up hastily, remembering that Mrs. 
 Wilson had gone to the great missionary meeting, and 
 that she was alone in the house. 
 
Morning 105 
 
 She took her lamp and went down the narrow stairs 
 into the bit of entry. When she opened the door, 
 Keith Burgess himself was standing there. 
 
 He looked at her, smiling half mischievously, and she 
 felt a sudden warmth at her heart as she met the sweet, 
 true look of his eyes. 
 
 " Didn't you ever expect to see me again ? " he said, 
 and laughed as he stepped into the house and closed the 
 door. 
 
 She smiled, too, and held out her hand. He took it 
 and kissed it in a gallant way, which she found wholly 
 wonderful, being quite unused to such feats, and unread 
 in romances. 
 
 " It will be a bore, won't it," he went on quaintly, 
 " this having a man around to bother you ? Perhaps I 
 ought not to have come, but, you see, I go in the morn- 
 ing, and I thought you might have something to say to 
 me before I left." 
 
 " Yes," Anna said ; adding naively, " but where shall 
 I take you ? It is so new. I have not had a call like 
 this before." She felt shy about inviting him up to her 
 own sitting room. 
 
 " In there ? " he queried, pointing to the door of Mrs. 
 Wilson's drear little closed parlour. 
 
 "Oh, no," replied Anna, "Mrs. Wilson never lets us go 
 in there. It is too fine for anything but funerals and — " 
 she was about to say weddings, but broke off confused, 
 and they both laughed, looking at each other like two 
 children with their innocent eyes. 
 
 " I can sit here," said Keith, pointing, as he spoke, to 
 the steep, narrow stairs. There was a red and green 
 striped carpet on them, and a strip of grey linen over for 
 protection. The little entry was bare of furniture, save 
 
106 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 for the small uncovered table on which Anna had placed 
 her lamp. 
 
 " Very well," she said, " I will borrow a chair from 
 Mrs. Wilson's kitchen ; " and she forthwith brought out 
 a clean wooden chair painted a light yellow, and placed 
 it at the side of the stairway for herself, there being no 
 room at the foot. 
 
 " I was going to say," remarked Keith, musingly, as 
 Anna sat down, " that these stairs are rather wide, and 
 if Mrs. Wilson is particular about lending her chairs, I 
 could make room for you here," and he looked at her 
 soberly between the stair-rails. Anna shook her head, but 
 suddenly there came over them both a sense of the ludi- 
 crousness of the little scene they would have presented, 
 had any one been able to look in upon them, and they 
 laughed again, as Anna had not laughed since she was a 
 child, something of exhaustion aiding to break down her 
 wonted restraint. 
 
 " It is so funny, oh, it is so funny ! " she cried, " to 
 see you looking out between those bars as if you were 
 a lion in a cage. Just think of the people at the meet- 
 ing ! What if they were to see us two. Wouldn't they 
 think it was dreadful ? " 
 
 " Would you mind putting your hand into the 
 cage ? " asked Keith. " I assure you it is perfectly safe. 
 This is not the man-eating variety." 
 
 "You are sure?" Anna asked, with a woman's instinc- 
 tive coquetry swiftly developed, but giving her hand. 
 
 " It is such a beautiful hand," he said, laying it very 
 gently on his own right hand, which he had placed on 
 the stair beside him, and at this, the first word of flattery 
 which any man had ever spoken to her face, Anna blushed 
 and grew positively pretty, as he looked at her. 
 
Morning 107 
 
 All this laughing and light nonsense between them, 
 did for her what a season of prayer and serious discus- 
 sion of their situation could not have accomplished. 
 Anna felt, with a sudden sense of comfort and release, 
 i.hat this new relation was not exclusively a solemn 
 religious ordinance, but a dear human companionship, 
 the joyousness of simple, upright hearts, and the sym- 
 pathy of kindred minds. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Now die the dream, or come the wife, 
 
 The past is not in vain, 
 For wholly as it was your life 
 Can never be again, 
 
 My dear, 
 Can never be again. 
 
 — W. E. Henley. 
 
 At Anna's earnest request, Keith Burgess consented 
 that their engagement should be announced to no one 
 save his mother until spring. Mally observed the 
 regularity of Keith's weekly letters, and attempted to 
 tease Anna into acknowledging that there was " some- 
 thing in it " ; but Anna's dignity, which on occasion had 
 its effect even upon Mally's vivacious self-confidence, 
 ended this line of attack in short order. A few weeks 
 after Keith left Burlington Anna received the following 
 note : — 
 
 My Dear Miss Mallison : My son, Keith Bur- 
 gess, has confided in me the fact that you have 
 consented to enter into an understanding with him 
 which, if Providence should favour, will doubtless event- 
 ually terminate in marriage. Your name has been 
 mentioned to me by members of our Woman's For- 
 eign Missionary Board, and I am led to believe that 
 my dear son has been graciously led of the Lord in 
 his choice of a companion in the path of duty upon 
 which he has entered. That my son is a godly young 
 
 108 
 
Morning 109 
 
 man and of an amiable disposition, I need hardly take 
 this occasion to tell you. Similarity of views and of 
 religious experience would seem to furnish a satisfactory 
 basis for a union productive of mutual good and the 
 glory of God. 
 
 Trusting for further acquaintance before you depart 
 for foreign shores, 
 
 I am yours very truly, 
 
 Sarah Keith Burgess. 
 
 If this letter were stiff" or cold, Anna, not looking for 
 warmth and freedom, did not miss them. She knew that 
 Keith was the only son of his mother, and she a widow. 
 She took it for granted that they were poor like herself; 
 she had not known many people who were other than 
 poor, none who were in the ranks of missionary candi- 
 dates. Such a thing would have seemed singularly incon- 
 gruous because unfamiliar. She had a distinct picture of 
 Mrs. Burgess, whom she knew to be in delicate health, as a 
 woman of sweet, saintly face and subdued manner, living 
 in a small white cottage in an obscure street of Fulham, 
 perhaps not unlike the Burlington street in which Mrs. 
 Wilson's house stood. She fancied her living alone — 
 indeed, Keith had told her that this was so — in a plain 
 and humble fashion, a quiet, devoted, Christian life, a 
 type with which her experience both in Haran and Bur- 
 lington church circles had made her familiar. There 
 were some geraniums in the little sitting room window, 
 she thought, and it was a sunny room with braided mats 
 over the carpet, and a comfortable cat asleep on a patch- 
 work cushion near the stove. There would be a small 
 stand beside Mrs. Burgess's rocking-chair with a large 
 Bible and a volume or two of Barnes's " Notes," a spec- 
 
iio A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 taclc case and a box of cough medicine ; perhaps it was a 
 bottle, Anna was not sure, but she inclined to the hoar- 
 hound drops, and almost smelt them when she thought 
 of the room. She imagined the dear old lady carefully 
 and prayerfully inditing the epistle to herself, and thought 
 it most kind of her, and wrote thus to Keith. 
 
 The winter passed for Anna in hard and unintermitting 
 work. Mally allowed herself lighter labours, and, hav- 
 ing raised her eyes with admiration to the Rev. Frank 
 Nichols, now shook herself free as far as she could con- 
 veniently from her more frivolous Burlington friends, and 
 renewed her earlier interest in religion with extraordinary 
 zeal. She felt that Dr. Harvey's church was too worldly 
 for her ideals, and that Mr. Nichols's beautiful work 
 among the humbler classes offered far more opportunity 
 for religious devotion. Her regular attendance at all the 
 meetings of the church was a great satisfaction to Anna, 
 who looked on with characteristic blindness, glad to see 
 her friend returning to a more consistent walk and 
 conversation. 
 
 The letters which passed between Anna and Keith 
 would hardly have been called love-letters. They dealt 
 with religious experience and views of "divine truth," 
 for the most part. Not even at start or finish of any 
 letter was place found for the endearing trifling common 
 to lovers. This correspondence might all have been 
 published, omitting nothing — without dashes or asterisks, 
 even in that day when it was thought unseemly to reveal 
 the innermost secrets of hearts, and to speak upon the 
 housetops that which had been whispered in the ear. 
 There were few personal allusions on the part of either, 
 beyond Keith's occasional mention of his health being 
 below the mark. At Christmas Keith sent Anna a 
 
Morning 1 1 1 
 
 volume of "Sacred Poetry"; on the fly-leaf he had 
 written : — 
 
 Anna Mallison, 
 
 From her sincere friend and well-wisher, 
 Keith Burgess. 
 
 He had abstained from warmer terms on account of 
 Anna's wish to withhold the knowledge of their engage- 
 ment for the present. 
 
 Poor Anna, having nothing wherewith to provide a 
 gift for her lover, the small savings for her education 
 being now nearly exhausted, made shift to sew together 
 sheets of note-paper, on which she copied her favourite 
 passages from Paley and Butler and various theologians. 
 This humble offering was sent to Keith, who was highly 
 gratified, and treasured the little gift affectionately. 
 
 For two weeks following Christmas Anna received no 
 letter, but she was not greatly surprised, as she knew 
 Keith was to start early in January for a tour of various 
 New England towns, where he was expected to present 
 the cause of Foreign Missions. He was now completing 
 his last year in the theological seminary near Boston, and 
 his unusual gifts in public speech induced the faculty to 
 send him out frequently on such missions. 
 
 At half-past eight of a zero morning in the second 
 week of January, Anna, with her threadbare black jacket 
 buttoned tight to her throat, her arm full of books, was 
 leaving Mrs. Wilson's door on her way to school, when 
 she saw a boy stop in front of the house with a telegram 
 in his hand. Taking it, she found, greatly amazed, that 
 it was for herself — the first telegram she had ever 
 received. 
 
 The boy, accustomed to see people receive his mes- 
 
ii2 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 sages with changing colour and nervous hands, glanced at 
 her coolly, then turned and went his way back, plunging 
 his hands into his pockets against the biting cold. In 
 the little entry Anna opened the despatch. It was 
 dated Portland, Maine, and signed by Keith Burgess. 
 It told her that he was very ill ; that he was alone, it 
 being impossible for his mother to go to him. It asked 
 her to come to him at once. 
 
 Anna's mind, in the half-hour which followed, worked 
 with intense rapidity. She found from a newspaper that 
 by a ten o'clock train she could reach Boston that even- 
 ing, and she decided to take that train, and go on to Port- 
 land by night. She wrote a note to Alally, in which 
 she told her of her engagement to Keith and of what 
 had occurred. She packed a satchel with what was 
 necessary, and last of all drew out of her little square 
 writing-desk, where she kept it carefully locked away, an 
 envelope containing all the ready money she possessed. 
 She found that there remained exactly twelve dollars. 
 This, to Anna, was a large amount of money, and, 
 although her heart sank a little at the thought of spend- 
 ing so much at once, the prospect for the weeks to come 
 before she could draw upon her mother again being 
 blank enough, she knew that this was justified by the 
 emergency. 
 
 Soon after nine Anna again departed from the house, 
 the books replaced by the satchel, the worn and faded 
 black gown and jacket unchanged, starting alone and 
 unsped upon her long and anxious journey. 
 
 She went first to the Ingrahams, walking the long mile 
 in the sharp cold, carrying her heavy bag with a benumbed 
 hand, since the reckless extravagance of a carriage might 
 not for a moment be considered. 
 
Morning 113 
 
 Mrs. Ingraham was ill and could not see Anna, but 
 her daughter Gertrude came into the parlour and greeted 
 her cordially. The issues of the hour were too strong 
 upon Anna to permit any trace of embarrassment or 
 personal feeling in her manner, although she felt that it 
 would have been easier to say what she felt must be said, 
 to Mrs. Ingraham. 
 
 " Will you be so good as to tell your mother," she 
 began, "that I could not go away on this journey, which 
 I must take, without explaining it to her ? She has been 
 so very kind. We did not mean to announce it quite 
 so soon, but Mr. Burgess, whom I met here in the fall, 
 and I are engaged to be married." Anna was too pre- 
 occupied to perceive the flush which slowly and steadily 
 rose in Gertrude Ingraham's face. 
 
 " We expect to go out together in May," Anna pro- 
 ceeded. " Mr. Burgess has not been strong for several 
 months, perhaps he is never very strong; but this morn- 
 ing I have a telegram from him asking me to come to 
 Portland, as he is very ill, and his mother cannot be with 
 him." 
 
 "Shall you go, Miss Mallison ? " asked Gertrude, 
 with visible constraint. 
 
 Anna looked at her then, surprised, and instantly felt 
 the indefinable coldness of her reception of her little story. 
 
 " I am on my way to take the ten o'clock train east," 
 she said simply, her voice faltering slightly. For all her 
 courage and steadiness, her heart was crying out for a 
 little touch of another woman's gentleness ; the way 
 before her was not easy, and there was a sense of lone- 
 liness upon her which began to make itself acutely felt. 
 
 Gertrude Ingraham rose and said : — 
 
 " I am so very sorry for Mr. Burgess. We liked him 
 1 
 
H4 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 very much. You must let me go and speak to mamma 
 a moment, for I know she would wish to give you some 
 message. I will not keep you long." And she hurried 
 from the room. 
 
 Anna sat alone and watched the minute-hand of a 
 French clock on the mantel moving slowly along the 
 gilded dial, a heavy oppression on her spirit. She had 
 not consciously expected sympathy, but Gertrude's aloof- 
 ness hurt her strangely. 
 
 Some one came softly into the room behind her just 
 then, so softly that she turned rather because she felt a 
 presence than because she heard a step. It was Oliver 
 Ingraham. 
 
 The peculiar personality of this mysterious man in- 
 spired Anna always with an aversion hardly less than 
 terror, and although she had become familiar with his 
 presence in her frequent visits, it had never become less 
 painful to her. Indeed, latterly, a new element of dis- 
 comfort had been added to her feeling tov/ard him, since 
 he had shown a marked disposition to follow her about, 
 and intrude a manner of unpleasant gallantry upon her. 
 
 He greeted her now almost effusively, and, perceiving 
 that she was prepared as if for a journey, asked at once : — 
 
 " Not going away ? The painful hour of parting is 
 not here yet, surely ? " 
 
 Anna made a vague and hurried reply. 
 
 " Because, you know," pursued Oliver, lowering his 
 voice to an offensive tone of familiarity, and maliciously 
 mimicking the phraseology of his stepmother's friends, 
 " we could hardly spare our dear young sister yet ; she 
 is becoming really indispensable to us," and he held out 
 one long hand as if to clasp that of Anna, leering at her 
 repulsively. 
 
Morning 115 
 
 Anna rose hurriedly and moved away from him, her 
 heart beating hard with fear and antipathy. To her 
 great relief she heard Gertrude Ingraham's step in the 
 hall, and Anna, with her face paler than it had been, 
 met her at the door, while Oliver slunk away to a little 
 distance, and appeared to be looking out of a window 
 unconcernedly. 
 
 Gertrude Ingraham carried a pocket-book open in her 
 hand, and as she spoke she looked at it, and not at 
 Anna. 
 
 " Mamma is so very sorry, and sends her best wishes 
 and hopes for Mr. Burgess's quick recovery. She hopes 
 you will let her know; and, Miss Mallison," Gertrude 
 was evidently embarrassed, " mamma says it is such a 
 long and expensive journey, and she wishes you would 
 just take this with you to make everything as comforta- 
 ble as may be." And she drew out a crisp twenty-dollar 
 note, which she essayed to put in Anna's hand. 
 
 Anna had not known before that she was proud. She 
 did not know it now, but Gertrude Ingraham did, and 
 was touched with keen compunction. She understood 
 that her mother would have been more successful. 
 
 It was only the swift, unconscious protest of Anna's 
 hand, the pose of her head as she turned to go, and the 
 quiet finality with which she said : — 
 
 "Will you thank Mrs. Ingraham for me, and say I 
 did not need it ? She is- always kind. Good-by." 
 
 A moment later Gertrude watched from the window 
 the slender figure in its faded, scanty black, with the 
 heavy, old-fashioned satchel, passing down the wind- 
 swept lawn, under the grey and bitter sky. 
 
 Within was warmth and luxury and protection, and 
 yet Gertrude's heart leaped with a strong passion of 
 
n6 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 desire to forego all this and take Anna Mallison's place, 
 that so she might start on that long journey which should 
 bring her, at its end, to the side of Keith Burgess. 
 
 Small, unseen tragedies in women's lives such as this, 
 never once, perhaps, expressed, and never forgotten, 
 work out the heroic hypocrisies which women learn, 
 since such is their allotted part. 
 
 " You might have known better than to offer money 
 to that girl," Oliver's high, shrill voice behind Gertrude 
 said. "She's as confoundedly proud as all the other 
 saints. But she'll have to come down yet. We shall 
 see some day." 
 
 Thus unpleasantly interrupted in her reverie, Gertrude 
 rose impatiently, and left the room. 
 
 It was eight o'clock that evening when Anna reached 
 Boston. Dismayed by the small remainder of money 
 left her after her railway ticket was bought, she had not 
 dared to spend anything for food through all the day, 
 and had tried to think the cold, dry bread, a few slices 
 of which she had put into her satchel, was sufficient for 
 her needs. 
 
 In Boston a change of stations made a cab a neces- 
 sity if she would not lose the Portland train, and this 
 she must not do, since she had telegraphed Keith from 
 Burlington that she would be with him in the morning. 
 Anna alighted at the station of the Maine Railroad and 
 heard the cabman say that his fee was two dollars with 
 a sensation hardly less than terror. She paid him with- 
 out a word, then entering the station, sat down in the 
 glare of light amid the confusion of the moving crowd, 
 and looked into her poor little purse, a sharp contraction 
 at her throat as she counted, and found less than three 
 dollars left. 
 
Morning ny 
 
 The train would leave in fifteen minutes. Anna went 
 with as brave a face as she could manage, to the office, 
 and asked what was the fare to Portland. The curt 
 reply of the agent proved the glaring insufficiency of her 
 small remaining store. Trembling with weakness and 
 dismay, Anna turned back to her place and sat down, 
 closing her eyes while she prayed. She had friends in 
 missionary circles in Boston, who would gladly have lent 
 her money, but time failed to seek them out. She 
 thought, as she prayed, of the money which Gertrude 
 Ingraham had proffered in the morning, and, humbled, 
 asked forgiveness for the ignorance and pride which had 
 led her to reject it. The thought of Keith watching, 
 perhaps in vain, for her coming in his loneliness and 
 great need, perhaps in his extremity, overwhelmed her 
 with pity and penitence. Having prayed for forgiveness 
 and for guidance, and for a way out, and a way to Keith 
 that night, she opened her eyes, astonished for the mo- 
 ment at the harsh light and the motley scene about her, 
 her actual surroundings having been for the time forgot- 
 ten in the complete abstraction of her mind. She gazed 
 for a few moments languidly before her, her face so 
 colourless and sorrowful that many persons who passed 
 her looked back at her in curiosity and concern. Pres- 
 ently the space before her became clear; there was a 
 pause in the fluctuating course of passers-by, and nothing 
 interposed, for the instant, between her and the window 
 of the ticket office. 
 
 An elderly gentleman in a long travelling cloak and 
 silk hat, carrying a snug and shiny travelling bag, came 
 up to the window with the confident and assured bearing 
 of the experienced traveller. Anna heard him ask for a 
 ticket to Portland. She recognized him at once, for it 
 
i i 8 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 was Dr. Durham, the missionary secretary who had once 
 been her father's guest. 
 
 When he turned from the window, the doctor found 
 the pale, quiet girl in black standing just behind him ; 
 she spoke to him with a radiant light in her face, such as 
 he had never met before. To herself, Anna was saying 
 with a sense of exquisite joy in her heart, " God is near," 
 feeling herself close touched by the Almightiness. To 
 her father's friend she told her story and her need in few 
 words, without hesitation or doubt, declaring, necessarily, 
 her engagement to Keith Burgess, and the fact that she 
 was hastening to reach him on account of his serious 
 illness. 
 
 " Amazing, my dear," exclaimed Dr. Durham, taking 
 off his hat and wiping the large shining baldness of his 
 head, " amazing indeed ! I am myself on my way to 
 Burgess, and we can make the journey together. Poor 
 fellow ! It is a sad case. I had a telegram yesterday, 
 but it was impossible to start until to-night. It seems 
 he has had a hemorrhage. But we will talk all this over 
 on the way," and the good old gentleman made haste to 
 buy Anna's ticket, which he said it was only the part of 
 the Society to do, and she must never mention it again. 
 This done, they hastened on together to the train. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 How true it is that our destinies are decided by nothings, and that a small 
 imprudence helped by some insignificant accident, as an acorn is fertilized by a 
 drop of rain, may raise the tree on which perhaps we and others shall be 
 crucified. . . . 
 
 Poor, sorely tried Faith ! She has but one way out of the difficulty — the 
 word Mystery. It it in the origins of things that the great secret of destiny lies 
 hidden, although the breathless sequence of after events has often many surprises 
 for us too. — Amiel. 
 
 The incredible luxury of her breakfast the next 
 morning in the hotel in Portland made an impression 
 upon Anna which she could never forget, since she was, 
 in fact, very nearly starved. The rich coffee, the deli- 
 cate and sumptuous food, the noiseless assiduity of the 
 sleek black waiters, the great glittering room, all partook 
 of the marvellous to her exhausted senses. 
 
 Then she was conducted through endless passages 
 where her feet trod in baffling silence upon the lanes of 
 thick crimson carpet, for a few moments she was alone 
 in a room to bathe and prepare herself, and then a low- 
 voiced woman, stout and motherly, met her at the door, 
 and she was led to Keith. 
 
 He was lying, fully dressed, on a broad velvet sofa, in 
 a richly furnished room, which was full of flowers, and 
 bright with the light of the snowy winter morning and 
 a blazing wood fire. His eyes were luminous, his colour 
 better than she had known it, and he did not look ill. 
 The nurse left them alone, and they met with unfeigned 
 but quiet happiness. 
 
 " Was I selfish to ask you to come this long journey, 
 119 
 
I2o A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 just for me ?" Keith asked anxiously, holding her hands. 
 Anna found his hot and tremulous, and soothed them 
 with a slow, strong motion of her own. 
 
 " No, not selfish," she said. 
 
 "You see, I am not very ill; in fact, I am sure the 
 worst is over now, and I shall be just as well as ever in a 
 few weeks ; but I had a terrible cold and coughing so 
 there was a little hemorrhage, — simply from the throat, 
 we understand it now, — but at the time the doctor him- 
 self was alarmed, and so was I. If I had known how 
 slight an affair it really was, I should not have asked so 
 much of you, but I cannot be sorry, Anna. I shall 
 have to stay right here for several weeks, they say, and 
 it will be everything to have you near me, don't you 
 see ? " 
 
 " I am most grateful to be with you, Keith." 
 
 "And will you talk to me about India, and about 
 our home there ? I have thought of it so continually 
 since I have been sick. It almost seems as if I had 
 seen it, and you in it. I love it already, Anna. Please 
 say that you do too, just a little." 
 
 "Tell me about it. Of course I shall love it." 
 
 " It is all made of bamboo, you know, the house, and 
 perched up in the air, and there are great, wide rooms, 
 with cool shade, and a sound of water flowing; there 
 are broad bamboo lattices at the windows, and it 
 is still and peaceful, and the servants go about softly, 
 and you are there in a white dress, Anna, — oh, how I 
 want to see you in that white dress ! It has tiny 
 borders of gilt and coloured embroidery, and it suits you 
 so much better than this hard black gown. Will you 
 have a dress made soon like that ? " 
 
 Anna smiled and pressed her hand over Keith's eyes, 
 
Morning 121 
 
 which were full of childish imploring. She was begin- 
 ning to see his weakness with a new pain at her heart. 
 
 She sat with him an hour, and then, the doctor com- 
 ing in, she was sent to her room to sleep until noon, 
 while Keith should rest, and have an interview with 
 Dr. Durham, their fatherly friend. 
 
 When Anna reached her room, she found on a table 
 a large jar of roses, rich in colour and fragrance, and 
 a basket of hothouse grapes. The day was bitterly 
 cold, and it was snowing hard, the thick snowflakes 
 melting against the broad, thick glass of her window. 
 
 The extravagant luxury of such fruit and flowers in 
 this depth of midwinter astonished and disturbed her. 
 There was no one of whom she could ask questions, 
 but how could it be right for Keith to spend so much 
 money ? To remain for weeks in such a hotel as this 
 seemed to Anna to involve an impossible expenditure, 
 and she lay down on the great luxurious bed with a 
 bewildering confusion of questions to which no answers 
 were forthcoming. From the pinching cold and hun- 
 ger of yesterday to the luxurious ease of to-day was 
 like the transformation of a fairy tale ; and Keith, with 
 his weak hands, and his bright eyes, and his wistful 
 eagerness was formidable in his appeal to her. She did 
 not know what might be coming, but she felt anew that 
 she had surrendered herself and was pledged now to do 
 another's will. 
 
 At noon Anna had a moment's conference with 
 Keith's physician. He assured her that there was a re- 
 markable change for the better in his patient, — in fact, 
 that he looked now for a speedy convalescence, adding 
 that her coming had produced a most favourable effect. 
 
 The whole afternoon of that January day, Keith and 
 
122 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 Anna were left alone together. The nurse, glad of a 
 brief release, took her " afternoon out " ; the various 
 doctors of medicine and divinity betook themselves to 
 other places ; and word was given the page that Mr. 
 Burgess could not receive visitors, so that flowers and 
 cards accumulated, and interruptions were postponed. 
 There was justice in what Keith said, that they had 
 never yet had a chance to get acquainted, and now the 
 afternoon was turned to good account. 
 
 Experience and instinct made Anna a nurse. Keith 
 was sure he had never been so wholly comfortable as 
 she made him, and the effect of her personal presence 
 was like health and healing to him. 
 
 " How dear you are, Anna, and how absolutely nec- 
 essary to me," he said fondly, as he watched her quiet 
 way of preparing his food and medicine. " I foresee 
 plainly that I can never let you leave me." 
 
 When twilight gathered and the room grew dusky, 
 they had no lights, but sat by the fire, Anna on a low 
 seat beside the sofa, and silence fell. When Keith spoke 
 again, his voice betrayed a rising emotion, and an appeal 
 before which she trembled within herself. 
 
 " Anna," he said, " why should you leave me again ? 
 Why need we be separated any more ? I need you. I 
 can get strong far faster with you beside me, for you 
 inspire me with a new life. Everything seems sure and 
 strong when you are with me. But I want you wholly 
 mine without fear or favour. Marry me, dear, to-night, 
 to-morrow ! What have we to wait for ? It is only 
 three months before our marriage was to be, you know." 
 
 Concealing her agitation, and speaking quite steadily 
 and soothingly, Anna answered : — 
 
 " But you know, Keith, I must go back in a few 
 
Morning 123 
 
 weeks, and finish my work in the school and hospital. 
 I have still so much to learn before I can make a really 
 useful missionary, and so little time before May to learn 
 it in. You know I have cut my preparation short a 
 year, now, so that we may go out together. I am sure 
 we ought to wait until May." 
 
 "Oh, Anna!" 
 
 The words, so spoken, had all the force of an inartic- 
 ulate cry from the man's heart. They told what hours 
 of argument and pleading could not have conveyed, — 
 the yearning need for her presence and her upholding. 
 Anna lifted her eyes to Keith's, and saw that they were 
 dim with tears. She did not feel them to be unmanly 
 tears, knowing his physical exhaustion, and they moved 
 her profoundly. She rose and walked to the window, 
 looking out into the snowy street. Again that sense 
 that her life was taken out of her own hands came upon 
 her ; she felt like those of old who feared as they en- 
 tered into the cloud. She feared, but, nevertheless, she 
 went back to Keith, and said, very gently, but without 
 hesitation : — 
 
 " If we should be married to-morrow night, would 
 that please you, Keith ? " 
 
 He caught her hand and pressed it to his cheek with 
 pathetic eagerness. 
 
 " Oh, my girl, am I wrong to move you to do this 
 for my sake ? Forgive me, leave me, if I am leading 
 you faster, farther, than you wish to go." 
 
 "I will not leave you, Keith," Anna replied, taking 
 her low seat again at his side, " never, any more. It is 
 the will of God." 
 
 The next day Keith was much stronger. He was 
 able to walk about the room, to sit up for an hour at a 
 
124 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 time, and to talk and plan to his heart's desire. His 
 spirits were high, and he was full of irrepressible happi- 
 ness, and yet a wistful, grateful question always rose in 
 his eyes when they rested upon Anna. The marriage 
 was arranged to take place in Keith's room at six o'clock. 
 Dr. Durham had consented to remain and perform the 
 ceremony, returning to Boston that night. Keith's phy- 
 sician had interposed no objection to the plan, and even 
 regarded the inevitable excitement as likely to be a bene- 
 fit rather than an injury to his patient. 
 
 " He needs you, Miss Mallison," he remarked with an 
 emphasis which Anna felt to be peculiarly significant, 
 finding him a man of few words. 
 
 It was five o'clock, and Anna had gone to her room 
 to make ready for the ceremony. At Keith's urgent 
 desire, and by the aid of one of the many efficient 
 friends whom the circumstances of his illness had gath- 
 ered around him, a white dress had been ordered for her. 
 She found it now, lying in delicate tissue wrappings 
 upon her bed, and beside it a box of orange flowers whose 
 fragrance filled the room. 
 
 She was becoming a little inured to luxury ; colour, 
 warmth, perfume, delight to sense, seemed here to be 
 the natural order. A vague perplexity lay below it all, 
 but she had ceased now to ask questions. 
 
 As she bent to take her wedding-gown from its wrap- 
 pings, some one knocked at her door. It was Dr. Dur- 
 ham. There was a shade of anxiety upon his kind old 
 face, and he asked her to come with him into an alcove 
 at the end of the hall. With an uneasy stirring at her 
 heart, Anna followed him. Keith's physician was stand- 
 ing by a table in the alcove, evidently awaiting them. 
 
 Anna looked into his face, waiting without speaking 
 
Morning 125 
 
 for what he might have to say. Surely it was impossi- 
 ble that Keith could be worse; it was not ten minutes 
 since she left him. 
 
 " Miss Mallison," said the doctor, gravely, " I have 
 been having a little conference with your friend, Dr. 
 Durham, and we find that there is a chance that you 
 may be under some misapprehension of the actual con- 
 ditions under which — under which you are about to 
 take an important step." 
 
 " I did not understand it myself, my dear girl, until 
 within the last hour," interposed Dr. Durham ; " and 
 I really don't know now what we ought to do. Still, 
 perfect frankness, perfect understanding, you know, may 
 be better for all parties." 
 
 The good old man was visibly oppressed with the 
 burden of the part he had to bear in the interview. 
 Motionless Anna stood, only turning her eyes from one 
 man to the other in troubled wonder. 
 
 " The facts are simply these," the physician took up 
 the word again, " and I am greatly surprised, and I may 
 add greatly pained, that they have not apparently been 
 understood before. Mr. Burgess will recover from this 
 attack, and may have years yet of moderate health, but 
 as for carrying out his purpose to go out as a foreign 
 missionary, it is absolutely impossible. Such a course 
 would simply be suicidal, and must not be considered 
 for a moment." 
 
 " Not now, perhaps," Anna spoke very low, in a 
 strange, muffled tone; "but it may be — later — ? " and 
 she turned her imploring eyes from the face of one man 
 to the other. 
 
 "To be perfectly frank, my dear," said Dr. Durham, 
 pressing his hands nervously together, " after what the 
 
126 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 doctor has told me of the condition of our dear friend, 
 the organic difficulty, and all that, you see — I fear that 
 I can only, in justice to all concerned, state plainly that 
 our Board would not be justified in sending him. I as- 
 sure you the blow is a severe one to me in my capacity 
 as secretary ; for we regard Keith Burgess as, perhaps, 
 the most promising candidate who has ever come before 
 us. It is a dark Providence, and you will believe me 
 that only a sense of our duty in the matter has led us to 
 put the case so plainly before you." 
 
 Anna did not speak. 
 
 " I was not aware, Miss Mallison," said the physi- 
 cian, " until an hour ago, that you were yourself under 
 appointment as a missionary. When I learned this fact, 
 it seemed to me that you should not enter upon the 
 proposed line of action without knowing clearly that it 
 involves giving up your chosen career," and with these 
 words the doctor bowed and turned to withdraw. 
 
 Anna turned to Dr. Durham. 
 
 " Mr. Burgess does not know that he must give 
 up — ? " she asked. 
 
 " No, oh, no," was the reply ; " the doctor says that 
 he must on no account be allowed to learn it until he is 
 stronger. His heart is so entirely bound up in this 
 noble purpose, that the blow will be a terrible one when 
 it comes." 
 
 " We must wait, Miss Mallison, until he is as far as 
 may be recovered, before we allow him to even suspect 
 the actual state of the case ; " the doctor added this, 
 looking at Anna's face with surprise and concern. " If 
 I can serve you in any way, do not fail to call upon me. 
 For the present I must say good evening," and he 
 hastened away. 
 
Morning 127 
 
 Dr. Durham followed, walking along the hall by his 
 side. The look in Anna's face awed him. He felt 
 that it was not his right to share in an hour of such 
 conflict as this bade fair to be to her, for he perceived 
 already something of what her missionary vocation 
 meant to her. Anna, however, did not notice that he 
 had gone ; the crisis was too great to permit her paying 
 heed to the accidental circumstances around her. A 
 voice in her heart seemed crying with constant iteration, 
 " Father ! Father ! What does God mean ? " 
 
 For ten minutes Anna stood alone in the alcove, 
 looking steadily before her, but in her bewildered pain 
 seeing no outward thing, while in the far dim reaches 
 of the hall the good old clergyman paced noiselessly to 
 and fro. 
 
 On one side Anna saw her father's life, with all its 
 deep renunciation, its pure aims, its defeat, and its one 
 final hope of fulfilment in herself; she saw the look in 
 his eyes as he bent above her in the little church that 
 night, when she declared her purpose to become a mis- 
 sionary ; she remembered his Nunc Dimittis as he blessed 
 her with dying eyes; she lived again through the solemn 
 hour of dedication, just after her father's death, when 
 the sense came upon her that she was called of God to 
 carry on what her father began, to be in herself the 
 continuance, and through divine grace the fruition, of 
 his life. Since that hour life had meant only one thing 
 to Anna ; no other purpose or desire had ever entered to 
 divide or diminish its control over her : she was set 
 apart to carry the gospel of Christ to the heathen ; this 
 one thing only would she do. 
 
 This on the one side, strong as life itself, inwoven 
 into the very texture of her soul and her consciousness. 
 
128 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 On the other side Keith Burgess, even now scarcely 
 better than a stranger, and yet, by the will of God as 
 she believed, bound to her by sacred and indissoluble 
 vows. To be faithful to those vows, to save him from 
 despair, perhaps from death, she must cut oft" all her 
 past, must read her life all backward, must annul and 
 declare vain and void the most solemn purposes of her 
 soul. 
 
 From his retreat, watching, Dr. Durham at length 
 saw Anna advancing down the hall toward the door 
 of her room. He met her there, a question he did not 
 dare to speak in his tired, kind old eyes. Her face was 
 as the face of one who has even in the moment received 
 a spiritual death-blow. 
 
 He held his watch in his hand. Without speaking, 
 Anna motioned to him, and he replied : — 
 
 " It is nearly half past five, my dear." 
 
 "Very well," she said, her voice dull and toneless; 
 " I will be ready at six o'clock." 
 
 As if in a dream she prepared herself for her marriage. 
 She moved as if in response to another will than her 
 own ; her own will seemed to lie dead before her, a 
 visible, tangible thing, done to death by her own hand. 
 The white gown, Keith's gift, seemed less a wedding- 
 garment than a burial robe, and a strange smile crossed 
 her face when she caught her reflection in the glass, and 
 saw that, save for her eyes, her face was wholly colourless, 
 the pale flowers on her breast hardly paler, hardly colder. 
 
 At the clock-striking of the appointed hour, Anna 
 entered the room, and, taking her place beside Keith, 
 whose face was full of tender gladness, she lifted her 
 eyes steadily to the old clergyman's face, listening as 
 for life and death to his words. 
 
Morning 129 
 
 " In sickness and in health, ... for richer for poorer, 
 . . . and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him." 
 Yes, all others. God only knew the significance of 
 those words, for they seemed to mean God himself just 
 then ; but God would pity. He would help. Her 
 response came low but unfaltering, and then, with bowed 
 heads, standing side by side in their youth, their inno- 
 cence, their patience of hope, they two listened solemnly 
 to the last irrevocable words. 
 
 So steadfastly Anna held herself until the end, but 
 hardly had the final word of blessing been pronounced, 
 when, with a low cry for help, she wavered as she stood, 
 and fell fainting:. 
 
BOOK II 
 
 AFTERNOON 
 
 Hear now our cry for strength to bear the weight of prayers unanswered. 
 
 — Maarten Maartens. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 The evil base of our society eats right through ; that our wealthy homes 
 are founded on the spoliation of the poor vitiates all the life that goes on within 
 them. Somehow or other, it searches through and degrades the art, manners, 
 dress, good taste of the inmates. — Edward Carpenter. 
 
 It was a month later, when a train from the east, 
 entering the Fulham station at five o'clock of the Feb- 
 ruary afternoon, brought Keith Burgess and his wife 
 home. 
 
 Keith was apparently in fairly good physical condition, 
 and looked and carried himself much as he had when 
 Anna first knew him, although she could now detect 
 the underlying weakness which he strove hard to con- 
 ceal. He had been told in due time of what was 
 involved in his illness. The shock had been severe 
 both to mind and body, and for a while a serious relapse 
 had seemed imminent. Those days had brought the 
 young wife and husband into a new union of sympathy 
 and suffering, as each strove to bear the burden of their 
 thwarted lives bravely for the other's sake. Not at that 
 time nor at any later period was it possible for Anna to 
 let Keith know to the full the meaning of this renuncia- 
 tion to her. He knew that to her, as to him, the aban- 
 donment of the missionary purpose was a profound and 
 poignant sorrow ; he did not know that it was the over- 
 throw of all that had made her life hitherto, and that, 
 whatever new forces and motives might produce out of 
 the elements of her character, the old life, the first Anna 
 Mallison, was slain. 
 
 133 
 
134 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 Keith had told her little of what lay before them in 
 his mother's home, which was now to be theirs ; they 
 had been too deeply absorbed in the present emergency 
 to take much thought for the future. This much, how- 
 ever, had been accomplished in a week's sojourn in 
 Boston : Keith would shortly be appointed to fill a mis- 
 sionary secretaryship, which involved much travel and 
 speaking in the interests of the cause, but permitted him 
 to make his residence in Fulham. The strong hope 
 which Anna clung to silently for herself, as the last 
 pitiful substitute for the calling now denied her, was 
 that she, too, might still accomplish something for the 
 work so urgent in its claims upon her, by presenting it, 
 as occasion offered, among Christian women in her own 
 land. But she knew that her life was no longer in her 
 own hands to shape and direct as she might will ; not 
 only was Keith now to be her care, her chief concern 
 and interest, but she looked forward to daughterly duties 
 toward his invalid mother, to whom it was in her mind 
 to minister with loving and faithful devotion. 
 
 As the train now drew into the Fulham station, Keith 
 remarked, casually : — 
 
 " There's Foster, all right. I knew he would be on 
 hand." And, looking from the car platform, Anna saw 
 a grey-haired man-servant in plain livery, who saluted 
 Keith respectfully as he hastened to the spot, and wore 
 an expression of solicitude and responsibility which 
 stamped him at once as an old family servant. As they 
 gave over their hand luggage to this man, and followed 
 him out to the street where a plain closed carriage stood 
 in waiting, an unostentatious "B" on the door showing 
 it to be private, a deep perplexity and confusion began to 
 rise in Anna's mind. She had gradually become accus- 
 
Afternoon !jr 
 
 tomed to the luxuries of the life in the Portland hotel, 
 and had regarded them as incident to the passage of a 
 grave crisis, and justified, perhaps, by the necessities of 
 the case; but she had not been interested in thinking 
 farther along the line of the Burgesses' worldly status, 
 least of all minded to make it a matter of inquiry, con- 
 sequently the sight of the man-servant and the family 
 carriage smote her with a sharp sense of entering a new 
 and undreamed-of outward life. In them was the first 
 obvious token which had ever been given her of her 
 husband's home surroundings and worldly position. A 
 vague anxiety and dread were awakened in Anna by 
 these small signs of a life and habit so widely at variance 
 with her own past of austere privation. She saw the 
 low white cottage figured heretofore in her thought, in 
 the narrow street, fading before her; the geraniums in 
 the window, the cat on the cushion, the braided mats, the 
 wooden rocking-chair, the little table with the Bible and 
 cough-drops, wavered in all their outlines, and fell like a 
 house of cards. How would it be with the figure of the 
 sweet, saintly, patient invalid to whom she was to min- 
 ister? Must that go too ? Anna ceased to speculate, but 
 she sat silent beside her husband, and her heart beat hard. 
 When the carriage stopped, it was in a fine old quiet 
 street lined with substantial dwellings, and before a large 
 brick house painted a dull drab. The house stood with 
 its broad, low front close to the street ; there were many 
 small-paned, shining windows, and a brass knocker on 
 the panelled black front door. Nothing could have been 
 plainer or less pretentious, and yet the house bore, to 
 Anna's first intuitive perception, its own unmistakable 
 expression of decorous and inflexible dignity and quietly 
 cherished family pride. 
 
136 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 As they entered the wide, low-ceiled, oak-wainscoted 
 hall, a neatly dressed middle-aged woman advanced 
 and, speaking in a low voice to Anna, asked if she 
 would follow her up to her rooms, Keith introduc- 
 ing her pleasantly as his mother's indispensable Jane. 
 No one else was in sight ; but Mrs. Burgess's in- 
 valid condition seemed to account sufficiently for this, 
 although Anna had supposed her able to move about 
 the house, and even to go out under favouring con- 
 ditions. 
 
 Keith joined Anna on the stairs, taking her hand in 
 his. He smiled tenderly as he looked into her face, but 
 there was a nervous eagerness upon him which he could 
 not conceal. Was he thinking that he had chosen his 
 wife for far other scenes and a widely different life ? 
 She could not tell. 
 
 " This was my old room, Anna," Keith was saying 
 now, as they stood in the doorway of a spacious bedroom 
 with old-fashioned mahogany furniture and handsome but 
 faded chintz hangings. There was a marble chimney- 
 piece, over which hung a large picture of Keith, with a 
 boyish, eager face. 
 
 Jane now threw open a door from this room into 
 another of equal size. 
 
 " If you please, I was to tell you this is to be Mrs. 
 Burgess's own sitting room," she said respectfully, " and 
 the dressing room and bath beyond the bedroom will be 
 for your own use entirely after this," and she crossed to 
 open another door. 
 
 Keith drew Anna on into the sitting room. 
 
 " Well, now, this is certainly very kind of my mother," 
 he said, a flush of grateful pleasure rising in his sensitive 
 face. " See, Anna, this has always been the state apart- 
 
Afternoon 137 
 
 ment, the guest-chamber of the house, and she has had 
 it refitted for our use." 
 
 " How very kind," said Anna, warmly. 
 
 The room was, indeed, in its own manner, grave and 
 subdued, a luxurious parlour, with good pictures, hand- 
 some hangings, and soft, pale-tinted carpet. 
 
 " I must go down at once and tell the dear mother 
 how we thank her," said Keith, and Anna, left alone, 
 returned to the bedroom and began to remove her trav- 
 elling hat. 
 
 Jane was beside her at once, giving unneeded assist- 
 ance. 
 
 " Shall I unpack for you directly ? " she asked, look- 
 ing at Keith's small trunk, which was quite adequate to 
 Anna's few belongings, added to her husband's. Anna 
 felt her colour deepen as she declined the offered help, 
 and sat down with a little sigh in a great easy-chair. 
 But she submitted perforce when the maid knelt at her 
 feet, and, quite as a matter of course, removed her shoes. 
 It was the first time since babyhood that this office had 
 been performed for Anna by other hands than her own, 
 and she felt all her veins tingle with a shy reluctance, 
 but sat motionless. 
 
 Rising, Jane looked about, Anna thought with a 
 shade of dissatisfaction that there was thus far so little 
 to be done, so scanty a display of the small belongings 
 of luxury. 
 
 " When you are ready to dress for dinner," she said 
 with a touch of coldness, " I will come if you will just 
 ring the bell. The bell is here," and she indicated the 
 green twisted cord and heavy silk tassel at the head of 
 the bed. " Mrs. Burgess said she could spare me to 
 wait on you for what you needed to-night," she added. 
 
138 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Thank you," said Anna, gently, but with the quiet 
 unconscious loftiness of her own reserve. " Mrs. Burgess 
 is very good to think of it, but I am accustomed to 
 caring for myself, and so I shall not need to trouble 
 you." 
 
 "Very well, that will be just as suits you, ma'am. I 
 should be pleased to wait on you any time Mrs. Burgess 
 doesn't need me. Dinner will be at six o'clock, then, 
 if you please." Thus saying the maid withdrew. 
 
 " Keith," said Anna, with a perplexed countenance, 
 when a few moments later he joined her, " I find I 
 ought to dress for dinner, but I have nothing better to 
 wear than this black gown. You ought to have told me, 
 dear." 
 
 Keith looked down at the straight fashionlessness of 
 Anna's black figure with unconcealed concern. 
 
 " I ought to have thought," he said, " but it never 
 occurred to me about your clothes. We must get you 
 a whole lot of new things straight away, dear. We will 
 do it together, and have a great time over it, won't we ? 
 And you will put off the black now for my sake ? I 
 want to see you in wine-red silk and good lace." 
 
 " Oh, Keith ! " cried Anna, "I cannot imagine myself 
 masquerading like that. It would never do. But for 
 to-night — that is the trouble now." 
 
 " Why, wear your wedding-gown, sweetheart ; that is 
 just the thing. What luck that we did get that ! " and 
 Keith was down on his knees before the trunk on the 
 instant, and soon produced the dress which, being of 
 fine white cashmere, with a little lace about the neck, 
 was, in fact, altogether appropriate. 
 
 Anna looked puzzled. It seemed to her almost 
 sacrilegious to put on that dress for everyday use, and 
 
Afternoon 139 
 
 the association with it made her shiver, even now, but 
 she did not dispute the matter. 
 
 Just before six o'clock Keith ushered his wife into 
 the library downstairs, where his mother sat waiting to 
 receive them. It was the sort of a library which Anna 
 had read of but had not seen — lined with books, fur- 
 nished with massive leather-covered chairs and darkly 
 gleaming mahogany, a dim old India carpet on the floor. 
 
 Anna saw by the shaded drop-light the form of a small 
 woman of fragile figure, dressed in silver-grey silk, with 
 a white shawl of cobweb fineness of texture about her 
 shoulders. There were several good diamonds at her 
 throat and on her hands, her grey hair was beautifully 
 dressed in soft waves and fastened with a quaint silver 
 comb of fine workmanship. Her face was pale and the 
 'eatures delicately cut ; her movement as she advanced 
 to meet Anna was slow, and, in spite of her diminutive 
 size, stately, and there was a crisp, frosty rustle of her 
 grey gown. 
 
 She took both Anna's hands in hers with a cold, kind 
 smile, and kissed her twice on her forehead, Anna bend- 
 ing low for the purpose. She seemed to be at an incal- 
 culable height above the fine little lady, and singularly 
 young and immature. At twenty-two she had felt her- 
 self a woman for long years, with her sober cares and 
 grave purposes; but to-night, before Keith's mother, she 
 suddenly seemed to become a shy, undeveloped girl again. 
 
 While they spoke a little of the journey and the night, 
 Keith Burgess turned on his heel and affected to be ex- 
 amining, with critical interest, an engraving above the 
 fireplace, which he had seen in the same spot all his life ; 
 but he was watching them both aside narrowly as he 
 stood. He was perfectly satisfied. 
 
140 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 If Anna had been never so much prettier, and possessed 
 of all of Mally Loveland's confident social facility ; if 
 she had met his mother as the country girl of this type 
 would have done, with eager and affectionate appeal that 
 she should at once stand and deliver motherly sympathy 
 and affection in copious measure, — there would have been 
 only disappointment and chagrin. But Mrs. Burgess's 
 bearing was not more reserved than that of her daughter- 
 in-law. At twenty-two Anna's grave repose of manner 
 was in itself a distinction, and one which had its full 
 weight with the elder woman. Plainly, she had not a 
 gushing provincial beauty on her hands to curb and fash- 
 ion into form. As for good looks, there was a certain 
 angular grace already in figure, an unconscious dignity of 
 attitude and bearing which suited Keith's mother, while 
 for her face, the eyes were good, the brow very noble, 
 and the expression peculiarly lofty. The succession of 
 strong and sudden emotional experiences through which 
 Anna had recently passed had wrought a subtle change 
 already in her face ; there was less severity, less of hard, 
 conscientious rigour in its lines ; a certain transparent, 
 spiritual illumination softened the profound sadness 
 which was her habitual expression. 
 
 At dinner, a delicately sumptuous meal, served with 
 some state, Anna acquitted herself perfectly, having the 
 instincts of good breeding, the habit of delicate refine- 
 ment, and having learned at Mrs. Ingraham's table many 
 of the small niceties which she could hardly have ac- 
 quired in Haran. 
 
 Already, within the first hour, while seeing that her 
 mother-in-law had been physically entirely able to meet 
 her children at her door at their home-coming, Anna 
 perceived the inevitable consistency of her waiting to 
 
Afternoon 141 
 
 receive them in due form and order. Formality and 
 form were essentials of life in this house. This did not 
 oppress Anna particularly, and she liked to look at the 
 cameo-cut delicacy of Mrs. Burgess's face. Still, per- 
 haps never in her life, never in the cheerless chambers 
 of Mrs. Wilson's poor house, had Anna known the 
 homesickness with which she ate and drank — that 
 night at her husband's table. 
 
 Poverty and obscurity were old and tried friends to 
 Anna ; among them she would have been at home. 
 From wealth and social prominence she shrank with 
 instinctive dread and ingrained disfavour. The familiar 
 austerities of poverty were, to her, denotements of men- 
 tal elevation, while the indulgences of wealth bore to her 
 thought an almost vulgar pampering of appetite and 
 ministering to sense. The trained perfection of the 
 silent attentive service in itself was an offence to her. 
 Why should those people be turned into speechless au- 
 tomatons to watch every wish and wait upon every need 
 of three other people no more deserving than themselves ? 
 Could it ever seem right to her ? 
 
 She excused herself early. Left alone with him, Mrs. 
 Burgess laid her small hand on Keith's, saying without 
 warmth but with significant emphasis: — 
 
 " You have done very well, Keith, in marrying Miss 
 Mallison. I confess I was not without some apprehen- 
 sion lest the wife who would have been a perfect help- 
 meet and companion for you in the foreign field might 
 appear at some disadvantage in the life now before you 
 in the ordering of Providence." 
 
 " Anna is so absolutely true, mother, that she cannot 
 be a misfit anywhere, except among false conditions." 
 
 Mrs. Burgess bowed her head. 
 
142 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " I can see that she is a thoroughly exemplary young 
 woman, and while she may have much to learn of social 
 conditions in a place like Fulham, the foundation is all 
 right." She paused a little, and added reflectively : " Her 
 eyes and hands are extremely good. Her figure will 
 improve. I understand that her father belonged to the 
 Andover Mallisons." 
 
 There was a little flicker of Keith's eyelids, but he 
 made no reply, taking up casually from the table a book 
 at which he looked with mechanical indifference. It 
 was a volume of Barnes's " Notes." This much only 
 of Anna's vision had had foundation. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 For the most part people do not think at all. They have little phrases 
 and formulas which stand in their minds for thoughts and opinions, and they 
 repeat them parrotlike. Most of their notions and ideas and prejudices are 
 mere extraneous accretions, barnacled on to them by men and books in their 
 passage through life, as shells are on a vessel, but not growing out of them or 
 really belonging to them. — Anon. 
 
 Life in her creaking shoes 
 
 Goes, and more formal grows, 
 A round of calls and cues. 
 
 — W. E. Henley. 
 
 At the end of the week, on Saturday morning, Anna 
 Burgess was sitting on a low stool in the middle of her 
 bedroom, surrounded by a curious confusion and medley 
 of miscellaneous things. Before her was an open cedar 
 chest of large proportions ; its pungent odour was mingled 
 with the spicy smell of winter apples, dried fruits, and 
 maple sugar. From the half unpacked chest, quilts of 
 calico patchwork and soft home-woven blankets were 
 overflowing ; piles of snowy linen sheets and pillow- 
 cases, finely hemstitched and bordered with delicate 
 thread-work, lay about the floor, together with body 
 linen of equal daintiness, and books in dull and faded 
 binding, while the red apples, rolled everywhere, studded 
 the confused array as commas do a printer's page. 
 
 In the chest still lay some old-fashioned furs and 
 other clothing. Anna, as she sat, had her lap heaped 
 with a quantity of yellowed lace, and a number of small, 
 thin silver spoons. She was reading a letter, and, as she 
 read, unconsciously tears were running down her cheeks. 
 
 i43 
 
144 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " You must have known," wrote Gulielma Mallison, 
 " that I could not let my dear daughter go empty- 
 handed to her new home. The box has been long, 
 however, in being made ready, but I know your husband 
 and his mother will make excuses, the marriage having 
 been so sudden. Lucia and I have taken comfort in 
 sorting out and preparing the things. The linen is, 
 much of it, what was left of my own bridal outfit, 
 but we have bleached it on the snow, and it is still 
 strong. The silver I have tried to divide equally among 
 you all. This is your portion. The little porringer, you 
 know, came over from Germany with my mother, then 
 the Jungfrau Benigna von Brosius. 
 
 "I regret that I am unable to provide you with more 
 dresses, etc., but there is little to do with and little to 
 choose from in Haran. Indeed, I hardly ever get to 
 Haran any more, my rheumatism is so bad, and the 
 going has been terrible this winter. We got Lucia's 
 husband's sister to buy the white cotton cloth, and sent 
 it back by Joseph when he went down with a load of 
 wood. The brown cloak I shall not be likely to need 
 any more, going out so seldom, and Lucia says she 
 doesn't begrudge it to you at all, being much too long 
 for her, and it would be a shame to cut off any of that 
 material to waste. You know it is the best of camlet 
 cloth, and there is no wear out to it. I have given Lucia 
 the melodeon, and she says it is only fair that you should 
 have the cloak and the brown silk dress. We got 
 Amanda Turner to make that over for you by an old waist 
 we had of yours. She was here three days, right through 
 the worst snowstorm we have had all winter, and there 
 was nothing to interrupt us. We turned the silk and 
 made it all over. I think we succeeded pretty well. 
 
Afternoon 145 
 
 I thought you really ought to have one silk dress, now 
 you are going to live in this country. Of course you'll 
 be invited out to tea some, there in Fulham. The 
 grey merino will do for afternoons. I made you four 
 aprons, two white, and two check to wear about your 
 work, and you'll need them afternoons for taking care 
 of your husband's mother. Please give her my best 
 respects. I send the dried fruit to her, — maybe it will 
 tempt her appetite a little, — and part of the maple sugar, 
 that in the little cakes. Lucia ran it for her especially. 
 We thought maybe they wouldn't have it down there 
 in Fulham, that was pure. 
 
 " I am sorry we haven't anything better to send Mr. 
 Burgess, but I put in your dear father's quilted dressing- 
 gown as my particular present ; his health being so poor, 
 Lucia and I thought it might be acceptable. The books 
 are for him, from your father's library. . . ." 
 
 The letter dropped in Anna's lap, and covering her 
 face with both hands, she burst into passionate tears. 
 Her old life, in all its homely, simple sweetness called 
 her mightily, and the sharp sense of her own separation 
 from it now and forever tore her heart. Her mother's 
 inability to comprehend the new conditions, the eager 
 self-sacrifice which had gladly shorn her own poor life 
 bare of every lingering superfluity of possession that she 
 might equip her child with such small dower as was 
 attainable, had to Anna a pathos which seemed almost 
 too poignant to endure. How well, oh, how well she 
 understood the planning and contriving, the simple joy 
 in each small new object gained ; the delight which her 
 mother and Lucia had shared in picturing to themselves 
 her own grateful surprise in the manifold treasures stored 
 in the dear old chest, itself an heirloom of impressive 
 
146 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 value in the Mallison family. And she was grateful 
 beyond words to tell, and pleased and proud to come 
 thus set out to her husband; and yet, these possessions, 
 so unspeakably precious to her, would, she knew only 
 too well, wear a rustic and incongruous aspect in the 
 Burgess household. She knew that Keith and his mother 
 would be gentle and respectful in thought as in word, 
 but she knew the faint embarrassment which they would 
 try to conceal in receiving gifts for which they would 
 have no use ; she knew the delicate, half-pitying, well- 
 meaning sympathy, which could never understand, try 
 as it would. 
 
 On Sunday morning, Anna attended church with her 
 husband and his mother for the first time, the latter 
 making a great effort, since church-going was far beyond 
 her usual invalid routine. When Anna presented her- 
 self in the hall ready to start, Mrs. Burgess, or Madam 
 Burgess as she was generally styled after this time, had 
 bit her lip and almost gasped, such was her amazement 
 and dismay. However, she had said nothing, the situa- 
 tion being plainly hopeless, and she sat in the carriage 
 in speechless anxiety, while Keith's face reflected the 
 same emotion. He had felt it impossible to interfere 
 with Anna's arraying herself as she had for church, see- 
 ing with his sensitive perception that the garments fash- 
 ioned and sent her from her home by the hands of her 
 mother and sister, for such a time as this, were in her 
 eyes sacredly beyond criticism or cavil. 
 
 Anna now preceded him, following his mother, down 
 the broad aisle of the stately and well-filled church, 
 drawing to herself unconsciously the attention of many 
 eyes. She wore over the soft overshot silk gown the 
 brown camlet cloak which had formed in her mother's 
 
Afternoon 14-7 
 
 eyes the chief glory of her simple trousseau. It was a 
 long, circular cape, falling to the hem of her dress, 
 drawn up about the throat and shoulders with quaint 
 smocking after a forgotten art, and tied with a long, 
 loose bow of changeable brown ribbon. The outlines 
 of this garment were so simple and so natural that it 
 could never, at any period or by any shift of fashion, 
 become awkward, but it had at that time an effect of 
 Puritan-like quaintness. She wore a dark, broad-brimmed 
 hat with falling plumes, according well in simplicity as 
 in colour with her cloak. 
 
 As she passed down to the Burgess pew, her height 
 and bearing, the flowing outline of her costume, the 
 purity and unconscious, childlike seriousness of her face 
 with its clear brum pallor, the steady light of her hazel 
 eyes, the lustreless masses of her dark hair, all combined 
 to make a singular impression of mediaeval loveliness, of 
 something rare and fine and wholly distinct from the 
 prevalent type of women in the ambitious little city. 
 There were some who, seeing her, smiled and whispered 
 at the quaintness of her dress ; there were others who 
 found their eyes irresistibly drawn again and again by 
 the picturesque harmony of her figure ; there were one 
 or two persons who, watching the proud, pure severity 
 of her face as she sat with her soul lifted to God and 
 heedless of outward things, saw in her a woman fit for 
 reverence and wonder, one whose spirit had been most 
 evidently nourished on the greatness and simplicity of 
 spiritual realities, and who was yet untouched by "the 
 world's slow stain." 
 
 And so it came about that Keith Burgess and his 
 mother, who had been dismayed at the lack of conform- 
 ity to fashion in Anna's dress at this first appearance in 
 
148 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 their world, found themselves met, the service over, by 
 men and women who had admiration and interest, sober 
 and sincere, to express, and much to say aside of the 
 singular distinction, the aristocratic dignity and charm, 
 of the bride. Madam Burgess was not slow to produce 
 the good points of Anna's ancestry of which she had 
 quickly possessed herself, thus enhancing the favourable 
 impression, and she was ready to accept Anna, cloak 
 and all, herself, when the son of one of Fulham's leading 
 men, Pierce Everett, an artist newly returned from Paris, 
 came to her with a respectful but eager wish that Mrs. 
 Keith Burgess would at some future day grant him the 
 notable favour of sitting to him for some saint's face and 
 figure. 
 
 There was a little crowd about them as they passed 
 out to their carriage, and much kind and deferential cour- 
 tesy pressing upon Anna's notice. A group of young 
 girls on the church steps watched her with shy, awed 
 glances, and murmured to each other that they adored 
 her, she was so different from any bride they had ever 
 seen ; she was grave and quiet, and something of pathos 
 and mystery seemed to remove her far from the conscious, 
 fluttering pink-and-white brides of their experience. 
 
 The young artist, Pierce Everett, joined a friend, a 
 professor of literature in the local university, Nathan 
 Ward, as he walked away from the church. 
 
 "What a study for a saint!" he exclaimed, with 
 enthusiasm. "I did not suppose there was such a 
 woman left in the world. Where can she have been 
 saved up to keep that super-earthly look ? " 
 
 Professor Ward smiled. After a silence he said, — 
 
 " Here's a conundrum, if it is Sunday : Why is Keith 
 Burgess like St. Francis of Assisi ? " 
 
Afternoon 
 
 : 49 
 
 The answer not being forthcoming, Professor Ward 
 presently volunteered it. 
 
 " Because he has espoused Poverty, Chastity, and 
 Obedience. In Mrs. Keith these three are one." 
 
 Fulham was a small city with a college of no great 
 reputation, which called itself a university by reason of 
 having a divinity school affiliated. Furthermore it was 
 a seaboard town and had had a large shipping trade in 
 former years, now slowly dying a natural death. The 
 
 aristocratic circle of Fulham — there was but one 
 
 was as definitely marked and as strongly defended from 
 invasion as it is possible for such a circle to be, even 
 in an old New England town. In fact, it existed more 
 obviously for its own defence and preservation from the 
 ineligible than for any other reason; and only two classes 
 of citizens were eligible, — namely, those who had some 
 connection with "the university," and those who in- 
 herited either poverty or riches from ancestors engaged 
 in foreign commerce. These two agreed in one, and 
 agreed to rule out all others. Thus the aristocratic 
 circle was necessarily small and its social functions 
 painfully mechanical and monotonous ; its maidens 
 were proverbially lacking in personal charms, and its 
 young men, with rare exceptions, fled, escaping to more 
 interesting and varied scenes ; but it was supremely satis- 
 fied, rejoiced in the distinction of its unattainable exclu- 
 siveness, and looked with cold and unrelenting disfavour 
 upon all strangers, newcomers, or fellow-citizens, however 
 meritorious, who failed to possess the sole claims to its 
 ranks. 
 
 Madam Burgess enjoyed a double title to membership 
 in this exclusive circle. Her fathers before her, for sev- 
 
150 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 eral generations, had been shipowners residing in the 
 house now her own, to which her husband, the Rever- 
 end Elon Burgess, had come, as an eminently suitable 
 adjunct upon their marriage. Mr. Burgess hard filled a 
 minor chair in the divinity school for the ten years of 
 their married life ; he had not filled even this particularly 
 well, being a man of small calibre, lacking in any trace 
 of original power or talent, but his name was in the 
 university catalogue, and hence his place in the ranks 
 of Fulham's high social circle safe forever. But, although 
 of limited ability, Professor Burgess was fine of grain and 
 fine of habit, and sincerely pious in a day when to be 
 called pious did not awaken a smile. In the fear and 
 faith of God and in true humility he had lived and 
 died, leaving perhaps no very large and irreparable 
 vacancy, and no overwhelming sense of loss or desolation 
 even to his wife and son, and still having borne — 
 
 " without reproach 
 The fine old name of gentleman." 
 
 As a girl Sarah Keith had given satisfactory evidence 
 of a " change of heart," and in a time of profound mis- 
 sionary awakening she had declared herself strongly in 
 sympathy with foreign missions. To the position thus 
 taken she had consistently adhered. All boards and aux- 
 iliaries to which she was available claimed her name on 
 their lists. Missionary literature was always scattered 
 abundantly in her library, her gifts were large, and her 
 allegiance to religious interests was so completely taken 
 for granted that it would no more have been questioned 
 in Fulham than her place in its aristocracy. Certainly 
 she never doubted herself that she was essentially a 
 religious woman. Nevertheless, religion, whether per- 
 
Afternoon 151 
 
 sonal or in its outreaching toward a world which she 
 would have unhesitatingly called " lost," consisted for 
 her now in a series of mechanical observances, and in 
 tenacious orthodoxy of opinion ; it had become a dry 
 husk enclosing a dead seed. The brief blossoming of 
 the religious impulse of her young years over, she had 
 fixed her affections on the small adventitious trappings 
 of "this transitory life," and denied unconsciously the 
 power of that other life, the form of which she so punc- 
 tiliously maintained. 
 
 Her invalidism was becoming, not inconvenient on 
 the whole, and not wholly imaginary. Such was the 
 woman who was now by the ordering of Providence to 
 rule and direct the unfoldings of Anna's early woman- 
 hood, since Keith Burgess cherished a respect and 
 submission to his mother which would have found 
 something akin in Chinese ancestor-worship. He had 
 reproduced in his own young life his mother's early 
 missionary fervour ; that it was long dead in her case 
 he did not suspect. With Keith this experience had re- 
 ceived a strong accent from the temper of his college 
 life, and from the possibility of an actual dedication of 
 himself to the missionary vocation. It had thus become, 
 as we have seen, for a time nobly and completely domi- 
 nant with him, the strongest passion his life had known. 
 He was himself surprised to find, on his reaction from 
 the crisis of loss and disappointment connected with his 
 illness and the abandonment of a missionary career, how 
 natural and, on the whole, how satisfactory it was to 
 settle back into his own place in his old home, to fall 
 back into the small, comfortable interests of Fulham, 
 and to find full soon an aspect of unreality and even of 
 incongruity clothing his former ardent dream. 
 
152 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Not so Anna. 
 
 The ordered precision, the formal, stiff monotony, 
 repeated day after day in her husband's home, the cold, 
 conventional courtesies, the absence of any purpose save 
 to maintain things in existing form without progress or 
 alteration, for a time exerted upon her an almost para- 
 lyzing effect. A torpid dulness, a physical oppression, 
 came upon her when shut up alone to the companion- 
 ship of Madam Burgess, against which she found it 
 impossible to struggle successfully. Accustomed to 
 serious mental work, to much strenuous bodily labour, 
 to the wholesome severity of long walks in all weathers, 
 and more than all to the stimulus of a great, immediate 
 purpose ennobling every homeliest task and smallest ser- 
 vice, — the present life of inaction, of sluggish ease, of 
 absence of responsibility of motive or purpose, was like 
 the life of a prison. A heavy, spiritless apathy overbore 
 every motion to fresh endeavour or to new hopes and 
 incitements. She " fluttered and failed for breath," and 
 at times her heart seemed bursting with its longing, the 
 old wild, girlish longing, grown still and deep, for free- 
 dom and for power. 
 
 With mechanical indifference she accompanied Madam 
 Burgess on her daily drives, paid and received visits, 
 shopped, and attended the various prescribed social 
 functions, read aloud to Keith, and made a feint of em- 
 broidering the great ottoman cover which her mother- 
 in-law had contrived for her leisure. It was a stag's 
 head with impossible square eyes, the head partially 
 surrounded by a half-wreath of oak leaves and acorns, 
 staring out of an illimitable field of small red stitches, 
 numberless as the sands of the seashore, and significant, 
 Anna thought wearily, of her endless, monotonous hours. 
 
Afternoon 1 53 
 
 All the while, just below the surface, repeated 
 through the long days, was the bitter conflict of her 
 spirit, her perpetual, unanswered questioning, Why had 
 God thus dealt with her ? Why, with all power 
 to save or heal, had he permitted the illness to come 
 upon Keith which had thus brought to naught what 
 she had supposed was the very and sacred purpose of 
 her creation. 
 
 Upon the intensity of youth and a nature of profound 
 and passionate earnestness this thwarting of her dedicated 
 purpose, this apparent rejection of herself from the ser- 
 vice of God, worked piteous havoc. Anna did not grow 
 sullen or rebellious, but she felt her whole interior life 
 to be in hopeless confusion. Her sense of an immediate 
 and personal relation to a fatherly God had suffered some- 
 thing like an earthquake shock. All the high faith, the 
 sacred and filial purpose, the profound self-dedication of 
 her girlhood, seemed to have been flung aside by the God 
 whom she had sought to know and serve, with cold, blank 
 indifference, without sign or suggestion of pity, of love, 
 or of amends. The God of whom Mrs. Westervelt had 
 taught her, a conception which she had gradually ab- 
 sorbed and assimilated as her own, a God closer than 
 breathing, nearer than hands and feet, to whom the heart 
 was never lifted in vain, whose presence could be indu- 
 bitably felt and known, who answered every holy and 
 devout prayer of his children, and who led them imme- 
 diately in every thought and action — where was he? 
 Either he existed only in imagination, or she was herself 
 rejected by him as unworthy ; and, in a depth below 
 the depth of burning grief, she saw her father likewise 
 despised and rejected. 
 
 A great protest, honest and indignant, rose up in 
 
154 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 Anna's heart. She knew that, as far as mortal man 
 could be holy and harmless in the eyes of his God, her 
 father had been ; and she knew that her own purposes 
 had been blameless and sincere. She refused to quibble 
 with herself in regard to these facts ; something staunch 
 and sturdy in her mental constitution — not obstinacy, 
 not pride, but sheer inward honesty — refused to seek 
 accommodation in any forced paroxysm of humility or 
 blind submission. With a sorrow which a lighter nature 
 could not have comprehended, but with characteristic 
 conclusiveness, she said to herself, the stress of her 
 inward conflict spent, "I do not know God," and 
 composed her spirit in silence to wait. 
 
 At the end of a month Keith returned to his class in 
 the Massachusetts Divinity School, with which he was 
 to graduate in June. Immediately thereafter he expected 
 to enter upon the duties of his missionary secretaryship, 
 and make his home in Fulham with his wife and 
 mother. 
 
 Thrown thus upon the sole companionship of Madam 
 Burgess, and forced either to make the best of the sit- 
 uation or to appear the crude, undisciplined provincial 
 who sullenly refuses to adapt herself to new conditions, 
 Anna's native good sense came to her rescue. With 
 strong will she crowded down her mental conflict, while 
 with conscientious earnestness she addressed herself to 
 the duty of making herself a cheerful and sympathetic 
 companion to her husband's mother, and of filling the 
 social position in which she was undeniably placed, how- 
 ever inscrutable the reasons therefor. New influences 
 came out to meet and win her on every side, and she 
 responded with a social grace, and even facility, which 
 amazed all who had seen her first as the cold, pale, silent 
 
Afternoon 
 
 *SS 
 
 girl whose marriage altar had seemed rather an altar of 
 sacrifice. 
 
 An effect of singular charm was produced by this 
 new mental attitude, the opening out of a nature until 
 now so closely sealed. The native seriousness, the fine, 
 direct simplicity, of Anna's girlhood remained; but they 
 seemed flooded with a new and warmer light, welcome 
 as daily sunshine while the hardness, the rigour, and the 
 severity melted away. She submitted without further 
 protest to the comparative luxury of her surroundings, 
 found it surprisingly agreeable, and discovered a fresh, 
 forgotten joy in simple physical existence, which carried 
 her bravely through the long, dull days of the Burgess 
 order of life. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these things, below the surface of 
 her life, often below the surface of her thought, lay an 
 unplumbed depth of spiritual loneliness, a sense of double 
 orphanhood, a voice which cried and would not be 
 stilled ; for while men and women had come near, of 
 God she had become shy, feeling toward him as toward 
 a dearest friend grown cold. 
 
 But one night, as she lay alone and wakeful, tears 
 painful, not easily flowing, wetting her pillow, a sudden 
 thought stung her by its throbbing wonder and delight, 
 seeming great enough to reconcile all things, even God, 
 who had filled her with bitterness, and hedged her about 
 in all her ways. 
 
 She said to herself, " It may be I shall have a child," 
 and the deep places of her nature called to each other in 
 joy and exultation ; and she knew that, if this grace 
 should be given her, all would yet be clear, and she could 
 still believe in God's love, and in his purpose in her 
 life. 
 
156 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 So, blindly groping through the rough and thorny 
 way by which humanity has sought God through many 
 ages, this human soul, sincere and humble, perpetuated 
 the heart-breaking fallacy of conditioning the Divine 
 Love, the Eternal Power and Godhead, on the small 
 mutations of her own life, seen at short range. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Affections, Instincts, Principles, and Powers, 
 Impulse and Reason, Freedom and Control — 
 So men, unravelling God's harmonious whole, 
 Rend in a thousand shreds this life of ours. 
 Vain labour ! Deep and broad, where none may see, 
 Spring the foundations of that shadowy throne 
 Where man's one nature, queen-like, sits alone, 
 Centred in a majestic unity. 
 
 — Matthew Arnold. 
 
 To some minds there is nothing more pathetic in 
 human experience than the patient resignation with 
 which average men and women accommodate them- 
 selves to the most disastrous and distorting of griefs 
 and disappointments, nothing more amazing than their 
 power to endure. If something of the brute nature is 
 in us all, it is not always and altogether the animalhood 
 of greed or of ferocity, but far more commonly the 
 mute, uncomprehending submission of sheep and oxen. 
 Though the futility of revolt is so apparent, the infre- 
 quency of it in human lives does not cease to surprise. 
 The modern Rachel mourns for her children, and will 
 not be comforted, but she goes about the streets in con- 
 ventional mourning, orders her house with decent regu- 
 larity, and probably, in the end, goes abroad for a time, 
 and returning, enters with apparent cheerfulness into the 
 social round. The modern Guelph or Ghibelline, ban- 
 ished from the political or intellectual activities which 
 made life to him, finds readily that raving against time 
 and fate is no longer good form, reads his daily paper 
 
 iS7 
 
158 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 with unabated interest, and enjoys a good dinner with 
 appetite unimpaired. Very probably the man's and the 
 woman's heart is broken in each instance, but what 
 then ? Life goes on, and the resiliency of the main- 
 spring in a well-adjusted piece of human mechanism 
 may be usually guaranteed, with safety, to last a life- 
 time. 
 
 In a year after her marriage Anna Burgess was dili- 
 gently at work along the conventional lines of activity of 
 her day for religious young women at home, — writing 
 missionary reports, distributing literature, collecting dues. 
 She saw nothing better to do. Her own private and 
 innermost relation to God, it was true, had been dislo- 
 cated, but the heathen remained to be saved. 
 
 One morning, Keith being away from home, Anna 
 came into Madam Burgess's sitting room, her cheeks 
 slightly flushed, her eyes shining, a letter in hand. 
 
 " May I read you this ? " she asked eagerly ; " I have 
 been invited to give an address at the foreign missionary 
 
 conference next month in H . What if I could ! 
 
 I should be so glad." Her eyes told the new and eager 
 hope which this summons had stirred within her. 
 
 An added degree of frost settled upon her mother-in- 
 law's face. 
 
 " You can hardly mean, Anna," she said, " that you 
 would be willing to speak in public ? " 
 
 " But our missionaries do, and sometimes others," 
 Anna replied anxiously. 
 
 " The case of missionaries is, of course, entirely excep- 
 tional; and they should never be heard, in my opinion, 
 before mixed audiences. As for other women making- 
 spectacles of themselves, it would seem to be enough to 
 remind you, Anna, of the words of the Apostle Paul on 
 
Afternoon i^o 
 
 that subject. You would hardly attempt, I think, to 
 explain them away." 
 
 Anna was silent. 
 
 " A woman who has a noble Christian husband, my 
 dear," continued Madam Burgess, more gently, feeling 
 her case now won, " as you have, who is already at work 
 in this very field of labour, has no occasion to leave the 
 sacred shelter of her own home, and lift up her voice 
 and exhibit her person in public gatherings." 
 
 " Keith always said that I might still have a chance 
 to. do a little work in this way ; I am sure he approved," 
 and Anna's low voice faltered, her heart full just then of 
 the memory of those first days of their common sorrow. 
 
 "You have a very indulgent husband, and it is not 
 strange if, in the first fond days of your married life, he 
 may have unwisely yielded to some mistaken sense of 
 duty on your part, and apparently committed himself to 
 a purpose which he would later realize to be impracti- 
 cable. Understand me clearly, my dear," and the term 
 of endearment sounded, from Madam Burgess's lips, as 
 sharp as the point of an icicle, " my son's wife can never, 
 without flying in the face of all her holiest obligations, 
 both to God and man, present herself before an audience 
 of people as a public speaker. A woman who does this 
 violates the very law of her being, she ceases to be 
 womanly, ceases to be modest, and loses all that femi- 
 nine delicacy which is woman's chief ornament." 
 
 The finality of these remarks clearly perceived, Anna 
 rose from her chair, and left the room in silence. She 
 never returned to the subject, but simply buried in her 
 heart one more high hope of service. 
 
 This was the first time that Anna's inexperience and 
 young ardour had joined direct issue with Madam Bur- 
 
160 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 gess's social creed. For a while everything had gone so 
 smoothly that Anna's first sense of disparity had been 
 soothed to rest ; all things being new, she had failed to 
 see the full significance of certain limitations which 
 hedged her in. Little by little she learned this, and 
 learned the inevitable submission. She never appealed 
 to Keith from his mother, controlled by a sense of the 
 essential ugliness and vulgarity of a domestic situation 
 in which the different elements are working and inter- 
 working at variance with each other. Furthermore, she 
 learned very soon that, however sympathetic and gentle 
 Keith might show himself toward her, he would, in 
 the end, range himself on his mother's side of every 
 question. 
 
 Stratagem and indirection were alike alien to Anna's 
 nature and habit, but she inevitably learned, in process 
 of time and experience, to avoid leading Madam Burgess 
 to a declaration of definite positions, while she sought to 
 enlist her husband's sympathies in her own undertakings 
 before his mother was made acquainted with them. Any 
 plan which was brought before her by her son was com- 
 paratively acceptable to the elder woman. Thus wisely 
 ordering her goings as women learn to do, Anna succeeded 
 in reaching a fair degree of independence and at the same 
 time a harmonious outward order. Her sacrifices and 
 disappointments, the gradual paring down of her larger 
 hopes and the dimming of her finer aspirations, she kept 
 to herself. 
 
 Pierce Everett, the young artist who had spoken of 
 Anna's fitness for a model of a saint, had carried out 
 his purpose, and had formally requested her to pose for 
 him. With the cordial approval of both Madam Burgess 
 and Keith, Anna had consented, and late in the winter 
 
Afternoon 161 
 
 the sittings began in Everett's studio, which was in his 
 father's house. Madam Burgess brought Anna to the 
 house for the first sitting. They were received by the 
 mother of the artist, an intimate friend of Madam Burgess, 
 and the older ladies then laughingly gave Anna over into 
 Everett's hands while they enjoyed a discussion of cer- 
 tain benevolent committee matters. 
 
 In the studio a little talk ensued regarding the pro- 
 jected sittings, and various considerations involved in 
 them. These matters understood, Anna said com- 
 posedly : — 
 
 " I am ready, Mr. Everett, if you will tell me just 
 what you wish. I do not even know for what I am to 
 be painted." 
 
 " And you will not object, Mrs. Burgess," said 
 Everett, quickly, " if I do not tell you now ? It is in 
 a character which could not, I am sure, displease you, 
 but I think it would be decidedly better that we should 
 not discuss it, and that you should have no definite 
 thought of it. Is this satisfactory to you ? " 
 
 " Entirely so." 
 
 " Very well." 
 
 Immediately upon this Everett took his place at the 
 easel and began a first rapid sketch of Anna's head. He 
 was a slight fellow, below the medium height, with a 
 delicate, almost transparent face, a red Vandyke beard, 
 and large and brilliant brown eyes. Quick and nervous 
 in speech and gesture, he had the clear-cut precision of a 
 man who knows both his means and his end. 
 
 Anna thought him very interesting. 
 
 At the second sitting their talk chanced to turn upon 
 the relation of the ideals of men and women to their 
 practical lives, and Everett told Anna the old story of 
 
1 62 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 Carcassonne, which was new to her. The train of 
 thought thus suggested soon absorbed her, so that she 
 forgot him and what he was doing. The sacred hope 
 of her own life, yet unfulfilled, still centring in the hope 
 of her father, the ever receding purpose of which she 
 never spoke, cast its powerful influence upon her. 
 
 For half an hour neither spoke. Then Everett's 
 friend, Professor Ward, came into the room in familiar 
 fashion, and the two men talked of many things. 
 
 When Anna left Nathan Ward said, looking over his 
 friend's shoulder : — 
 
 " If you can keep that look, you will make a great 
 picture." Then he added, " But don't fail to get her 
 hands. They have the same expression." 
 
 After that it became an habitual thing for Ward to 
 drop into the studio at these sittings. It never occurred 
 to Anna that her presence had anything to do with his 
 coming. She supposed he had always come. He talked 
 very little with her, but she liked to listen to his talk 
 with Everett. It was distinctly novel to her — light, 
 rambling, touch-and-go, and yet full of underlying 
 thought and suggestion. Anna had known few men 
 at best, none of the order to which these two belonged, 
 men conversant with art and literature, music and 
 poetry, and modern life on all its sides. Much that 
 they said puzzled and perplexed her, but she found an 
 eager enjoyment in it. 
 
 Then one day Professor Ward said to her, apropos of 
 Shelley, of whom they had been speaking : — 
 
 " You do not join in this discussion, Mrs. Burgess. 
 I am quite sure you could give us opinions much wiser 
 than ours." 
 
 Anna's colour deepened as she answered : — 
 
Afternoon 163 
 
 " I have not read Shelley in a great many years. In- 
 deed, I know nothing of literature." 
 
 There was a little silence; Anna hesitated, half 
 inclined to say a word in explanation of a fact which 
 she plainly saw the two men found very surprising, but 
 finally, finding the explanation too personal and too seri- 
 ous, remained silent. 
 
 As she started to walk home from the Everetts', Pro- 
 fessor Ward joined her, asking to walk with her. He 
 was a man of forty, with a wife and a flock of little 
 children. Anna knew the family slightly, but pleasantly. 
 
 " Mrs. Burgess," the professor began, as they walked 
 down the quiet street, " I do not want to intrude or to 
 be found inquisitive, but I am so puzzled by what you 
 said a little while ago that I really wish you felt inclined 
 to enlighten me. I know you never speak with the 
 exaggeration and inaccuracy which is so much the habit 
 of young ladies, and so I accept what you said as to your 
 ignorance of literature as sober truth. But you are a 
 well-educated woman. How can it be ? " 
 
 Anna was almost glad of a chance to explain. She 
 was facing many new questions in these days, and she 
 felt the need of light. She answered therefore at once, 
 with frankness : — 
 
 " I deliberately gave up study on all these lines when 
 I became a Christian. I supposed them to be contrary 
 to the absolute consecration of my life to God." 
 
 Professor Ward looked perplexed. 
 
 " You cannot understand," Anna said timidly. « I 
 have felt since I have been in Fulham as if the language 
 of my religious life in those days would be an unknown 
 tongue here. I see that lam right. To you, Professor 
 Ward, I am sure such a sense of duty as I speak of is 
 
164 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 unintelligible, but I can still say it was sincere. And it 
 was not an easy sacrifice to make, for I had already 
 grown fond of poetry, and longed to know more in a 
 way I could never express." 
 
 " I see," said her companion, gravely ; " you felt that 
 the study of the work of men like most of our poets, 
 whose religious positions were vague and not formulated 
 according to our creeds, was likely to act unfavourably 
 upon your spiritual life and experience." 
 
 " Yes. To divide my heart, to dim my sense of a 
 one, single aim in life." 
 
 " And that aim ? " 
 
 " To serve God directly in every thought and word. 
 That, and to try to save the souls of the lost." 
 
 Professor Ward had no key to the profound sadness 
 with which Anna spoke, but he watched her face with 
 earnest interest. She spoke with the unconsciousness 
 of absolute sincerity. He was reflecting, however, on 
 how much easier life might be if one could sustain, un- 
 disturbed, such bare simplicity of conception of human 
 relations. 
 
 " And so," he said slowly, " you were going to 
 prune away every instinct, every faculty of your na- 
 ture which did not serve the immediate purpose of 
 furthering what men call sometimes l the cause of reli- 
 gion,' and know and feel and be one thing only ? " 
 
 Anna bent her head in assent. 
 
 " That is precisely what men and women do who 
 seek monastic life." 
 
 Anna looked up at Professor Ward in quick surprise 
 and instinctive protest. 
 
 " Yes," he said, with emphasis, " it was just as noble 
 and just as cowardly, just as weak and just as strong, as 
 
Afternoon 165 
 
 the impulses which make monks and nuns. It is what 
 people do who are afraid of life, who do not dare to 
 encounter the whole of it, who have not reached the 
 highest faith in either God or man." 
 
 " Then you think such a resolution, such a scheme 
 of life, produces weak natures, not strong ones ? " asked 
 Anna, looking up with her honest, steadfast gaze into 
 his eyes. 
 
 " I should say narrow natures, and yet I fear I ought 
 to say weak ones too. Mrs. Burgess, do you not see 
 yourself the weakness, the narrowness, of the position ? 
 It is what might be called the department system of 
 human life," and Professor Ward, with rapid gestures, 
 indicated the drawing of sharp lines. " It is as if you 
 said to your ego, your soul — yourself — whatever, — 
 Go to now, this department of your life is religious ; it 
 sings hymns, reads a collection of sacred writings at regu- 
 lar hours, prays, gives away money to build churches, 
 and performs various other exercises definitely stamped 
 as godly. This other department loves nature, exults in 
 beauty, pours itself into poetic thought, rejoices in music, 
 expresses itself in art: but all this is secular, pagan — 
 all men may have this in common who have not accepted 
 my particular conception of the divine nature and its 
 dealings with men ; consequently all this is to be cut ofF 
 — effaced, fought with to the death. Am I right ? " 
 
 Anna nodded, her face very grave, her breath quick- 
 ened. 
 
 " Does that seem to you a reasonable or even a noble 
 conception ? There was nobleness, I grant you, in the 
 struggle, just as there was in the fortitude of the Spar- 
 tans ; but who feels now a desire to imitate that sheer, 
 barbaric effacing of human feeling? No, no. That 
 
1 66 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 day has passed. We can begin to see life whole to-day ; 
 we can see God in nature, in poetry, in beauty, in ugli- 
 ness even. He is all and in all. All things are ours 
 and we are God's ! I wish I could make this clear to 
 you." 
 
 " You have, in part," said Anna, simply. 
 
 " No way, however tortuous, by which men have 
 groped after God can be indifferent to us, if we have the 
 right sense of humanity. Trust yourself, Mrs. Burgess; 
 trust the human heart throughout the ages. Believe me, 
 with all the drawbacks, all the falls, and all the blunders, 
 it has been an honest heart and is worthy of reverence 
 and devout study. l Trust God : see all, nor be 
 afraid.' " 
 
 " I have seen only one side of life, one conception of 
 human nature." 
 
 " That, at least, was a high and lofty one. For stern 
 heroism of thought, commend me to that old New Eng- 
 land Calvinism in which I see you were nurtured. It 
 was fine; I glory in it, just as I glory in heroism every- 
 where, builded up on however mistaken a foundation. 
 The worst of it, however, is that it completely deceives 
 the human heart as to itself. It is terrible in its power 
 to mislead. The elect are not as elect by half as they 
 suppose. Calvin himself helped to burn Servetus, which 
 was not really fine of him, you know. But I have said 
 enough. I hope I have not wounded you ? " 
 
 " I do not think so," said Anna, smiling faintly, " but 
 I am amazed beyond everything. All that you say is 
 so new." 
 
 They had reached Professor Ward's house, which 
 was very near that of Madam Burgess. 
 
 " I wish you would come in a moment," said Ward, 
 
Afternoon 167 
 
 very gently ; " you know my wife always likes to see 
 you, and I want to show you some books in which I 
 think you would be interested." 
 
 Without reply, Anna passed through the gate which 
 he held open for her, and they entered the house to- 
 gether. Mrs. Ward met them, and they all went into 
 the professor's study. 
 
 In a few moments Anna was lost in the realm of 
 books so long self-closed to her experience. She sat at 
 his desk, and Ward handed her and heaped about her 
 rare and beautiful volumes until she became bewildered 
 with the sense of intellectual richness and complexity. 
 She looked up at last, as he bent over her, turning the 
 leaves of a beautiful old Italian edition of Dante's 
 " Commedia," and, with a smile beneath which her lips 
 trembled, she asked, like a child : — 
 
 "Tell me truly, is all this for me, righteously, 
 safely ? " 
 
 " Did I not tell you ? " he asked gently. " ' All things 
 are yours, and you are Christ's, and Christ is God's.' " 
 
 With that day Anna returned to the long-sealed books 
 of her father's love and her own. She read and studied 
 under Professor Ward's guidance and direction, steadily 
 and with eager delight. She did this with no further 
 misgiving or doubt. He had succeeded in satisfying her 
 conscience, and she moved joyfully along the clear lines 
 of her inherited intellectual choice. 
 
 As for her father and the example of renunciation he 
 had given her, her heart was at rest. That which was 
 perfect being come for him, was not that which had 
 been in part done away ? 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Are you the new person drawn toward me ? 
 
 To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose ; 
 
 Do you suppose you will find in me your ideal ? 
 
 Do you think the friendship of me would be unalloyed satisfaction ? 
 
 Do you see no further than this facade, this smooth and tolerant manner of me ? 
 Do you suppose yourself advancing on real ground toward a real heroic man ? 
 Have you no thought, O dreamer, that it may be all maya, illusion ? 
 
 — Walt Whitman. 
 
 In her sittings in the studio of Pierce Everett, Anna 
 had found from time to time numbers of an English 
 magazine devoted to social reform. Some of these, at 
 Everett's suggestion, she had taken home with her and 
 read with care. Coming to the studio one May after- 
 noon, for the work had been laid aside for a time for 
 various reasons, and only resumed with the spring, Anna 
 laid down on a table three or four of these magazines 
 with the remark : — 
 
 " I wish I knew who John Gregory is." 
 
 Everett glanced up quickly. 
 
 " I mean the man who wrote those articles on the 
 4 Social Ideals of Jesus,' " added Anna. 
 
 " Do you like them ? " asked Everett. 
 
 " I do not know how to answer that question," said 
 Anna, musingly ; " perhaps you hardly can say you like 
 what makes you thoroughly uncomfortable. What he 
 says of the immorality of a life of selfish ease appeals to 
 me powerfully." 
 
 1 68 
 
Afternoon 1 69 
 
 " It is a great arraignment," said Everett, working on 
 in apparent absorbedness. 
 
 " What stirs me so deeply," continued Anna, " is 
 that this writer not only says what I believe to be true, 
 but that he makes you feel a sense of power, authority, 
 finality almost, in the way he says it. And by that, you 
 know, I do not mean that he is authoritative or auto- 
 cratic ; it is simply that he writes as one who sees, who 
 knows, who has gone beyond the mists of doubt and has 
 a clear vision. 
 
 " You are quite right, Mrs. Burgess," said Everett, 
 quietly, looking up from his work, his eyes kindling 
 with unwonted light. " John Gregory is a man of his 
 generation — a seer; as you say, one who sees. He is 
 my master. You did not know, perhaps, that I am a 
 socialist ? " 
 
 " No," Anna said simply ; " I do not even rightly 
 know what a socialist is." 
 
 "It is, as far as my personal definition is concerned, 
 — there are a dozen others, — a man who believes that 
 the aim of individual and private gain and advantage, 
 to the ignoring of the interests of his fellow-men, is 
 immoral ; this, whether it is the struggle for the man's 
 salvation in a future life, or his social or material ad- 
 vancement in this." 
 
 Anna looked very sober. In a moment of silence, 
 she was asking herself, " I wonder what becomes of 
 people who are forced into lives of selfish inaction ; 
 who have to live luxuriously when they don't want to ; 
 who are obliged to go in carriages when they far prefer 
 walking ; and who find their hands tied whenever they 
 seek any line of effort not absolutely conventional ? " 
 
 Looking up then with a sudden smile, she exclaimed, 
 
170 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " I should like to ask this Mr. Gregory a few ques- 
 tions ! " 
 
 " Perhaps you may be able to some time. He is in 
 this country now, and he is so good as to honour me 
 with his personal friendship. However, he passes like 
 night from land to land ; one can never count upon his 
 coming, or plan for his staying an hour. But if I 
 can bring it about, Mrs. Burgess, you shall meet some 
 time." 
 
 "Thank you. What is he ? A clergyman, a teacher, 
 or what ? " 
 
 " You found something a little sermonic in his arti- 
 cles ? " and Everett smiled. " I believe he can never 
 throw it off entirely. He is an Oxford man, a scholar, 
 and a writer on sociology. He is first and last and 
 always, however, a Christian in the purest and most 
 practical sense." 
 
 " That seemed to me unmistakable." 
 
 " He used to be a preacher ; in fact, he was for a num- 
 ber of years a famous evangelist in England, and also 
 in this country. He was led into that work by a sense 
 of obligation. I should almost think you must have 
 heard of his wonderful success. John Gregory — his 
 name was in everybody's mouth a few years ago." 
 
 Anna tried to recall some vague sense of association 
 with the name, which failed to declare itself plainly. 
 
 " He was holding great revival meetings somewhere 
 in New England, simply sweeping everything before 
 him ; all the great cities were seeking him, you know 
 his income could have been almost anything he would 
 have made it. All this I know, but I never heard a 
 word of it from Gregory himself." 
 
 " He is not doing this still ? " 
 
Afternoon 171 
 
 " I will tell you. Really to understand, you must try 
 to imagine something of the man's personality. He has 
 in the highest degree that indefinable quality which we 
 usually call magnetism. He has an almost irresistible per- 
 sonal influence with many people. Well, on a certain 
 night, four or five years ago, I should think, during the 
 course of a most successful meeting, it suddenly became 
 clear to him that he was bringing the people in that audi- 
 ence to a religious crisis, and to a committal of themselves 
 to a profession of a knowledge of God, by doubtful means. 
 I cannot tell you the details, I have forgotten them ; but 
 I know that he went through something like agony in 
 that meeting, and that in saying the words ' The Spirit 
 is here,' he had an overwhelming sense of presumption 
 and even of blasphemy. He did not know that the 
 Spirit was present. He was not sure but the influence 
 at work was the product of music, of oratory, of his 
 own will and personality, of the contagion of an excited 
 crowd — in short, was purely human. If this were so, 
 what could the results be but confusion and dismay 
 when the hour of reaction should come ? He was 
 borne down by a sense of pity and remorse even for 
 the coming spiritual doubts and struggles of the people 
 who were at that hour placed almost helplessly in his 
 hands, and abruptly he left the place — hall, whatever 
 it was. That night in his hotel he made no attempt 
 to sleep, but studied the situation, its dangers, its losses, 
 its benefits, with the result that he never again held that 
 order of revival meetings. Whatever good other men 
 might do with the forces at work and put into their 
 hands to wield at such crises, for himself he was con- 
 vinced that the human had usurped the divine, and made 
 of him, not only an unauthorized experimenter with 
 
172 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 souls, but a violator of their sacred rights, albeit hitherto 
 unconsciously to himself." 
 
 " What has he been doing since ? " 
 
 " Studying. He has gone deeply into social and reli- 
 gious problems, has travelled largely, has seen and talked 
 with many of the most famous leaders of modern thought, 
 and I think he has now some large plans which are 
 maturing slowly. Meanwhile he writes such things as 
 you have read." 
 
 The following week Anna was again in Everett's 
 studio. This sitting, he promised her as it drew to a 
 close, should be the last, as he could finish the picture 
 without her. 
 
 "Am I to see it now ? " asked Anna, timidly. 
 
 " Not quite yet, if you can be patient still after such 
 long forbearance," was the answer, given with a bright 
 but half-pleading smile. " I want you to like the thing 
 if you can, Mrs. Burgess, and I know my chances are 
 better if you see it when the final touches are on." 
 
 " Very well. I am not in a hurry." 
 
 When Anna left the studio the sun was low and the 
 room fast growing shadowy. Seeing how hard and in- 
 tensely Everett was working to use the last light of the 
 day, she insisted that he should not come down the three 
 long flights of stairs with her. The studio was at the 
 top of the house. They parted, therefore, with a brief, 
 cordial good-by, and earnest thanks from the young 
 artist, whose admiration and reverence for his model had 
 grown with every hour spent in her presence. 
 
 On the second flight of stairs Anna encountered the 
 housemaid coming up, a tray with a card in her hand. 
 Otherwise the house seemed strangely still and deserted 
 that evening. As she descended slowly from the broad 
 
Afternoon 173 
 
 landing of the main staircase, where a window of stained 
 glass threw a deep radiance from the western sky like a 
 shaft of colour down into the dim hall below, Anna per- 
 ceived that some one stood there, waiting. 
 
 As she looked, amazement and a strange, deep joy took 
 hold on her. The man who stood with arms crossed 
 upon his breast where the shaft of light fell full upon 
 him in the gathering shadow was of heroic height and 
 stature, with a large leonine head, grey hair thrown care- 
 lessly from his forehead, strong features, and eyes stern 
 and grave in their fixed look straight before him as he 
 stood. 
 
 It was not the first time that Anna Mallison had con- 
 fronted this face. Twice in her girlhood she had seen 
 it as she saw it now. It was the face of her dream, the 
 dream which for years secretly dominated her inner life 
 as a vision of human power and greatness touched with 
 supernatural light. Even in later time, in this year of 
 her Fulham life, she had at intervals recalled that pres 
 ence and influence distinctly, and never without quick- 
 ened pulses and mysterious longing. And now she saw 
 bodily before her the very shape and substance of her 
 dream. 
 
 With her heart beating violently and her breath pain- 
 fully quickened, she proceeded down the stairs, through 
 the hall, and so past the place where the stranger stood. 
 When she reached him he became aware of her presence 
 for the first time. Throwing back his head slightly with 
 the action of one surprised, he met Anna's eyes lifted 
 with timid joy and dreamlike appeal to his face, and 
 smiled, bending slightly as if in spiritual bestowment, and 
 shedding into her heart the inexplicable delight which 
 she had known before only as the effluence of a dream. 
 
1 74 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Neither spoke. The house door opened and closed, 
 and Anna hastened down the street alone under the 
 pale, clear sky, with a sense that the greatest event of 
 her life had befallen her, but she knew not what it was. 
 As she went on her homeward way she seemed to her- 
 self to be palpably taken up and borne onward by a power 
 beyond herself, as of some rushing, mighty " wind of 
 destiny." 
 
 She found her husband at home, alone in the dusky 
 library by an oppressive fire. She wanted to tell him 
 what had happened ; but when she sought to do this she 
 found that nothing had happened ; there was nothing to 
 tell unless she should seek to put into words that mys- 
 terious dream of her past, and this she found impossible. 
 The dream was her own. No one else could under- 
 stand. 
 
 Keith had returned from a long and tiresome journey 
 in her absence, and Anna was filled with penitence that 
 she had not been in the house to receive him and make 
 him comfortable. He looked worn and dispirited, and 
 complained of the weather, which she had thought celes- 
 tial, but which prostrated his strength. 
 
 In her quiet, skilful way she ministered to him, hid- 
 ing in her heart the deep happiness in which no one 
 could share, and as she bathed his head he caught her 
 hand and kissed it. 
 
 " Oh, my wife," he said, so low that she could hardly 
 hear, " you are too beautiful, too wonderful for a miser- 
 able weakling of a man like me ; but how I love you, 
 Anna ! Tell me that I do not spoil your life." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 I am holy while I stand 
 Circumcrossed by thy pure hand ; 
 But when that is gone again, 
 I, as others, am profane. 
 
 — Robert Herrick. 
 
 John Gregory stood in the studio with his friend, 
 the first greetings over. 
 
 " May I look at your work ? " he asked, approaching 
 Everett's easel. The younger man stood behind him 
 with sensitive, changing colour, and something almost 
 like trepidation in the expression of his face. 
 
 There was a certain quality of command in John 
 Gregory, of which he was himself, perhaps, usually 
 unconscious, which produced in many minds a dispro- 
 portionate anxiety to win his approval. As he stood 
 now before Everett's easel, however, he was not the 
 awe-inspiring figure of Anna's dream, or even of its 
 sudden fulfilment, but simply an English gentleman in 
 his rough travelling tweeds, a man of fifty or there- 
 about, noticeable for his height and splendid proportion, 
 for a kind of rugged harmony of feature, and for the 
 peculiarly piercing quality of his glance. His manner 
 was characterized by repose which might have appeared 
 stolidity had not the fire in his eyes denied the sugges- 
 tion ; his voice was deep and full, and he spoke with 
 the roll and rhythm of accent common to educated Eng- 
 lishmen. The aspect of the man produced, altogether, 
 an effect of almost careless freedom from form, the sense 
 
 »7S 
 
176 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 that here was one who had to do with what was actual 
 and imperative, not with the adventitious and artificial ; 
 in fine, an essentially masculine and virile individuality, 
 — a man born to lead, not to follow. 
 
 Beside him, Pierce Everett, with his delicate mobility 
 of face and the slender grace of his frame, looked boyish 
 and even effeminate, but there was nothing of superiority 
 or patronage in Gregory's bearing toward the young 
 artist, but rather a kind of affectionate comradery pecul- 
 iarly winning, and he entered into the study of the 
 young man's work with cordial and sympathetic interest. 
 
 The canvas before them was not a large one ; the 
 composition extremely simple ; the single figure it pre- 
 sented was set in against a background of cold, low tones 
 of yellow. A crumbling tomb of hewn stone, with tufts 
 of dry grass growing in the crevices, hoary with age, 
 stained with decay, was set against a steep hillside of 
 sterile limestone. Leaning upon a broken pillar of this 
 tomb stood the figure of a young girl, her hands dropped 
 carelessly upon the rough stone before her, her head 
 lifted and encircled by a faint nimbus, the eyes fixed in 
 absorbed contemplation, and yet with a child's passion- 
 less calm. The outlines of the figure, in white Oriental 
 dress, were those of extreme youth, undeveloped and 
 severe; the attitude had an unconscious childlike grace, 
 the expression of the face was that of awe and wonder, 
 with a curious mingling of joy and dread. The subject, 
 easily guessed, was the Virgin in Contemplation in early 
 girlhood. 
 
 The picture was nearly finished, only the detail of the 
 foreground remained incomplete. 
 
 John Gregory stood for some time in silence. The 
 face and figure before him possessed the expression of 
 
Afte 
 
 rnoon 
 
 177 
 
 high, spiritual quality common to the early Florentines ; 
 there was little of fleshly or earthly beauty, but an aura 
 of celestial purity, of virginal innocence and devout aspi- 
 ration, was the more perceived. 
 
 "You have painted, like Fra Angelico, Everett, with 
 heaven in your heart." 
 
 Gregory spoke at last. The artist drew a long breath 
 and turned away, satisfied. They both found chairs 
 then, and settled down for an hour of talk. 
 
 " Where could you find a model for such a conception ? 
 It would be most difficult, I should think, in our self- 
 conscious, sophisticated, modern life." 
 
 " It was my model who created my picture," replied 
 Everett. " Mrs. Keith Burgess is the lady's name. 
 Seeing her at church, when she came here a bride, gave 
 me my first thought of the thing." 
 
 Gregory looked at him meditatively. 
 
 " It is most remarkable that a woman who was mar- 
 ried could have suggested your little Mary there, with 
 that child's unconsciousness in her eyes, that obviously 
 virginal soul. When a woman has loved a man, she has 
 another look." 
 
 Everett was surprised at this comment from Gregory, 
 who had never married, and who was peculiarly silent and 
 indifferent commonly when the subject of love or marriage 
 was touched in conversation. He answered presently : 
 
 " When Mrs. Burgess was married and came here, she 
 was in a sense a child. She was thoughtful and serious 
 beyond her years in religious concerns, but quite undevel- 
 oped on all other lines, and as inexperienced in the motives 
 and energies of the modern world as a child — I think one 
 might have described her then as a very religious child." 
 
 " Has she changed greatly ? " 
 
 N 
 
178 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Not so much, and yet somewhat. She has begun to 
 read, you see, which she never had done except on cer- 
 tain scholastic and religious lines ; she has begun to think 
 for herself somewhat, and in a sense, one could say, she 
 has begun to live." 
 
 John Gregory did not reply, but he said to himself 
 that if she had begun to love she could not have fur- 
 nished his friend with the inspiration and the model for 
 just that picture. 
 
 He had come to Fulham only for the evening, being 
 on his way to take a steamer from Montreal back to 
 England. The two men had dinner together, and then, 
 returning to the studio, conversed long and earnestly. 
 Gregory spoke freely but not fully of plans which 
 absorbed him, but which were not yet matured. Some 
 theory of social cooperation was in full possession of 
 his mind, and he had small consideration for things out- 
 side. Everett listened with serious attention to all that 
 he said, and when he rose to make ready for departure 
 he remarked : — 
 
 " Mr. Gregory, when the time comes that you are 
 ready to carry into execution any plan embodying this 
 principle of brotherhood, count on me, if you think me 
 worthy. I am ready to follow you — anywhere." 
 
 Gregory looked down upon the young man with his 
 grave and winning smile. 
 
 " Thank you, Everett ; I shall remember. But do you 
 know, my dear fellow, I want to ask a tremendous favour 
 of you now, this very night ? " 
 
 " Say on," returned the other. 
 
 Gregory had crossed the room to the easel, and now 
 stood with a look intent on the picture of the young 
 Virgin. 
 
Afternoon 
 
 179 
 
 " It is a bold request, but I want to buy this picture 
 of you now — before you have a chance to touch it 
 again. Who knows but you may spoil it ? It interests 
 me unusually, and I want to take it with me to England, 
 — to do that it must go with me to-night. I will pay 
 you any price you have in mind. I want it for a pur- 
 pose, Everett." 
 
 " What ! you mean that I should let it go to-night, 
 before I have finished it, or shown it to Mrs. Burgess 
 herself even ? " and Everett looked almost aghast. " She 
 has never seen it, even once, you know." 
 
 "Yes," said the other, looking fully into the artist's 
 excited face with undisturbed quietness; "that is exactly 
 what I ask of you. I will promise to return the painting 
 to you at some future date if that should be your wish. I 
 shall be over here again in a year." 
 
 Everett stood for a moment, reflecting. 
 
 " I am very fond of the picture," he said slowly. 
 
 " So am I," said the other, smiling. 
 
 Everett glanced up, and caught the smile, and felt a 
 strange control in it. 
 
 "You will have to take it," he said, with a nervous 
 laugh. " There is no other way." 
 
 " Then, put a good price on it, my boy," said 
 Gregory, with matter-of-fact brevity. 
 
 " You will agree not to exhibit it anywhere, publicly ? " 
 
 " Certainly. I could not do that without Mrs. 
 Burgess's consent." 
 
 " How I shall make my peace with her, I am sure 
 I cannot imagine," murmured Everett, as he took the 
 painting from its place, and laid it on the table prepara- 
 tory to packing it. 
 
 " Will you tell her, please," said Gregory, quite 
 
180 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 unmoved, " that I wanted the picture, and will agree to 
 make good use of it ? " 
 
 A sudden clearing passed over Everett's clouded face. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure, to be sure ! " he cried ; " Mrs. 
 Burgess has read your recent articles in the Economist, 
 and she is quite enthusiastic over them. It will be all 
 right." 
 
 " I am sure it will," said John Gregory. He was 
 thinking of Anna's face as she had passed him in the 
 hall below, but he did not mention the fact that they 
 had met to Everett. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 That which has caused the miserable failure of all the efforts of natural 
 religion, is that its founders have not had the courage to lay hold upon the hearts 
 of men, consenting to no partition. They have not understood the imperious 
 desire for immolation which lies in the depths of every soul, and souls have taken 
 their revenge in not heeding those too lukewarm lovers. 
 
 — Life of St. Francis. Sabatier. 
 
 To be content to have while others have not, to be content to be right while 
 others are bound and crushed with wrong, to be content to be saved apart from 
 the common life, to seek heaven while our brothers are in hell, is deepest perdi- 
 tion and not salvation ; it is the mark of Cain in a new form. — G. D. Herron. 
 
 In the few years which followed her early married 
 life, the cords of convention, slender, and strong as 
 threads of silk, were wound closer and closer about 
 Anna Burgess outwardly. As she grew older, Keith's 
 mother grew more immovable in her social creed, and 
 ruled her family more rigidly. Anna might read and 
 study, but if she would please her mother-in-law, it must 
 be in the mildest of manners, and on strictly suitable 
 and ladylike lines ; religious biography was recom- 
 mended, while all literature which conveyed a touch of 
 freedom in thought, or a suggestion of a change in social 
 conditions, was viewed with horror. 
 
 Anna might also be charitable, but this too must be 
 on strictly conventional lines. There were numerous 
 benevolent organizations upheld by Fulham's fashion- 
 able women ; the name of Mrs. Keith Burgess might 
 figure frequently on these, — to this there would be no 
 opposition, but individual and sporadic work among the 
 poor was uniformly discouraged. The family carriage 
 
 181 
 
1 82 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 was often sent into the slums of the city on errands of 
 bestowal as from the wealthy to those " less favoured," 
 but when Anna would have liked the carriage to take 
 her on social calls on equal terms, in respectable but 
 unfashionable regions, she met with a cold disfavour and 
 unyielding lack of compliance. 
 
 Malvina Loveland, who had been married to the 
 Rev. Frank Nichols, not long after Anna's marriage, 
 had come again within Anna's horizon. Through 
 Keith's personal influence, exerted at Mr. Nichols's 
 request, a call had been extended to him to the pastorate 
 of a church in Fulham. This church was not very 
 large and not particularly prominent ; furthermore, it was 
 not in the " right " part of Fulham geographically, which 
 was as distinctly limited as the social circle. 
 
 The Nicholses, delighted to come to Fulham as a 
 university town of some importance, and to a church 
 far more promising of obvious success than the mission 
 enterprise in which they had worked in Burlington, 
 innocently rented a cosey modern house on a pleasant 
 street which, had they but known it, distinctly stamped 
 them as socially ineligible from the day of their ar- 
 rival. 
 
 Mally, dreaming of nothing of the kind, entered upon 
 what she expected to be a somewhat brilliant life socially, 
 into which she saw her husband and herself conducted 
 easily and naturally by the Keith Burgesses. 
 
 Anna had received her old friend with most affection- 
 ate cordiality, and had spent days of hard work in help- 
 ing her to order her house, which, as there was a baby 
 and but one servant, was not a small undertaking. 
 Madam Burgess had submitted with patience to the long 
 absences and the preoccupation of her daughter-in-law 
 
Afternoon 1 83 
 
 thus involved, and had even responded without demur 
 to Anna's timid request that they might have her old 
 friends to dinner. 
 
 This dinner closed the Nichols episode from the 
 social point of view. The guests were full of cheerful 
 and unfeigned admiration, eager to please, easy to be 
 pleased, but their good will availed them nothing. Even 
 Anna could not fail now to perceive poor Mally's 
 inherent provincialness, but had she been apparently to 
 the manner born, it would have made no difference with 
 Madam Burgess. The essential qualifications to entrance 
 into her world being lacking, her punctilious and atten- 
 tive courtesy for the occasion simply covered the inevi- 
 table and absolute finality of it. 
 
 The Nicholses themselves, while by no means perceiv- 
 ing that the social career to which they had looked 
 forward in Fulham was ended with this visit instead of 
 begun, departed from the Burgess mansion with a vague 
 sense of chill which all Anna's efforts could not counter- 
 act. They were never invited there again. Madam 
 Burgess had done her duty by her son's wife's early 
 friends, and the incident, as far as she was concerned, 
 was closed. 
 
 Anna, burning with a desire to make up to Mally for 
 the inevitable disappointment which she foresaw, and 
 hotly, although silently, resenting the social narrowness 
 which excluded all men and women whose lives had not 
 been run in the one fixed mould, devoted herself personally 
 to her old friend with double ardour. More than this she 
 could not do. Mally wondered, as the months passed 
 and they settled down to the undivided intercourse of 
 their own obscure church and neighbourhood, that Anna 
 made no attempt to introduce her into her own aristo- 
 
184 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 cratic circle. Over and over she bit back the question 
 which would reach her lips, " Why ? " Her heart fer- 
 mented with bitterness and resentment, and her husband 
 was taxed to the utmost to subdue and sweeten the tumult 
 of her wounded feeling. 
 
 Another year brought Mally another baby, greatly to 
 her own dissatisfaction. Poor Anna, the great passion of 
 motherhood within her still baffled and unfulfilled, poured 
 out her soul upon mother and child in vicarious ecstasy, 
 and went home to lie awake for many nights with her 
 ceaseless, thwarted yearning for a child ; and thus these 
 two women each longed passionately for what the other, 
 possessing, found a burden rather than a joy. 
 
 As time went on, Anna, bound to a certain outward 
 course of life alien to her natural bent, lived her own 
 life just below the surface, a life like a flame burning 
 beneath ice. All the master motives of her nature 
 unapplied ; all the initial motives with which life had 
 begun, neutralized and made ineffective, she reached, five 
 years of married life over, the point which in any human 
 development is one of danger, — the point when great 
 personal forces are dammed up by barriers of external 
 circumstance, when the prime powers and passions are 
 without adequate expression. 
 
 Meanwhile Keith Burgess, his young enthusiasms 
 havino- lost their first freshness, the limitations of 
 physical weakness and suffering making themselves 
 more and more felt, settled into a narrow routine of 
 life and thought. As his physique gradually seemed to 
 shrivel and his delicacy of form and feature to increase, 
 a resemblance to his mother, scarcely observable in his 
 younger manhood, became at times striking. His mission- 
 ary activity passed from its original fresh ardour into a 
 
Afternoon 185 
 
 system of petty details, increasingly formal and perfunc- 
 tory, even to Anna's reluctant perception. 
 
 Perhaps it was due to Keith's protracted absences 
 from home, perhaps partly to his physical exhaustion, 
 which made him dull and unresponsive when with her, 
 but Anna felt, against her own will, a growing divergence 
 in thought and interest between them. He was delicately 
 sympathetic, chivalrously attentive, to her in all outward 
 ways ; but when she longed with eager craving for his 
 participation in the life of thought and purpose which 
 was stirring the depths of her nature in secret, she found 
 scant response. 
 
 Driven inward thus at every point, Anna's essential 
 life centred itself more and more upon the new message 
 of social brotherhood which she had found in the writ- 
 ings of John Gregory; and, unconsciously to herself, the 
 ruling figure in her mind, as the symbol of the human 
 power and freedom for which she longed, was his. The 
 " counterfeit presentment " of this man in her dream had 
 ruled her girlish imagination ; and now his actual pres- 
 ence, though but once encountered, exercised an influ- 
 ence over her maturer life no less mysterious and no less 
 profound. To this influence fresh strength was given by 
 the relation, never-so-slight, which existed between them 
 by reason of Gregory's possession of the picture painted 
 by Everett. How she was represented was still all un- 
 known to her, still unasked ; but must it not be that, 
 owning this mysterious image of her face, his thoughts 
 would sometimes turn to her ? This thought stirred 
 Anna with a thrill, half of joy, half of fear. 
 
 An interruption in the routine of their Fulham life 
 occurred after Keith had served the missionary society 
 for a period of five years. An illness which manifested, 
 
1 86 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 as well as increased, his physical inability to continue in 
 his difficult duties brought Keith and Anna to a sudden 
 course of action. Keith resigned his official position, 
 and, as soon as he was able to travel, they sailed for 
 Europe for a year's absence. 
 
 This was a year of rapid development and of abound- 
 ing happiness to Anna. Alone and unguarded in their 
 life together for the first time since their marriage, the 
 husband and wife grew together in new sympathy, and 
 fed their spirits on the beauty and wonder of art and the 
 majesty of nature in fond accord. The fulness and rich- 
 ness and complexity of the working of the human spirit 
 throughout the ages were revealed to Anna; the gran- 
 deur and purity of dedicated lives of creeds unlike and 
 even hostile to her own opened her eyes to a new and 
 broader view of human and divine relations. Reverence, 
 love, and sympathy began to usurp the place of dogma, 
 division, and exclusion in her mental energies. She 
 began to perceive that the righteous were not wholly 
 righteous, nor the wicked wholly wicked. The old 
 ground plan of the moral universe with which she had 
 started in life looked now a mean and narrow thing. 
 Larger hopes and a bolder faith awoke in her. 
 
 And so in mind, and also in body, Anna grew joyously 
 and freely; even her attitudes and motions expressed a new 
 harmony, while suavity and grace of outline succeeded to 
 the meagre and angular proportions of her youth. 
 
 The return to Fulham came, when it could no longer 
 be postponed, as an unwelcome period to their best year 
 of life. Madam Burgess received her children with 
 affectionate, albeit restrained, cordiality, and watched 
 Anna with keen eyes on which no change, however 
 slight, was lost. 
 
Afternoon 187 
 
 When mother and son were left alone on the night 
 of the return, as on the night when Keith brought his 
 wife home a bride, Madam Burgess spoke plainly and 
 directly of Anna. She had never discussed her charac- 
 teristics from that night until the present, but she felt 
 that another epoch was reached, and a few remarks 
 would be appropriate. 
 
 " My son," she said, " do you remember the night 
 when you brought Anna home to this house as a 
 bride ? " 
 
 "Perfectly, mother." 
 
 " So do I. I have been going back continually in 
 thought to-night to that time. Without undue partial- 
 ity, Keith, I think we are justified in a little self-con- 
 gratulation. Anna has developed slowly, but she has now 
 reached the first and best bloom of her maturity. You 
 brought her here a shy, angular, country-bred, undevel- 
 oped girl, although I will not deny that she had distinc- 
 tion, even then ; to-night you bring her again not only 
 a distingue but a beautiful woman, — yes, Keith, I really 
 mean it, — a beautiful woman, and with a certain charm 
 about her which makes her capable of being a social 
 leader, if she chooses to exert her power. I understand 
 she has purchased some good gowns in Paris. I have 
 about concluded to give a reception next month in 
 honour of your return, if my health permits." 
 
 The reception, which Madam Burgess's health was 
 favoured to permit, proved to be as brilliant an event 
 as social conditions in Fulham rendered possible. The 
 fine old house was radiant with flowers and wax-lights, 
 and the company which was gathered was the most dis- 
 tinguished which the little city could muster. In the 
 midst of all the gay array stood Keith and Anna, — he 
 
1 88 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 with his small, slight figure, his scrupulously gentle- 
 manly air, his thin, worn face and nervous manner; she 
 tall and stately, with her characteristic repose illuminated 
 by new springs of thought, perception, and feeling, full 
 of swift and radiant response to each newcomer's word, 
 overflowing with the first fresh joy of her awakened 
 social instinct. 
 
 Professor Ward stood with Pierce Everett aside, and, 
 watching Anna, said in a lowered voice : — 
 
 " Mrs. Burgess is a woman now, through and through. 
 Would you know her for the girl whom Keith brought 
 here half a dozen years ago ? " 
 
 " I could not find my little maiden Mary in that 
 queenly creature ! " exclaimed Everett. 
 
 " No ; you were just in time with that mysterious dis- 
 appearance of yours, bad luck to you that you made 
 way with it, however you did ! " 
 
 " It has taken her a good while to accept the world's 
 standards and fit herself to the world's groove, but 
 Madam Burgess has been patient and diligent, and I 
 think she has succeeded at last," said Everett gravely ; 
 u she will run along all right after this." 
 
 "You think Mrs. Keith will live to sustain the fam- 
 ily traditions hereafter, do you ? And Keith, what is to 
 become of him ? He seems to have dropped ofF his 
 missionary enthusiasm with singular facility." 
 
 " Precisely. You will have to create a nice little 
 chair for him in the university now, to keep him in the 
 correct line of his descent. By and by, you know, he 
 will have the estate to administer. That will be some- 
 thing of an occupation." 
 
 "Then he probably will take to collecting things," 
 Ward added, " coins or autographs — " 
 
Afternoon 1 89 
 
 " Oh, come, Ward, you're too bad," laughed Everett. 
 "You don't know Keith Burgess as well as I do." 
 
 Later in the evening Anna was summoned from her 
 guests to speak with some one who had called on an 
 urgent matter which could not be put by until another 
 time. 
 
 The fine hall, as she passed along it, was alive 
 with lights, fragrance, music, and airy gayety ; her own 
 elastic step, her exquisite dress, her joyous excitement 
 in the first taste of social triumph which the evening 
 was bringing to her, accorded well with the environ- 
 ment. For the first time in her life, Anna had seen that 
 she was beautiful ; had felt the potent charm of her own 
 personality; had found that she could draw to herself the 
 homage and admiration of her social world. These 
 perceptions had not excited her unduly, but they had 
 given her a new sense of herself, a strong exhilaration 
 which expressed itself in the lustre of her eyes, the 
 brightness of every tone and tint of her face, in the way 
 she held her head, in the clear, thrilling cadence of her 
 voice. 
 
 Once again, after long dimness and confusion, life 
 seemed about to declare itself to her, and the energies of 
 her nature to find a free channel. At last she might 
 move in the line of least resistance, and fill the place she 
 was expected to fill, without further conflict or question. 
 
 It looked a pleasant path that night, and submission a 
 sweet and gracious thing. 
 
 With a half smile still on her lips, and the spirit of 
 the hour full upon her, Anna came to the house door and 
 opened it upon the outer vestibule, where she had been 
 told the messenger would await her. 
 
 The man who stood there was John Gregory. 
 
190 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Anna softly closed the door behind her, and looked up 
 into his face. It wore a different aspect from that which 
 she remembered, for it was stern and unsmiling, and 
 more deeply grave and worn than she had seen it. But 
 even more than before the person of the man seemed to 
 overawe her with a sense of power and command. 
 
 " Do you remember me, Mrs. Burgess ? " he asked 
 simply. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And I know you through my friend, through the 
 picture he painted once of you. You must pardon my 
 intruding upon you to-night. I could not do otherwise. I 
 have a message for you, and I am here only for to-night." 
 
 Anna did not speak, but her eyes were fixed upon his 
 in earnest question, as if in some mysterious way he 
 held destiny in his hands. 
 
 " No man could paint that picture from you now," 
 he proceeded slowly, gently, and yet with a kind of 
 unflinching severity ; " you had the vision then. You 
 have lost it now. You saw God once. To-night you 
 see the world. Once your heart ached for the sorrows 
 of others ; now it thrills with your own joys. You 
 have given up great purposes, and are accepting small 
 ones. I have been sent to say to you : keep the word 
 of the kingdom and patience of Christ steadfast to the 
 end, and hold that fast which was given that no man 
 take your crown." 
 
 These words, spoken with the solemnity of a pro- 
 phetic admonition, pierced Anna's consciousness. 
 
 A faint cry, as if in remonstrance, broke from her 
 lips, but already Gregory had turned, and before she 
 could speak she found herself alone. 
 
 With strong control Anna returned, and mingled with 
 
Afternoon 191 
 
 her guests without perceptible change of manner. When, 
 however, the last carriage had rolled down the street, 
 and the house itself was dark and still, she escaped 
 alone to her own room to live over and over again that 
 strange summons and challenge of John Gregory. 
 
 Now the sense of what he had said roused her to 
 burning indignation and protest, and again to contrition. 
 She knew that she was blameless and approved if tried 
 by the standards of the people now about her, and they 
 were the irreproachable, church-going people of Fulham. 
 She was simply conforming to the demands of an orderly 
 and balanced social life, and pleasing those most inter- 
 ested in her. But she also knew that, as tried by the 
 standards of her father, and her own early convictions, 
 in the social and intellectual ambitions which now 
 animated her, she was learning to love " the world and 
 the things of the world," to know " the lust of the 
 flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life." 
 The voice of her past spoke clearly through the voice 
 of John Gregory and must be heard. The things which 
 she had thought to put away forever in the solemn 
 dedication of her girlhood had gradually returned, and 
 silently established themselves in her life in the guise of 
 duties, necessities, conformities to the wishes of others. 
 
 But of late she had come to regard those early scruples 
 almost as superstitious. Where lay the absolute right 
 — the truth ? the will of God concerning her? Why 
 was life so hard ? Why was it impossible to even know 
 the good ? What right had John Gregory to spoil, as 
 he had spoiled, this latest development of life for her, 
 and give her nothing in its place ? She resented his 
 interference, and yet felt that she should inevitably yield 
 herself to its influence. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 My thwarted woman-thoughts have inward turned, 
 
 And that vain milk like acid in me eats. 
 
 Have I not in my thought trained little feet 
 
 To venture, and taught little lips to move 
 
 Until they shaped the wonder of a word ? 
 
 I am long practised. O those children, mine ! 
 
 Mine, doubly mine : and yet I cannot touch them, 
 
 I cannot see them, hear them — Does great God 
 
 Expect I shall clasp air and kiss the wind 
 
 For ever? And the budding cometh on, 
 
 The burgeoning, the cruel flowering : 
 
 At night the quickening splash of rain, at dawn 
 
 That muffled call of birds how like to babes ; 
 
 And I amid these sights and sounds must starve — 
 
 I, with so much to give, perish of thrift ! 
 
 Omitted by his casual dew ! 
 
 — Stephen Phillips. 
 
 The next morning Anna was sent for to go to Mrs. 
 Nichols, whom she had hardly seen since her return 
 from Europe. 
 
 She found her sitting in her nursery with her two 
 little children playing about her feet. She was near her 
 third confinement, and in the shadow of her imminent 
 peril and the heavy repose laid upon body and spirit by 
 her condition there was an indescribable dignity about 
 her which Anna had never felt until now. 
 
 Before she left, Mally, with wistful eyes, looked up to 
 her, and said, timidly : — 
 
 "Anna, you love little children. No one that I ever 
 saw takes mine in her arms as you do — not even I who 
 am their mother." 
 
 192 
 
Afternoon 193 
 
 " Oh, Mally ! " Anna cried, sharp tears piercing their 
 way. "If that is true, it must be because my heart 
 never stops aching for a child of my own. I know now 
 that we shall never have children, and I try to be recon- 
 ciled ; but you can never know, dear, how I envy you." 
 
 " Do not envy me," Mally answered, her lips trem- 
 bling. " You do not know what it means to sit here 
 to-day and see the shining of the sun on the children's 
 hair, and touch their little heads with my hand, and 
 smell those roses you brought, and yet think that to- 
 morrow at this time I may be gone beyond breath, sight, 
 the sun, the children — " 
 
 " Dear, don't, don't," Anna pleaded ; " you must not 
 think so. You have been helped through safely before; 
 you will be again. People always have these times of 
 dread." 
 
 Mally shook her head, but answered quietly : — 
 
 " I have never felt before like this, but only God 
 knows. But this is why I sent for you : If my little 
 baby lives, and is a perfect child, and I am taken away, 
 would you, Anna, do you think you could — take my 
 baby for your own, for always ? " 
 
 " Oh, if I could ! " and all Anna's heart went out in 
 the cry, and Mally saw the love which shone in her 
 eyes and wondered at her strange beauty. 
 
 "I am sure you will come through safely as you have 
 before," she said, " but this I promise you, Mally," 
 taking her friend's hand and holding it fast, " if you 
 should be taken from your children, and they will let 
 me, — I mean if my husband and his mother should 
 consent, for I am not quite free, you see, — I will take 
 your little baby and it shall be my very own, and I will 
 be its mother while we both live, God helping me." 
 o 
 
194 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 A look of deep joy and relief in Mally's poor pale 
 face was full response, and the two parted with a sense 
 of a deeper union of spirit than they had ever known 
 before. 
 
 Early on the following morning, after a wakeful and 
 anxious night, Anna hastened to the Nicholses' home. 
 
 Mally's husband met her with a stricken face, for a 
 swift and sudden blow had fallen ; her trial had come 
 and his wife had died, hardly an hour before. There 
 had been no time to send for Anna, although Mally had 
 spoken her name almost at the last. 
 
 They stood together in the poor, gay little parlour 
 which Mally had adorned with high hopes of the 
 abundant life into which she fancied herself entering, 
 — the young husband with his grief-wrung, ashy face, 
 Anna with her heart melted in sorrow and compassion. 
 While neither could speak for their tears, the faint wail 
 of a little child smote upon the silence from a room 
 within. 
 
 " The baby ? " Anna asked under her breath. 
 
 A deeper darkness seemed to settle upon Nichols's 
 face. 
 
 " Yes, a boy. A fine little fellow, they say ; but I feel 
 as if I could not look at him. I have not seen him." 
 
 Anna turned and left the room, and in another mo- 
 ment, in the dark inner room where she had sat with 
 Mally in the sunshine the day before, she took Mally's 
 baby into her arms, and bent her head above it with a 
 great sense of motherhood breaking over her spirit like 
 a wave from an infinite sea. 
 
 She stood and held the tiny creature for many moments, 
 alone and in silence, while joy and sorrow, life and death, 
 passed by her and revealed themselves. Then she laid 
 
Afternoon 
 
 IQ 5 
 
 the baby down and went up to the room where Mally 
 lay, white and still, with something of the beauty of her 
 girlhood in her face, and the great added majesty of 
 motherhood and death. On her knees Anna bent over 
 the unanswering hand which yesterday she had seen laid 
 warmly on the fair curls of her little children, and, in the 
 hush and awe of the place, spoke again her solemn prom- 
 ise of yesterday. 
 
 After that she came down to the children and their 
 father, and took quietly into her own hands the many 
 cares which the day had brought. 
 
 It was late in the evening when Anna, exhausted and 
 unnerved, returned home. She found Keith and his 
 mother waiting for her in the library, — Keith hastening 
 to welcome her with tender sympathy, Madam Burgess 
 a shade colder than usual beneath a surface of suitable 
 phrases of solicitude and condolence. She had been 
 absolutely indifferent to Mrs. Nichols in life, and did 
 not find her deeply interesting even in death. Further- 
 more, she always resented Anna's spending herself upon 
 that family, and in the present affliction she felt that 
 flowers and a ten-minute call would have answered every 
 demand. 
 
 If Anna had been steadier and less under the influence 
 of the piteous desolation of the home she had left, less 
 absorbed in her own ardent purpose, she would have 
 realized that this was not the time or place in which 
 to make that purpose known. If she had waited, if 
 she had talked with her husband alone, the future of 
 all their lives might have taken a different shape. But 
 with the one controlling thought in her mind, forgetting 
 how impossible it was for these two, not highly gifted 
 with imaginative sympathy, to enter into her own deep 
 
196 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 emotion, she spoke at once of Mally's request that in the 
 event of her death she should take her baby ; of her own 
 conditional promise, and of her deep desire to fulfil it. 
 
 There was a little silence, chill and bleak, and then 
 Keith said, in a half-soothing tone as if she had been an 
 excited child, hurrying in with a manifestly impossible 
 petition : — 
 
 "It was a very sweet and generous wish on your part, 
 Anna ; so like you, dear." 
 
 Anna looked at him in silence, her lips parted. 
 
 Madam Burgess gave a dry cough, and partook of a 
 troche from a small silver box which she carried in a 
 lace-trimmed bag. 
 
 "Yes, as Keith says, my dear, it was a kind impulse 
 on your part, but it certainly was a very singular action 
 on that of your friend. She was probably too ill, poor 
 thing, at the time to realize just what she was asking. 
 I have no doubt you were quite excusable for giving her 
 some sort of a conditional promise, considering all the 
 circumstances. But you need have no sense of respon- 
 sibility in the matter; infants left like that never live. It 
 will only be a question of a few weeks' care for any 
 one." 
 
 Anna turned her eyes from her mother-in-law back to 
 her husband in mute amazement and appeal. They could 
 not mean to deny her this sacred right ! It was impos- 
 sible. And yet a sudden sense of the incongruity of poor 
 Mally's baby in that house smote sharply upon her for 
 the first time. 
 
 " If it had been God's will that we should have had 
 children of our own, Anna," said Keith, in answer to 
 her look, " we should have learned to fit ourselves to 
 the many cares and responsibilities involved, I do not 
 
Afternoon 197 
 
 doubt, as others do ; but it is very different to go out 
 of our way to assume such cares, not ours in any legiti- 
 mate sense. I think the question is more serious than 
 you realize in the very natural and proper emotion which 
 you are passing through in the death of your friend. We 
 certainly could not ask mother to take this strange child, 
 and all that would be involved in such a relation, into 
 her house ; and we are, I am sure, as little prepared to 
 leave mother and break up our natural order of life," 
 and Keith smiled with kind conviction into Anna's face. 
 She rose slowly and stood with eyes fixed before her, 
 and a strange light was in them, which her husband had 
 never seen before. 
 
 " That is all perfectly true, Keith," said Madam Bur- 
 gesses if to finish up the case against poor Anna ; "and 
 even if all this were not so, there would remain one in- 
 superable obstacle to adopting this infant — an abso- 
 lutely insuperable obstacle." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Anna, very low. 
 
 " Blood, my dear. I believe in blood, and never, with 
 his mother's consent or approval, could my son give his 
 name, and all that that means, to a child of alien stock. 
 Never." And Madam Burgess closed her lips firmly 
 and folded her hands peacefully upon her grey silk gown 
 with the consciousness of occupying a perfectly unas- 
 sailable position. 
 
 Anna moved toward the door, a curious effect in her 
 step and bearing as of one physically wounded, her head 
 drooped slightly as if in submission, her eyes downcast. 
 
 When she reached the door, however, a swift change 
 passed over her; a sudden energy and power awoke in 
 her, and she turned, and, looking back at mother and 
 son, her eyes flashing light, and a smile they had never 
 
198 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 seen before upon her lips, said quietly, but with slow 
 emphasis : — 
 
 "You have decided this matter. You have each 
 other; you are satisfied. I shall submit, as you know. 
 Once more you have taken my life — its most sacred 
 promise and its highest purpose — out of my hands. 
 This time another life, too, is involved. One thing 
 only you must let me say, / wonder how you dare ! " 
 
 Facing them for an instant in silence, she turned, and 
 went alone to her room. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 One by one thou dost gather the scattered families out of the earthly light into 
 the heavenly glory, from the distractions and strife and weariness of time to the 
 peace of eternity. We thank thee for the labours and the joys of these mortal 
 years. We thank thee for our deep sense of the mysteries that lie beyond our 
 dust. — Rufus Ellis. 
 
 By Thy Rod and Thy Staff comfort us. 
 
 — Christina Rossetti. 
 
 Two days later, in response to a note from Pierce 
 Everett, Anna went to the studio. He wrote that John 
 Gregory had passed through Fulham and had left the 
 picture, in which she might still feel some lingering 
 interest. 
 
 Anna left Keith and his mother diligently occupied in 
 their daily task of arranging and copying Keith's Euro- 
 pean letters and journals, interspersing them with careful 
 and copious notes from Baedeker. From this laborious 
 undertaking, which absorbed mother and son in mu- 
 tual and sympathetic devotion, Anna was self-excluded, 
 simply because she found the letters of merely passing 
 interest, but not of marked or lasting value and concern. 
 Madam Burgess confessed that she could think of no 
 occupation more graceful or becoming a young wife 
 than this of putting in permanent form the beautiful 
 and instructive correspondence of her beloved husband, 
 and she found a new cause for disapproval in Anna's 
 indifference to the work. In her own heart Anna hid 
 a great protest against the substitution of puerile and 
 unproductive work like this, for the serious altruistic 
 
 199 
 
200 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 endeavour to which she still felt that she and Keith were 
 both inwardly pledged. But this was an old issue, and 
 one, indeed, to-day almost forgotten before her passion- 
 ate grief concerning Mally, buried yesterday, and the 
 promise to her which might not be fulfilled. The pitiful 
 cry of Mally's baby seemed to sound continually in her 
 ears. 
 
 But another, even deeper, consciousness was that of 
 the condemnation, brief, sharp, conclusive, of herself by 
 John Gregory. She believed now that his judgment of 
 her and of the line along which she was developing was 
 in a measure just — but what then? It had suddenly 
 become definitely declared in Anna's thought, with no 
 further shading or disguise, that a life of worldly ease, 
 of self and sense-pleasing, of fashionable charity and 
 conventional religion and of intellectual stagnation, was 
 the only life which could be lived in harmony with the 
 spirit of her home. Her soul lay that day in the calm 
 which often falls upon strong natures when profound 
 passions and powers are gathering in upheaval just below 
 the surface. To conform, or to revolt, or to lead the 
 wretched life of spiritual discord which seeks to avoid 
 alike conformity and freedom, were the hard alternatives 
 before Anna, as she thought, that day. 
 
 Pierce Everett, meeting her at the door of his studio, 
 was startled by the pallor and sadness of her face, like 
 that of her earlier years, but forebore to question her. 
 He had expected to see her in the joyous bloom of his 
 last view of her; he had looked for her to fulfil his 
 prophecy. 
 
 The light tone of badinage and compliment with 
 which he had involuntarily started to receive her fell 
 from him now as impossible, seeing her face, and in 
 
Afternoon 201 
 
 almost utter silence he led her across the room and 
 pointed to the picture of the Girlhood of Mary. 
 
 After a few moments Anna said simply, without 
 turning to Everett, her eyes still on the picture : — 
 
 " Did / once look like that ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Mr. Gregory said no one could paint this from me 
 now," Anna said slowly, as if to herself, not knowing 
 that tears were falling down her cheeks. 
 
 " You are older, that is all," said Everett, gently. 
 
 " No, that is not all. I have lost something which I 
 had then." 
 
 " We all lose something with our child-soul, Mrs. 
 Burgess," cried Everett, earnestly; "but you have gained 
 more than you have .lost. John Gregory was not fair 
 to you to leave you with a word like that. You were a 
 child then ; now you are a woman. That face in my 
 picture is not the face of a Madonna, yet. It did not 
 seek to be, but we do not blame it for that. Should we 
 blame the Mater Dolorosa that she has no longer the 
 face of a child ? " 
 
 " Thank you," Anna said humbly, and held out her 
 hand, which the young man caught in his and held with 
 reverence. 
 
 She left the studio hastily, not daring to say more, a 
 childless mother of sorrows. The very emptiness of her 
 grief, since no sweet substitution of motherhood could 
 be granted her, made it the more intolerable. 
 
 Instinctively she went from the Everetts' straight 
 across the city to the unfashionable new quarter and to 
 the Nicholses' home. She found Mally's baby properly 
 cared for, but coldly, by hired and unloving hands, and 
 took it into her own arms with yearning motherliness and 
 
202 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 cried over it, easing her heart and murmuring the tender 
 nonsense, the artless art which mothers always know, 
 but seldom women who have not known motherhood. 
 
 Mr. Nichols came in and she told him, — leaving the 
 baby that she might surely control herself, — that on 
 account of Madam Burgess's feeble health it had been 
 found impossible for her to carry out Mally's wish and 
 her own. The disappointment of the poor fellow, with 
 his almost impossible burden and scanty income, was 
 evident ; but he rallied well, and showed a simple dignity 
 in the matter which made Anna like him even better 
 than she had before. 
 
 " I shall watch over the baby, you may depend, and 
 come as often as I can," she said in leaving. 
 
 He thanked her, and she made him promise to send 
 for her without delay or hesitation if there were illness 
 among the children or other emergency, and so came 
 away. 
 
 The frail little life, unwarmed and unwelcomed by 
 the love which had been bestowed on the other children, 
 seemed to feel itself in an alien air, and failed from 
 week to week. Anna spent every moment she could 
 with the child, and sought to cherish and shield the tiny, 
 flickering flame of life, but in vain. The baby lingered 
 for a month, and then, on a bleak March evening, Anna 
 was sent for, to speed its spirit back into the unknown 
 from which it had scarcely emerged. She sat all night 
 with the child upon her knees, the young father asleep 
 in the leaden sleep of unutterable weariness on a sofa in 
 the room adjoining. It is not given to a man to know 
 the absolute annihilation of the body by love which 
 makes the endurance of long night watches and the 
 supreme skill in nursing the prerogative of women. 
 
Afternoon 203 
 
 The nurse came and went at decent intervals with 
 offers of help and of food, but Anna quietly declined 
 both. She knew that she was about to partake of the 
 sacrament of death, and she wished to receive it fasting, 
 and, if it might be, alone. She knew that she only on 
 earth loved the little child and longed to keep it, and 
 she meant that it should die in loving arms, if they had 
 been denied it for living. 
 
 In the slow hours which were yet too swift, as she 
 bent over the small pinched face, brooding tenderly over 
 the strange perfection of this miniature of humanity, the 
 delicately pencilled eyebrows, the fine moulding of the 
 forehead, the exquisite ear with soft fair hair curling 
 about it, the little, flower-like hands, Anna wondered, 
 as she never had thought to wonder before, at the 
 wastefulness of nature. All this exquisite organism 
 made perfect by months of silent upbuilding, a life of 
 full strength paid for its faint breath, and then, this too 
 cut off before the dawn of consciousness ! 
 
 Harder to bear was the thought, which would not 
 leave her, that if she could have taken the child for her 
 own its life could have been saved. A photograph of 
 Mally on the bedroom wall in her wedding-gown 
 looked down upon her through the yellow gloom of the 
 night lamp, and the eyes seemed to Anna full of sad 
 upbraiding. 
 
 In bitterness of soul she groaned aloud : — 
 
 " Oh, Mally, Mally, I wanted to keep your baby, but 
 they would not let me ! He is going back to you, dear. 
 Oh, if I knew that you were glad, that you forgive me ! " 
 
 At the sound of her voice the child on her knees, 
 which had been asleep or in a stupor, opened its eyes, 
 and lifted them to hers. They were large blue eyes like 
 
204 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Mally's, and for a moment their look was fixed upon her 
 own, — a clear, direct look, and, with a thrill of awe, Anna 
 felt a conscious look. The instant of that mutual glance 
 with all of mystery, of joy, and of wonder which it held, 
 passed ; the waxen whiteness of the lids fell again, but, 
 as it passed, a sense of great peace fell upon Anna's spirit. 
 The last look of that newborn soul, pure and undefiled, 
 had searched her heart, had found her love, had shed the 
 glory of its passing into her bruised and cabined spirit. 
 
 " Now go, little child, go to God and be at rest ; we 
 have known each other, and you are mine after all," she 
 whispered fondly, her tears falling like spring rains upon 
 white blossoms. 
 
 The dawn-light came into the room, dimming the 
 lamp-light with which it could not blend ; a tremor 
 passed through the tiny frame, the breath fluttered once 
 or twice upon the lips, and the baby died. Anna had 
 called the father, and he stood by, watching in heavy 
 oppression. 
 
 Quietly, with the great submission of spirit which 
 death brings, Anna washed and dressed the little body, 
 putting on the garments of fairylike texture and propor- 
 tion which she had seen Mally making with warm, dex- 
 terous fingers, a few weeks before. Then, having prayed, 
 she left the place and walked home alone through the 
 silent streets, with the consecration of the hour full upon 
 her. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 He who professeth to believe in one Almighty Creator, and in his Son Jesus 
 Christ, and is yet more intent on the honours, profits, and friendships of the 
 world than he is, in singleness of heart, to stand faithful to the Christian reli- 
 gion, is in the channel of idolatry ; while the Gentile, who, notwithstanding 
 some mistaken opinions, is established in the true principle of virtue, and humbly 
 adores an Almighty Power, may be of the number that fear God and work 
 righteousness. — John Wooman. 
 
 A physician's carriage stood before the house when 
 Anna reached it, and within there was a stir unusual for 
 that early hour. Jane met her on the landing, and an- 
 swered her questions. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; Mrs. Burgess, she was all right as far 
 as I could see when I helped her get to bed, but I hadn't 
 got her light out when I heard her give a queer kind of 
 groan, and when I got to her, her face was that twisted 
 all to one side, that it would make your heart ache to see 
 her. But that isn't so bad now ; you'd hardly notice it. 
 And she don't seem paralyzed; she moves 'most any way." 
 
 " Then she is better ? " 
 
 " Well, ma'am, I don't know as you could say so 
 much better. The worst of it is, her mind ain't right. 
 She looks sort of blank, and when she talks it ain't natu- 
 ral, but all confused like, and it's hard, poor lady, for her 
 to get anything out ; she talks thick and slow, so differ- 
 ent from herself." 
 
 A moment later Anna saw Keith, and heard the ver- 
 dict of the physician. Madam Burgess had suffered a 
 paralytic seizure of a somewhat unusual character. He 
 should watch the case with great interest. There was 
 
 205 
 
206 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 evidently a small clot on the left side of the brain which 
 affected the mental equilibrium, and produced something 
 like delirium. The ultimate result could only be fatal, 
 and it was doubtful whether full consciousness would 
 return before death. 
 
 That afternoon Anna was permitted to go to her 
 mother-in-law's bedside. Keith followed her, full of 
 eager hope that for her there might be the clear and 
 unquestionable recognition which had thus far been 
 denied him. It was a strangely painful thing to Anna 
 to see the familiar figure of a woman so graceful, 
 so precise, so secure in her high-bred self-possession, so 
 decided in her conscious self-direction, prostrate, dull, 
 lethargic ; to hear in place of the cold, clear modulations 
 of her voice a meaningless, half-articulate muttering. 
 She stood for a moment beside the bed, her heart sink- 
 ing with the piteousness of the sight, herself apparently 
 unnoticed by the stricken woman. 
 
 At the foot of the bed Keith, standing, cried out as if 
 in uncontrollable pain : — 
 
 " Mother, do you see Anna ? She wants to speak with 
 you." 
 
 Slowly his mother turned her eyes, which had been 
 fixed straight before her, until they rested full upon 
 Anna in a curious, disconcerting stare. This continued 
 in silence for some throbbing seconds, and then, with thick 
 utterance and unaccented monotony of modulation, she 
 said, very slowly : — 
 
 " If you had married differently you might have had 
 children of your own." 
 
 This laboured sentence, in its violent discordance with 
 the filial tenderness and sympathy which alone filled the 
 hearts of Keith and Anna at the moment, smote them 
 
Afternoon 
 
 207 
 
 both as if with a harsh and incredible buffet. Anna 
 turned away from the bed white and appalled, and left 
 the room at the motion of the nurse while Keith, bow- 
 ing his head upon the bed-rail, groaned aloud. Even in 
 the moment their mother had fallen back into unintelligible 
 confusion of speech. To them both this sinister and 
 unlooked-for expression revealed something of the weary- 
 ways in which the clouded mind was straying. Some 
 haunting sense of remorse and accountability, vaguely 
 felt and deviously followed, was torturing the dimness 
 of mental twilight. Again and again during the days 
 following, Anna, sitting just outside the bedroom door, 
 heard the question reiterated in the harsh, toneless 
 voice : — 
 
 " Did that baby die ? " And always, when answered, 
 there came the same response, " I said it would, I said 
 it would that night." 
 
 Filled with pity and compunction as she recalled the 
 severity of her own utterance in that interview, the mem- 
 ory of which with the sick woman had plainly outlived all 
 Other, Anna went once more on the third night into 
 the sick-room, knelt by the bed, and took the hand of 
 the sufferer in both her own. 
 
 " Mother," she said, in a strong, comforting voice, 
 " mother dear, this is Anna. Will you forgive me for 
 my unkindness that night ? " 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " Dear mother," Anna went on, with gentlest kind- 
 ness, " I wanted to tell you that the little baby has gone 
 to its own mother. It is all right, and I am satisfied." 
 
 There was a faint response as of relief and acquiescence. 
 
 Then, as Anna still held the limp, unresisting, unre- 
 sponding hand and looked tenderly in the grey, changed 
 
208 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 face, Sarah Burgess spoke once more. Broken and fal- 
 teringlv came the words : — 
 
 " I am . . . sorry . . . you have ... no child," 
 and, as she spoke, large, slow tears rolled down her 
 face. 
 
 It was the first time in all their intercourse that she 
 had opened her heart to Anna in motherly pity. Perhaps 
 she could not before, the defences of pride and reserve 
 were sunk too deep. But the few words, the tears, the 
 glimpse of a heart which, whatever its hardness, itself 
 knew the passion of motherhood and could understand 
 her pain, broke down for the younger woman the last 
 remaining barriers which had stood between these two 
 who had lived together so coldly. Anna laid her head 
 on the pillow and kissed the face of the dying woman 
 again and again, their tears mingling, while pity and 
 tenderness overflowed the coldness and all the silent 
 resentments of the past. 
 
 Two days later Madam Burgess died, not having 
 spoken again, although she had plainly recognized 
 Keith and watched him with wistful eyes. 
 
 The burial and the various incidents connected with 
 the close of a long life, and one of social eminence, over, 
 Keith and Anna turned back to the home, now wholly 
 their own, and looked about them wondering what was 
 in the future. Like all men and women of gentle will, 
 they blotted out, at once and forever, every impression 
 of unworthiness or selfishness which their dead had ever 
 made upon them. They idealized her narrow character, 
 and loved her better than they ever had, perhaps, in life ; 
 but underneath all this dutiful loyalty Anna found in 
 her own heart a recognition of great release, and at 
 times, in spite of her will, her pulses would bound and 
 
Afternoon 
 
 209 
 
 leap with the sense of new possibilities in life for them 
 both. 
 
 Just what these possibilities might be was by no 
 means clear to Anna, nor how far Keith would sym- 
 pathize with her own vague but dominant desires for a 
 return in some sort to the working motives which had 
 swayed their earlier lives. She was greatly encouraged 
 by the response which she received to her timid approach 
 to the subject of some slight changes in their outward 
 method of life in favour of simpler and more democratic 
 habits. The horses and carriage and liveried servants 
 had long been a source of distress to Anna's conscience, 
 as marks of a privileged and separate class. She had 
 always avoided employing them as far as was possible. 
 She had never, since she had begun reading the social 
 essays of Gregory, driven in the family carriage without 
 longing to apologize to every working man and woman 
 whose glance rested upon her, for a luxury which she 
 felt to be in their eyes divisive, while all the time her 
 heart was crying out for brotherhood and burden-sharing 
 with the lowliest and most oppressed among them. 
 
 Somewhat to her surprise she found that Keith was 
 not without a similar consciousness, any expression of 
 which, even to Anna, he had scrupulously avoided in 
 his mother's lifetime. Finding herself met here, and 
 thus emboldened, Anna came to her husband one even- 
 ing with a question which involved serious doubt and 
 difficulty for her. It was two months since the death 
 of Madam Burgess, and Anna was to start the following 
 morning for Vermont for a visit of several weeks to her 
 mother and Lucia. Keith was too busy with the details 
 of settling his mother's estate to accompany her, but it 
 had been planned that he should meet her in Burlington 
 p 
 
210 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 on her return, late in May, and together with her make 
 a visit, long-promised and long-postponed, at the Ingra- 
 hams', whose friendship for them both had remained 
 unchanged by the years. 
 
 And now the postman had brought Anna a note from 
 Mrs. Ingraham which took her back strangely to her 
 girlhood, and to one March night when she had first 
 received a like request from the same source. This 
 note asked her to come, when she came for the prom- 
 ised visit, prepared to give a missionary address at a 
 meeting which would take place at that time in Bur- 
 lington. 
 
 Anna handed the note to her husband, and, as he fin- 
 ished the perusal of it, she said hesitatingly : — 
 
 " Keith, I don't know what to do." 
 
 " Why, dear ? Why not simply do as Mrs. Ingra- 
 ham asks ? You would like to, would you not ? " 
 
 " Once I would have, only too gladly," and Anna 
 paused a moment, recalling the opposition to which she 
 had yielded so unwillingly in the time past. That out- 
 ward and forcible opposition was now wholly removed, 
 but another restraint, subtle and subjective, had gradu- 
 ally taken its place, although Anna had until now 
 scarcely recognized the existence of it. 
 
 " I am afraid, if I tell you," she resumed, "you will 
 be shocked and pained. Perhaps I cannot even put it 
 into words, and not overstate what is in my mind ; but 
 the trouble is, Keith, I am afraid I don't believe every- 
 thing just as I used to." 
 
 Keith Burgess looked at her with his gentle smile. 
 " Go on," he said quietly. 
 
 " Dear, it is verv strange," and Anna spoke with 
 sudden impetuousness ; " but I suppose I have not 
 
Afternoon 211 
 
 really a right to speak for missions, for I cannot, any 
 more, believe that God will condemn to everlasting 
 torment all the heathen who do not believe in a means 
 of salvation of which they have never heard." 
 " Neither can I." 
 
 " Keith ! " Anna felt her breath almost taken away 
 by this sudden admission of what, in the seventies, 
 was rank heresy in strictly orthodox circles. "Why 
 have you never let me suspect such a change in your 
 views ? Has this had something to do with your giv- 
 ing up the secretaryship ? Was it not then quite all 
 your health ? Oh, Keith, if you knew how I have been 
 troubled ! " 
 
 The tumult of Anna's surprise broke out in this swift 
 volley of questions, for which she could not wait for 
 answers. 
 
 " How have you been troubled ? Tell me that first, 
 Anna." 
 
 Anna's colour came and went. It was not easy to 
 speak, but honesty and frankness were the law of 
 speech with her. Very seriously she said : — 
 
 " It seemed so strange to me that you grew, after the 
 first few years, into what often appeared a kind of 
 official and perfunctory way of working — letting the 
 details cover the great purposes. It seemed little, and 
 different from what I had expected. Tables and figures 
 and endless reports — it was all business, and almost 
 like other business." 
 
 Keith Burgess nodded gravely. « Go on," he said, 
 as before. 
 
 "And then, you see, all at once you dropped it. 
 Of course you had that illness, and I could see how 
 tiresome and troubling the work had come to be ; but 
 
212 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 I used to think — forgive me, Keith ; I hated myself that 
 I did — that you dropped the whole missionary endeavour 
 and purpose and point of view as easily as you might 
 have dropped a coat that you had worn out — " 
 
 "In short, that it was all officialism." 
 
 "Yes, even that — that it had come to be. And you 
 know how different it was at first, when it was your 
 only life." 
 
 " Yes, Anna," and the delicate, sensitive face of the 
 man showed something of the profound pain which he 
 could not speak ; " it has been a hard experience. I 
 have kept it to myself because I did not think it was 
 fair to lay upon you the same burden of doubt and 
 conflict. I see how naturally you came to look upon 
 the change in me as you have described. Perhaps 
 your view is in a measure just, too, but I think not 
 altogether." 
 
 " Tell me, Keith." Anna was waiting for him to go 
 on with sympathetic eagerness. 
 
 " It was simply that, some way, I hardly know how, — 
 perhaps it was in part worldliness and selfishness, but I 
 think not altogether, — my views gradually have changed. 
 Perhaps it was in the air, perhaps I took it in uncon- 
 sciously from what I read, and from my deeper thought 
 of God and his grace. What I learned of the various 
 forms of heathen religions influenced me somewhat, and 
 also observation of the workings of our own system in 
 our own country even under most favouring conditions. 
 I cannot tell, only I came definitely at last to the point 
 where I could no longer go before the churches and 
 plead with them to send their money to foreign missions 
 to save the heathen from immediate eternal perdition 
 and torment, because they did not believe in the plan of 
 
Afternoon 213 
 
 salvation by a Saviour of whom, as you say, they had 
 never heard." 
 
 " What did you do ? " 
 
 " You see," Keith went on, not noticing her ques- 
 tion, " according to our confession there is no salvation 
 even in any ordinary knowledge of Christ, but only for 
 the elect few who experience personal regeneration by 
 conscious acceptance according to the line laid by such 
 men as Calvin and Edwards. Now we know that judged 
 by this test a very large percentage of any so-called 
 Christian community is doomed to eternal punishment, 
 and when you come to the heathen, it grows unthinkable 
 — do you see ? " 
 
 " Yes, I feel." 
 
 " I went very soon to Dr. Durham, and poured out a 
 full confession of my ' unsoundness.' " 
 
 "What did he say ? " 
 
 " Anna, that was what settled me. I almost think 
 that if he had said, c Stop where you are, and wait until 
 you can see it differently,' I might have come back to 
 my early convictions in some sort, at least sufficiently 
 to give me a motive for working on. What he did say, 
 in his large, hearty way, was : ' Oh, my dear fellow, there 
 is nothing more common than such doubts and questions ! 
 They naturally arise from time to time with us all. 
 Probably not half the men who are at work in this 
 cause actually believe literally in the common concep- 
 tion that the heathen who do not know of Christ are 
 all condemned. Oh, no, I ceased to hold any such 
 opinion long ago.' c Then why don't you say so openly? ' 
 I asked ; to which he replied impressively : l Don't you 
 see, Burgess, that if we told our change of views to the 
 churches at large we should cut the very nerve of the 
 
214 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 missionary motive ? We may hold these slightly modi- 
 fied views on eschatology ourselves without detriment, 
 perhaps, or danger, although of course they must be held 
 well in hand ; but if we should speak them out to the 
 rank and file, the result would be an instant falling off 
 in the receipts of our treasury, and the Lord knows they 
 are small enough and inadequate enough as it is. The 
 average man would reason, if the heathen can be saved 
 after all in some other way, it is not necessary for me to 
 deny myself in order to send them the gospel. So keep 
 still, my dear Burgess, just keep your views to yourself 
 as some of the rest of us do. Go right along as you 
 have been doing, and there will be no harm done.' ' 
 
 " Keith, dear Dr. Durham did not know it, but that 
 is Jesuitism ! " exclaimed Anna, with flashing eyes. 
 
 "I thought it was," he replied quietlv, " and the result 
 was I gave up my office, partly on account of my health, 
 partly because I could not continue what would actually 
 have been, for me, getting money under false pre- 
 tences." 
 
 " Still, Keith, it is not only to save the heathen from 
 everlasting punishment that we want to send the gospel, 
 but to give them the present salvation from sin." 
 
 " Certainly. There are other motives left. I think 
 they may be sufficient to energize our work far beyond 
 what the Gospel of Fear could do, but they are not at 
 present the popular motives to which I am expected to 
 appeal. The future of the cause is not clear to me. If 
 Durham is right, and the nerve of missions will be cut 
 when people cease to believe that the heathen are neces- 
 sarily damned because they have not accepted Christ, 
 why then I have little hope, because it seems to me im- 
 possible for thinking people to hold this view much 
 
Afternoon 11$ 
 
 longer. But I must admit that it is hard enough to get 
 them to give money when they believe implicitly in the 
 immediate and hopeless doom of every heathen soul 
 departing to judgment." 
 
 " Keith, they don't believe it ! Nobody believes it ! It 
 is monstrous. If we really believed such things as prac- 
 tically taking place, we should all lose our reason. Our 
 only escape from insanity, I believe, is that, while with 
 our mouths and with our opinions we have declared such 
 things, in our hearts and in our deeper conviction we 
 have denied them, knowing that they would be treason 
 to God. What misleads us all, Keith, I am beginning 
 to believe, is that we have felt bound to accept a system 
 which theologians have worked out, and which has in- 
 volved a paring down of both God and man to make 
 them fit into the narrow grooves they have assigned 
 them in the hard logic of their formulas." 
 
 "Well, let us make this question concrete; illustrate 
 it from life," said Keith, leaning back languidly in his 
 arm-chair. " How is it with yourself ? You have been 
 taught, and have believed until very recently, this doc- 
 trine of universal condemnation of all heathen ' out of 
 Christ,' and now, it seems, you have begun to question 
 it. What is the effect on the missionary motive in your 
 case ? Would you feel as eager as ever to go as a mis- 
 sionary ? Does the subject appeal to your conscience 
 as powerfully as before ? " 
 
 Anna looked at Keith for a moment in thoughtful 
 silence, and then shook her head. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "You see Dr. Durham was right," said Keith, sadly. 
 " If this is true of you, who have all your life been 
 pledged to this work, — and I admit that it is true of 
 
116 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 myself, — what can be expected of the careless crowd, 
 indifferent at best ? " 
 
 Anna had been walking restlessly up and down the 
 library. Now she came back to the heavy black oak table 
 at which her husband was sitting, sat down, and, resting 
 her elbows on the table, propped her chin in both hands, 
 and so sat silently for many moments. Then she began 
 to speak, but very slowly, rather as if thinking aloud : — 
 
 11 1 have been accustomed, and so have you, all our 
 lives, to the stimulus, the spur, of a piercingly powerful 
 motive, the most powerful possible, I should think. — 
 To save somebody from immediate death when the means 
 of rescue is in your hands is a motive to which every 
 human being must respond, instinctively. Suppose this 
 motive is shown to be, in some degree at least, based 
 upon a misunderstanding, and we find that we are asked 
 to alleviate suffering instead of to save life, why would 
 it not be perfectly natural, almost inevitable, that at first 
 there should be a reaction ? Accustomed to the stronger 
 stimulus, just at first our motives and purposes would 
 languish, I think. Mine do. I can't help owning it, 
 Keith. But I can imagine that deeper knowledge of 
 God, higher conceptions of human brotherhood, of what 
 they call the solidarity of the race — things like that — 
 which I only dimly realize yet, might reenforce our poor 
 wills, and knit again the nerve if it has been cut. Don't 
 you think so ? " 
 
 Keith watched his wife as she sat thus speaking, and 
 a great tenderness was in his eyes. 
 
 " You are a very wonderful woman, Anna," he said ; 
 " your thought always goes beyond mine." 
 
 She did not seem to hear what he said, for she went 
 on in the same musing tone : — 
 
Afternoon 217 
 
 " In a way, it seems to me, sometimes, as if every 
 hope, every purpose, every controlling motive with which 
 I started out in life, had slipped away from me, this of 
 missionary work with the rest. All that I thought I 
 could do or become has been rendered impossible in one 
 way or another, and whatever capacity or force there is 
 in me is unapplied. I can't even be a comfortable so- 
 ciety woman ; other people won't let me, even if I can 
 let myself, and you know how I find it impossible to fit 
 into conventional charities. Everywhere I seem to be 
 superfluous, out of harmony with my environment. I 
 thought once, I was vain enough to think, that God 
 wanted me for some special service, — that he would give 
 me a work for him and for his children; but I am thirty 
 years old now, Keith, and what have I done ? " 
 
 " You have been a dear wife and a faithful child, — 
 a true Christian woman, — is that not enough ? " 
 
 Anna smiled wistfully. 
 
 " It is not good for any one to simply be, and bring 
 nothing to pass. But to-night I feel that whatever new 
 wine life is to bring me will have to be put into new 
 bottles. The old motives and forces have spent them- 
 selves, and the old hopes ; and the forms which held 
 them, have gone with them, for me." 
 
BOOK III 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 Holiest Truth ! how have I lied to thee ! 
 
 1 vow'd this day thy sacrifice to be ; 
 
 But I am dim ere night. 
 Surely I made my prayer, and I did deem 
 That I could keep in me thy morning beam, 
 
 Immaculate and bright. 
 But my foot slipp'd ; and, as I lay, he came, 
 My gloomy foe, and robb'd me of heaven's flame. 
 Help thou my darkness, Lord, till I am light. 
 
 — John Henry Newman. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Christianity has hitherto only partially, feebly, and waveringly taught its 
 great doctrine. Christendom has not believed its own gospel. Forsaking the 
 vital religion of Jesus, and of all the heroes and saints as impracticable, men have 
 put up with a sort of conventional Christianity, from which the great essential 
 ideas of the Golden Rule and the real presence of God were dropped out. 
 
 — C. F. Dole. 
 
 " I have spoken for three nights in this place, and for 
 three nights you have heard me patiently. I have not 
 regarded the favour of any man, but neither have I 
 wished to bruise or wound. And yet, as I stand here 
 now for the last time, I must declare the whole truth as 
 it has been given to me. I have charged upon our 
 present social and industrial conditions grave responsi- 
 bility. To-night I declare plainly that you who calmly 
 accept and profit by them, whether you know it or 
 whether you know it not, are rejecting Jesus of Naza- 
 reth and his kingdom." 
 
 The speaker was John Gregory, the place a large hall 
 in the city of Burlington, crowded to its utmost with 
 eager listeners, for the theories which he proclaimed 
 were new and startling in that day. 
 
 As in his earlier revival preaching, so now, Gregory's 
 utterance was attended with peculiar power. There was 
 this difference, however, between his relation to his 
 audience now and in that other time : then a familiar 
 appeal was reenforced, even though involuntarily and 
 unconsciously, by the full weight of his personal and 
 psychic influence ; now he relied wholly, it appeared^ 
 
 221 
 
ill A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 upon the dynamic of his message. His manner was 
 more impassioned than in that earlier time, but less 
 exciting. 
 
 Keith and Anna Burgess, from their places in the 
 audience with Mrs. Ingraham, whose guests they were, 
 watched and listened with almost breathless intensity of 
 interest. They had not heard it on this wise before. 
 
 " Do you remember," continued Gregory, with search- 
 ing emphasis, " that on a certain day the Master said, 
 'Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter 
 into the kingdom of heaven ' ? Do you remember how 
 the twelve men who followed him were said to have been 
 1 exceedingly amazed ' ? From the fourth century, when 
 the Church and the world formed their unhallowed union, 
 down to the present day, men have continued to be 
 4 exceedingly amazed' at a saying so inconvenient and 
 so revolutionary, and have set themselves to blunt its 
 sharp edge or to explain it away altogether. 
 
 " To-night I am here to say to you plainlv, This is a 
 faithful saying, worthy of all acceptation, and woe unto 
 him who seeks to take it away from the words of Christ. 
 Put with it, if you will, other like words from the lips 
 of Christ and his Apostles, rather than seek to abate the 
 force of these. But why are the rich condemned ? 
 Surely they are the most law-abiding, most influential 
 class in every community ! Because the riches of the 
 rich man are founded upon a lie ! This is the lie : that 
 a man has the right to build up his own prosperity and enjoy- 
 ment upon the suffering and privation of his fellow-men. 
 
 " Ask yourselves, men who listen to me now, do I 
 tell the truth ? 
 
 " You made your money in trade ; very well — is trade 
 just? Could you, under present conditions, have made 
 
Night 223 
 
 money, had you dealt justly and loved mercy ? had you 
 lived the truth, shown the truth ? Could your trade 
 have prospered if you had followed the simplest rule 
 of Christ, c Do unto others as ye would have them do 
 unto you ' ? 
 
 " Is not the very basis of your trade and of your gains 
 that you force other men into failure, dejection, and 
 poverty, and rise upon the wreck of them ? Well has 
 it been said, ' A rich man's happiness is built up of a 
 thousand poor men's sorrows.' 
 
 " Many men make their money in manufacture, per- 
 haps not largely so in this city ; but the conditions are 
 familiar to us all. Very well, is manufacture true to 
 God, true to men ? 
 
 " The profits, we will say of a given manufacture, 
 were not great enough last year ; the owners had a large 
 income, but not as large as they wanted ; some of the 
 rich stockholders grumbled. What did they do ? They 
 reduced the beggarly wages of the toilers in their iron 
 prisons, sent them home to their wives and children 
 with less than sufficed to give them daily bread and 
 shelter, and they knew it. They sent pure girls to the 
 life of shame, and honest men to the black refuge of 
 despair. Thus they declared their dividend, and their 
 rich neighbours praised their business genius and pocketed 
 their share of the gains complacently; and the rich grew 
 richer, and the poor, poorer. This done, they come 
 before God with pious words ; they pass boxes in the 
 churches to gather the widows' and the orphans' mites 
 whose burdens they do not lift, no, not with one finger ; 
 they build a hospital now and then ; they found a uni- 
 versity, and their names are exalted; they sit in their 
 homes with all their treasures of art, of intellect, and of 
 
224 -A- Woman of Yesterday 
 
 refinement about them, and thank the Lord that they 
 are not as other men are, or even as that poor fellow 
 they hear reeling, profane and drunken, down the street, 
 because no home is his, no hope, no God. 
 
 " Hear the words which God hath sworn by his holy 
 prophets : 
 
 " ' Forasmuch, therefore, as your treading is upon the 
 poor, and ye take from him burdens of wheat ; ye have 
 built houses of hewn stone, but ye shall not dwell in 
 them ; ye have planted pleasant vineyards, but ye shall 
 not drink wine of them. 
 
 " ' For I know your manifold transgressions and your 
 mighty sins; they afflict the just, they take a bribe, and 
 they turn aside the poor in the gate from their right. 
 
 " < Woe to the City of Blood ! 
 
 " ' Woe unto them that join house to house, that lay 
 field to field, till there be no place, that they may be 
 placed alone in the midst of the earth ! 
 
 " 4 Woe to them that are at ease in Zion ! . . . that 
 lie upon beds of ivory and stretch themselves upon their 
 couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the 
 calves out of the midst of the stall, that chant to the 
 sound of the viol and invent to themselves instruments 
 of music, . . . that drink wine in bowls and anoint 
 themselves with the chief ointments ; but they are not 
 grieved for the affliction of Joseph ! 
 
 " ' Woe to him that buildeth a town with blood, and 
 establisheth a city by iniquity ! 
 
 " ' Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to 
 deliver them in the day of the Lord's wrath. 
 
 " ' For, behold, the Lord said unto me, What seest 
 thou ? And I said, A plumb-line. Then said the 
 Lord, Behold, I will set a plumb-line in the midst of 
 
Night 225 
 
 my people Israel : I will not again pass by them any 
 more. 
 
 " l For judgment will I lay to the line and righteous- 
 ness to the plumb-line : and the hail shall sweep away 
 the refuge of lies, and the waters shall overflow the 
 hiding-place. 
 
 " ' For ye have said, We have made a covenant with 
 death, and with hell are we at agreement ; we have made 
 lies our refuge, and under falsehood have we hid our- 
 selves. 
 
 " ' But your covenant with death shall be disannulled 
 and your agreement with hell shall not stand.' " 
 
 As the speaker went on marshalling and massing with 
 stern conviction the tremendous indictments and declara- 
 tions of the Hebrew prophets, which the people before 
 him had never heard thus definitely applied to their own 
 social conditions, the dramatic effect became irresistible. 
 A mighty blast of wind seemed to bow their heads, and 
 many trembled and grew pale. 
 
 Suddenly John Gregory, whose whole face and figure 
 had been rigid and set with the awe of what he spoke, 
 stepped out to the very edge of the platform, and, with 
 a gesture of gentleness and reconcilement, and a smile 
 which relaxed the tense mood of his hearers, cried : — 
 
 " But this is not all ! Never did the prophets leave 
 the people without a ray of hope — never did they with- 
 hold 
 
 " ' Belief in plan of God enclosed in time and space, 
 Health, peace, salvation.' 
 
 " ' Is it a dream ? 
 
 Nay, but the lack of it a dream, 
 And failing it life's love and wealth a dream, 
 And all the world a dream.' " 
 Q 
 
2i6 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 These words were spoken with no less conviction 
 than those which had gone before, but the change of 
 voice, of expression, of attitude and gesture, were those 
 which only a master of oratory could have so swiftly 
 effected. The audience, now wholly under his control, 
 felt a new thrill of comfort, of hope, even of exultation. 
 
 " The Spirit of God is brooding in the bosom of all 
 this chaos, and a new day dawns. Fear not, but look 
 within. Your own heart confesses the bond of brother- 
 hood which unites you to all the race. Let your heart 
 speak. 
 
 " Men everywhere see the new light, and confess and 
 deny not that it is the true light, the light which lighteth 
 every man coming into the world, until sin and selfish- 
 ness quench it. 
 
 " The day is come when men shall no longer greedily 
 seek their own salvation; the straitened individualism 
 of the fathers has had its day ; even the passion for per- 
 sonal perfection is refined selfishness from the new point 
 of view. Many Christian souls have been misled in the 
 past by the mistaken idea of self-sacrifice and renuncia- 
 tion, not for their results to humanity, but for the per- 
 fecting of self, a fruitless, joyless, Christless thing. The 
 continual seeking for the safety here and hereafter of the 
 individual — the man's own advantage, what if spirit- 
 ual ? — held up always as his chief and noblest aim, 
 have resulted in Christianity becoming a symbol for sub- 
 limated selfishness. 
 
 " A greater, nobler motive is ours to-day — no new 
 gospel, but a right reading of the old, a deeper insight 
 into his purpose who said, ' If any man serve me, let him 
 follow me.' 
 
 " Here may we, at last, and perhaps for the first time 
 
Night 227 
 
 in long years of blind and baffled longing for the fellow- 
 ship of Christ our Sacrifice, learn the awful joy of dying 
 in our own lives that so we may not live alone. 
 
 "Your soul cannot rise toward God, my brother 
 while you are treading down other souls beneath your 
 feet. Cease the hopeless effort. Take the world's bur- 
 den on your heart, and you shall know Christ. Refuse 
 the joys which can only be for the few and the rich. 
 Take nothing but what you can share. Learn poverty 
 and simplicity and hardihood ; unlearn luxury, exclusive- 
 ness, epicureanism. Be pioneers in the new state, apos- 
 tles of the new-old gospel — the Gospel of Brotherhood, 
 of Fellowship, of Sacrifice." 
 
 As Anna Mallison, in her early girlhood, had re- 
 sponded with swift, unquestioning response to the simple 
 appeal of the missionary, and had offered herself unre- 
 servedly to the work of seeking lost souls in the heathen 
 world, so now, in the maturity of her womanhood, her 
 inmost soul confessed that her hour had come. The 
 message of John Gregory, heard vaguely and partially 
 before, had now reached her fully, and she found its 
 claim upon her irresistible. 
 
 " Where this leads, I follow," a voice said in her heart ; 
 " I follow though I die ! It is for this I have waited." 
 
 Turning, she looked into her husband's face, and their 
 eyes met. Keith Burgess read what he intuitively ex- 
 pected in the deep awe of Anna's eyes ; while she read in 
 his a sympathy and response, real, and yet strangely sad. 
 Gregory had been about to leave the platform, his 
 address ended; but the audience sat unmoving, as if they 
 would hear more. A man rose up then, in the middle 
 of the hall, and spoke. 
 
 "Mr. Gregory," he said, "some of the people are 
 
228 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 saying that, having told us so much, you ought to tell us 
 more. If it is true that you have some scheme or system 
 by which people like us could live such a life as you 
 describe, we want to hear about it." 
 
 Having so said, he sat down. 
 
 John Gregory turned about and came slowly back to 
 his former place. Here he stood, confronting the people 
 with a gravely musing smile. Again, as she saw him, 
 there swept over Anna's memory the sense that this was 
 the presence of her girlish dream, and the old indefinable 
 sense of joy in the power of this man was shed into her 
 heart. 
 
 " You want to hear me say something about Frater- 
 nia, I suppose," said Gregory, slowly. 
 
 " I am not here for that purpose. I covet no man's 
 silver or gold for my project, let that be distinctly under- 
 stood first of all. Fraternia has not had to beg for sup- 
 port, thus far. Men and women who are like-minded 
 with ourselves are welcome to join themselves to us. 
 No others need apply," and he smiled a peculiar, 
 humorous smile of singular charm. 
 
 " Fraternia," he continued, " is an experiment. It is 
 only a year old. Is is what may be called a cooperative 
 colony, I should think; that is, a little community of 
 people who believe that no one ought to be idle and 
 no 'one ought to overwork, and accordingly all work a 
 reasonable number of hours a day. We also believe 
 that an aristocratic, privileged class is not a good thing, 
 not even a necessary evil, but a mere gross product of 
 human selfishness. We have none, accordingly, in 
 Fraternia, nor anything corresponding to it. We are 
 all on a precisely equal footing. That bitterest and 
 tightest of all class distinctions, the aristocracy of money, 
 
Night 229 
 
 is unknown among us. Those who have joined us have 
 thus far put their property into the common treasury, and 
 all fare alike. We propose to work out this social prob- 
 lem on actual and practical lines. We all work and all 
 share alike in the results of our work. 
 
 " You will ask what we do. Fraternia lies in a valley 
 among the foothills of southwestern North Carolina. We 
 raise all kinds of fruit, some grain, and some cotton. We 
 have water-power, a mountain stream as beautiful as it is 
 useful, and so we have built a cotton mill. We have 
 made it as pretty as we could, this mill, — better than 
 any man's house, since the house is for the individual, 
 and the mill for the use of all. By the same token our 
 church and our library are to be finer than our houses 
 when we advance so far as to build them. We have 
 nothing costly or luxurious in Fraternia, but our mill is 
 really very attractive. We all like to work in it. You 
 know it is natural to like to work under human and 
 decent conditions. I believe no man ever liked absolute 
 idleness. It is overwork and work under hideous and 
 unwholesome conditions against which men revolt. 
 
 " In our personal and home life, simplicity and hardi- 
 hood are the key-notes. No servants are employed, for 
 all serve. Our luxuries are the mountain laurel and pine, 
 the exquisite sky and air, the voices of the forest, the 
 crystal clearness of the brook. In these we all share. 
 So do we in the books and the few good pictures which 
 we are so happy as to own ; in the best music we can 
 muster and in the service of divine worship. Life is 
 natural, homelv, simple, joyous. Its motive : By love, 
 serve one another. From no one is the privilege of ser- 
 vice withheld. Thank God, we have no forlorn leisure 
 class. 
 
230 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Our mission, however, is not to ourselves alone, but 
 to the world outside. We are holding up, by our daily 
 living, a constant object-lesson. We are preaching co- 
 operation and social brotherhood louder than any voice 
 can ever preach it, and the small child and the simple 
 girl can preach as well as the cultured woman and the 
 strong man. 
 
 " Who are we ? We are mostly from England, many 
 from the slums of London, others from its higher circles, 
 some Germans and Scandinavians, and thus far not more 
 than a dozen American families. Some of us had noth- 
 ing to begin with, and some had large property ; some were 
 so unfortunate as to belong to the number of those who 
 oppress the poor in mills and mines, while others were 
 simple peasants. We have no difficulty in living happily 
 together on the broad basis of a common human nature, 
 a common purpose, and a common hope. 
 
 " But there is another side to this adventure, friends," 
 and Gregory spoke with deeper seriousness. " Fraternia 
 is nothing unless it is builded on the immutable laws of 
 God and of righteousness. Never, never can we succeed 
 if sin grows little to us and self large. Our message will 
 be taken from us, our arm will be paralyzed, if the day 
 shall ever come when the lust of gold, the lust of power, 
 the lust of pride, shall taint the free air of our high valley. 
 
 " So then, if any among you would join our ranks, see 
 that you shrive your souls and come to us seeking only 
 the Kingdom of God and his righteousness." 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Sin and hedgehogs are born without spikes, but how they wound and prick 
 after their birth we all know. The most unhappy being is he who feels remorse 
 before the deed, and brings forth a sin already furnished with teeth in its birth, 
 the bite of which is soon prolonged into an incurable wound of conscience. 
 
 RlCHTER. 
 
 On the steps of the rostrum, as he descended them, 
 John Gregory was met by a man of singular aspect, a 
 man who has been encountered by us before, in the 
 house of Senator Ingraham, — his son, Oliver. 
 
 As the two clergymen whom he had then addressed 
 had been disturbed, and even dismayed, by this strange 
 face and figure, the smooth, egglike face with its enor- 
 mous forehead, narrow eyes, and wide, thin-lipped 
 mouth, so now Gregory drew back instinctively, finding 
 the singular apparition thus suddenly before him. 
 
 Mr. Oliver Ingraham did not appear to notice the 
 movement, but, smiling his peculiarly complacent smile, 
 held out one long, sinuous hand, and as Gregory took 
 it, not over eagerly, he remarked in his high, feminine 
 voice : — 
 
 " I liked your line very much, Mr. Gregory. Noth- 
 ing would suit me better than to see these rich men 
 brought to book. They'll get their come-uppance in the 
 next world, anyway ; but I sometimes get tired of wait- 
 ing. It would be a satisfaction to see Dives, Esquire, 
 taking his torments here once in a while, don't you 
 think so?" and the malevolent leer with which the ques- 
 tion was accompanied gave Gregory a chill of disgust. 
 
 231 
 
1^1 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 Oliver held in his left hand a handsomely bound 
 note-book and silver pencil-case which it was his custom 
 to carry everywhere. Gregory, now about to pass on, 
 and greet the crowds who were waiting to speak with 
 him just below, was again stopped. 
 
 "Just a moment, Mr. Gregory," said the other, slip- 
 ping off the elastic, and opening the note-book with the 
 dexterity of constant habit ; " I want you to help me a 
 little in gathering some very valuable statistics. It's 
 rather in your line, I take it. I have been engaged in 
 this work for several years, and find it extremely inter- 
 esting." 
 
 Gregory noted the long, white, flexible fingers of the 
 man, and the look, half of deficient intellect and half of 
 cunning, in his face. 
 
 " Please make haste, Mr. Ingraham," he said shortly, 
 " there are others waiting." 
 
 " I am making a computation," Oliver continued 
 imperturbably, " in fact, a carefully tabulated record, ac- 
 cording to nations, of the probable number of souls from 
 each nation now in Sheol — it is considered polite now 
 to call it Sheol, I believe. We used to say hell when 
 we were boys, didn't we, Mr. Gregory ? " and Oliver 
 laughed his low, cruel laugh. 
 
 " Excuse me," exclaimed Gregory, impatiently ; u I 
 could not give you any information on that subject. I 
 have never been there. Allow me to pass on, if you 
 please." 
 
 Oliver closed his book as if not unaccustomed to 
 rebuffs ; but, as Gregory's forward movement obliged him 
 to retreat down the steps, he remarked slyly : — 
 
 " I had a message to you from the senator, if you only 
 weren't in such a hurrv. He is one of the fellows that 
 
Night 123 
 
 will have to go to now, weep and howl. He has the 
 shekels, I can tell you ! What he wants of you is more 
 than I can figure out. I should suppose Ahab would 
 as soon have sent for Elijah." 
 
 " Did your father send for me ? " asked Gregory, 
 surprised. They were now at the foot of the steps, and 
 the crowd was gathering about them. 
 
 " Yes ; he would like to see you in his office on this 
 same block, next building, as soon as you can get away 
 from here. You work him right, and you can get some- 
 thing out of him for your Utopia." The last words were 
 called back aloud with a series of confidential nods, as 
 Oliver turned and plunged into the crowd, who seemed 
 to make a way for him with especial facility. Gregory 
 saw him go with a keen sense of heat and discomfort. 
 
 Half an hour later, Gregory found himself in the 
 office of Senator Tngraham, seated in a substantial office- 
 chair by the well-appointed desk, while Mr. Ingraham, 
 himself in evident and most unusual mental disturbance, 
 walked up and down the room. Suddenly he wheeled, 
 and confronted Gregory, as if with sudden, though dif- 
 ficult, resolution. 
 
 "Mr. Gregory," he said, low, and with the stern, 
 terse brevity of a man who finds himself forced to 
 speak what he would rather leave unsaid, " for over 
 thirty years I have carried certain facts in my personal 
 history shut up in my own memory. Not one other 
 being, to the best of my belief, has shared my knowledge. 
 To-night, I cannot tell how, I do not know why, I feel 
 that I must break silence, and before you — stranger as 
 you are — unload my burden. A strange compulsion 
 seems upon me to disclose the things I have hitherto 
 lived to conceal. What there is in you or in what I 
 
234 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 have heard you say, to bring me to this point, I cannot 
 understand ; but I feel in you something which makes 
 you alone, of all men I have ever met, the one to whom 
 I can speak — and must. Are you willing to hear 
 me ? " 
 
 John Gregory noted the set, hard lines in the law- 
 yer's face, the knotted cords in his hands, and the tone, 
 half of defiance, half of self-abasement, with which he 
 threw out this abrupt question. Accustomed to encoun- 
 ters with men in their innermost spiritual struggles, 
 Gregory was in no way astonished or excited by this 
 surprising beginning of their interview, and simply nodded 
 gravely in token that Ingraham should proceed. 
 
 " I will not affront you by demanding secrecy on 
 your part," the latter began haughtily ; " if it were 
 possible for you to betray my confidence, it would have 
 been impossible for me to give it to you. I understand 
 men." 
 
 He paused. Gregory made no remark in confirmation 
 of this assertion, but the direct, unflinching look with 
 which he met the appeal in the eyes of the speaker was 
 full guarantee of good faith. There was promise of 
 profound and sympathetic attention in Gregory's look, 
 there was also judicial calmness and reserve ; in fine, the 
 characteristics of the priest and the judge were singularly 
 united in him, and it was to the perception of this fact 
 that he owed the present interview. 
 
 " I do not know whether I am a respectable citizen 
 or a murderer," Ingraham now began, turning again to 
 walk the floor, while an uncontrollable groan as of 
 physical anguish accompanied this unexpected declara- 
 tion. " Imagine, if you will, what thirty years have been 
 inwardly with this uncertainty as food for thought, served 
 
Night 235 
 
 to me by conscience, or some fiend, morning and night. 
 If I could have forgotten for one blessed day, it has 
 been ingeniously rendered impossible, for sin in bodily 
 form is ever before me. You have seen my son." 
 
 With this sentence, harsh and curt, Ingraham paused, 
 glanced aside at Gregory, who assented, and then con- 
 tinued to walk and speak. His voice and manner alike 
 showed that he was holding himself in control by the 
 effort of all his will. Strange distorting lines appeared 
 in his face, and there was heavy sweat on his forehead. 
 
 " I was twenty-five years old when I was married, 
 and was alone in the world save for one brother, — Jim, we 
 always called him, — two years younger than I. We had 
 inherited a good name, strong physique, and some little 
 property from our parents, and started in life shoulder to 
 shoulder. In Burlington, where we first began business 
 life together, we became intimately acquainted with a 
 family in which there were two daughters. The elder, 
 Cornelia, was very pretty and singularly attractive. Men 
 always fell in love with her. I did, desperately. The 
 younger sister was a commonplace, uninteresting girl, 
 rather sentimental perhaps, not otherwise remarkable. 
 
 " I shall make this story as short as possible. I offered 
 myself to Cornelia after long wooing, and was refused. 
 I was bitterly wounded, angry, defiant. While I was in 
 that state of mind, it became apparent to me that I was 
 secretly an object of peculiar interest to the younger sister. 
 Like many another fool, half in spite and half in heart- 
 sickness, I sought her hand, and was at once accepted, 
 and our marriage followed quickly. Within the year 
 Cornelia and Jim became engaged. There was a hard, 
 silent grudge against Jim in my heart from the day I first 
 suspected that it was he who had stood between Cornelia 
 
0.^6 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 and me, and their engagement increased the grudge to 
 hate. 
 
 " We had, before this, put the whole of our inheritance 
 into mining fields in what was then the far West, buying 
 up a large tract of land, divided equally between us. The 
 year after my marriage we moved West for a time, and I 
 started out on a prospecting tour of our land ; Jim to follow 
 me when he had finished establishing a kind of business 
 office in pioneer quarters, in a small town as near the base 
 of our operations as was feasible. My wife remained in 
 this town. 
 
 " On horseback, with two engineers and a copper 
 expert and an Indian guide, I rode through our pos- 
 sessions. Miners were already at work, and had pur- 
 sued the lead far enough to prove pretty distinctly that, 
 while Jim's part of the tract was likely to be fairly pro- 
 ductive, the vein stopped short of mine, which was thus 
 practically worthless. 
 
 " I rode back to our camp in a black mood. Jim, it 
 seemed, was to succeed in everything; all that he sought 
 was his, and for me there was nothing but failure and 
 defeat. All the way back I brooded bitterly on the 
 contrast between us, until I was in a still frenzy of 
 jealousy when I reached the camp. The contrast 
 between Cornelia, for whom I still had a wild, hope- 
 less passion, and my wife, sickly, dull, indeed disagree- 
 able to me already, was maddening, and had been 
 sufficiently so before. But now, when I thought of 
 Jim, with Cornelia for his wife and the certain prospect 
 of large wealth to add to his elation, while I was without 
 a penny or a prospect of any sort, the rage and fury in 
 my mind became almost intoxicating. 
 
 " We had encountered hostile Indians on the trail as 
 
Night 237 
 
 we returned, but our bold, dare-devil dash through this 
 danger made slight impression on me. I think death 
 would have been welcome to me that night. God 
 knows I wish I had met it then. My heart was evil 
 enough, but at least it had not the guilt that came later. 
 
 " I suppose, Mr. Gregory, that I am answerable for 
 my brother's death — not in the eye of the law, but 
 before God. And yet — if you could tell me that I 
 am mistaken, that I exaggerate, that other men would 
 have done the same and held themselves guiltless — if 
 that could be — " Ingraham broke off and fixed his eyes 
 on Gregory's face once more, as if in appeal for his life. 
 
 " Please go on," was Gregory's response, but the 
 words were gently spoken, as the words of a physician 
 when he is diagnosing a manifestly mortal disease. 
 
 " Very well," said Ingraham, harshly. " Jim was at 
 the camp, and was boy enough to parade a letter from 
 Cornelia before me. We quarrelled fiercely, about what 
 I cannot remember, but I could not restrain the storm 
 of rage and jealousy in me. It had to break loose some- 
 where. I refused to tell Jim what I had discovered 
 regarding the lead, and he declared he would go and find 
 out for himself. I said he would be a fool if he did, 
 but gave him no hint of the fact that there were hostile 
 Indians on the way. He knew nothing of the condi- 
 tions, nor the character of the people about us, having 
 never been in the country before. It was early in the 
 morning. We had ridden all night, and the men had 
 gone to their tents and were sleeping off the effects of 
 our struggle. I told Jim he could not get a guide. He 
 merely whistled in a light-hearted, careless way he had, 
 and started off to a neighbouring camp, in search, as I 
 inferred, of some escort. I saw him no more, and made 
 
238 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 no attempt to govern his actions, and did not even know 
 whether he had started. Who and what the guide was 
 whom he obtained, I learned later. 
 
 " I slept most of that day, after Jim disappeared, ex- 
 hausted in body and mind, and continued to sleep far 
 into the night, keeping my tent door securely closed, as 
 I wished to see and speak to no one. It was, perhaps, 
 three o'clock of the morning following when I was 
 roused by a strange noise at my tent door. Starting up 
 from my bed on the ground, I saw that some one had 
 cut open the fastenings, and that the flap was drawn 
 back. In the opening thus formed stood the shape 
 of an Indian rider on horseback, perfectly motionless. 
 The moonlight, which was unusually brilliant, fell full 
 upon the face of this man, and I recognized him at 
 once, with a horrible chill of foreboding, as a half-witted 
 Indian who sometimes acted as guide, but only to those 
 who knew no better than to accept his services, which 
 were worthless and treacherous. He was a half-breed, 
 an odious, repulsive being, with only wit enough to be 
 malicious, and of abnormal treachery and cruelty even 
 for his kind. Never can I forget that face of his in the 
 moonlight. He spoke not one word, but simply sat 
 his horse and looked at me with his narrow, gleaming 
 eves, a malignant grin making his ugliness fairly fiend- 
 ish. If you want to get a faint idea of his look, recall 
 the face of Oliver — my son;" Ingraham's voice sunk 
 to a whisper, and he added, "I can never escape it." 
 
 Gregory's brows knit heavily, and his face reflected 
 something of the tortured misery of the man before 
 him. 
 
 " It was not," said Ingraham, " until I had staggered 
 to my feet that I saw that across his saddle-bow this 
 
Night 239 
 
 creature carried a dead body — Jim. There was an 
 Indian arrow in his side." 
 
 "No matter, no matter for the rest; I understand," 
 said Gregory, hastily. 
 
 There was silence for a moment, and then Ingraham, 
 with a strong effort, rallied himself to conclude his story. 
 
 " I was Jim's heir." These words were spoken with 
 hard and scornful emphasis. " That was a feature of 
 the case which presents complications to a man in form- 
 ing a judgment. Perhaps you will believe me when I 
 say that this issue had not entered my mind in letting 
 the boy go to his death. Indeed, the whole series of 
 events was without deliberation, but under the influence 
 of blind, sullen anger." 
 
 " I believe you," said Gregory. 
 
 " All the same, I profited by his death. The mines 
 proved immensely valuable, and are even to-day. They 
 have made me rich — and incomparably wretched. A 
 word or two more, and you will know the whole story. 
 Jim was brought home, here, for burial, my wife and I 
 returning with his body. All through that journey, and 
 continually, for many months, I saw before me, waking 
 or sleeping, that face of cruelty incarnate, the half-witted 
 Indian guide, as I had seen him on that awful night. 
 That face was my Nemesis. It is still. 
 
 "Within the year my wife gave birth to a son, 
 Oliver, — a strange perversion, made up of moral obliq- 
 uity, mental distortion, and physical deformity, like an 
 embodiment of sin. On his face was stamped by some 
 strange trick of nature the image which had haunted 
 me — as if the Fates, or the Fiends, or God himself, had 
 feared I might forget, and know a day of respite. 
 
 " My wife died when Oliver was a few months old, — 
 
240 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 died of cold, I believe, the chill of our loveless marriage. 
 Two years later Cornelia and I were married. I 
 believe she has been happy. I have been prospered, 
 and have risen to a position of some influence, and we 
 have all that could be desired in our home, in our three 
 daughters. But when, to-night, I heard you pronounce 
 the judgments of God on men who had built up pros- 
 perity upon a lie, I was like a man struck in his very 
 heart. I felt that I could no longer endure my hidden 
 load, and must confess to one human being my past, and 
 make restitution, if by any means it is yet possible. 
 The Romish Church is merciful, when it provides the 
 possibility of confession to sinful men. 
 
 " What have you to say to me ? Have you healing 
 for such a sore as mine ? " 
 
 With these abrupt words Ingraham threw himself 
 into a leather-covered arm-chair with the action of com- 
 plete exhaustion. His aspect was changed from that of 
 the alert, confident man of the world and of affairs, to 
 that of a broken down and shattered age. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Sin is not a monster to be mused on, but an impotence to be got rid of. 
 
 — Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Use sin as it will use you ; spare it not, for it will not spare you ; it is your 
 murderer and the murderer of the world : use it, therefore, as a murderer should 
 be used. Kill it before it kills you ; and though it kill your bodies, it shall not 
 be able to kill your souls : and though it bring you to the grave, as it did your 
 Head, it shall not be able to keep you there. — Baxter. 
 
 John Gregory met the demand thus made upon him 
 with all the moral and spiritual resources of which he 
 was master, for all were needed. The full strength of 
 the man's personality was brought into action, the lofty 
 severity, the unflinching hate of sin, and yet the clear 
 vision which could see beyond the torture and taint of it, 
 and sound the depth of a nature which thus agonized for 
 redemption and for righteousness. 
 
 " The only sin," he said, in the words of another, 
 " which is unforgiven is the sin which is unrepented of. 
 That early yielding to a paroxysm of jealousy and rage 
 had a fearful, and yet it may even be a merciful, result. 
 There are those who have given way to worse, and, no 
 result following, have lived on in hardness of heart and 
 contempt of God's law. Christ's inflexible law, far 
 more rigorous than the old law of Moses, says he that 
 hateth his brother is a murderer. Murder, then, is the 
 commonest of social sins, rather than the rarest. Christ 
 also says that it was for sinners that he came to die, not 
 for the righteous. His love overflows all our sin, and 
 finds no halt at the degrees of guilt which men empha- 
 R 241 
 
242 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 size in their shallow judgment. Men judge by conse- 
 quences, by outward events ; God looks upon the heart. 
 
 " Looking upon the heart, as far as we may, with 
 God, I say then, you have been guilty of murder, but so 
 have other men. Many a man has cherished a spirit of 
 bitter revenge and hatred against one who had injured 
 him, who has not suffered what you have, not having 
 caused or profited by the death of that person, directly 
 or indirectly ; but before God you are perhaps equally 
 guilty. 
 
 " I do not count your sin slight. I would not seek to 
 make it small in your own eyes, but I believe that you 
 are released from the guilt and burden borne so long, and 
 should no longer stagger under it. Has not Almighty 
 God given to his servants power and commandment to 
 declare to those who are penitent the absolution and 
 remission of their sins ? 
 
 " What did our Lord say to the leper who sought his 
 cleansing ? ' I will, be thou clean.' Even this he says 
 to you. Throw off that old yoke of bondage. It is 
 your right. Go free in the liberty of the sons of God, 
 but go to sin no more." 
 
 These words, spoken with the authority of a priest, 
 and with the solemnity of absolute conviction, brought 
 something of light and release to the troubled heart of 
 Ingraham. 
 
 The hour was late, indeed, morning was at hand, 
 when, lifting his face upon which a certain calmness had 
 settled, he said to Gregory, earnestly : — 
 
 " I believe I grasp the truth of what you say, and 
 that there is for me a certain peace, a partial release, 
 although forgetfulness never. But this is not enough ; 
 the cry of my whole soul is to make restitution in some 
 
Night 243 
 
 sort, somewhere, although how and to whom I cannot 
 see. I still have the stain that I profit by my sin. 
 What can you tell me ? Do you see a way for me ? " 
 John Gregory looked at Ingraham steadily for a 
 
 moment before speaking, and then said very slowly : 
 
 " Do you remember what the Master said to a certain 
 ruler, 'Sell all that thou hast, and distribute unto the 
 poor, and come, follow me ' ? If you are in earnest, Mr. 
 Ingraham, and if you feel that, as your experience of sin 
 has been, in no light and common form, but in a depth 
 of agony which few men ever know, so your repentance 
 should be along no mild and easy lines, but should reach 
 to the foundations of your life — if, I say, you see things 
 thus, and can bear so strong a prescription, I should re- 
 peat to you literally what Christ said to the rich ruler. 
 It is a hard saying ; not every man can receive it." 
 
 The two men faced each other in silence for a mo- 
 ment, and Gregory saw the leap of a sudden question in 
 the other's eyes. 
 
 " No," he said sternly, as if in answer to a spoken 
 inquiry, « I am not advising you with an eye on my 
 own advantage. My thought was not of my own cause, 
 but of the cause of humanity anywhere. Pardon me if 
 I speak plainly; I could not use a farthing of your 
 money, were it all at my disposal, for building up the 
 work I am seeking to establish in Fraternia. Recall 
 what you heard me say to-night of the true Kingdom 
 of God. I could not use your money, Mr. Ingraham, 
 in seeking to show forth that kingdom ; but I could use 
 you, should you wish to come with us, if you came 
 empty-handed." 
 
 The lawyer felt the pitiless severity of Gregory's 
 moral standard and all that this dictum implied, but he 
 
244 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 did not resist it. His humiliation and submission were 
 sincere, and, for the time at least, controlling ; but doubt 
 and conflict were plainly read in his face. 
 
 " Is it a hard saying ? " John Gregory asked, with a 
 slight smile. 
 
 "Yes, harder than you know. I could do what you 
 say, were I alone to be considered ; but to reduce my 
 family to beggary, to cut short my career and stain my 
 reputation by the cloud which would inevitably rest 
 upon it in the community by such an unheard-of course 
 of action, to take my wife and daughters from their 
 social world to follow me, sent like a scapegoat into 
 some wilderness — really, Mr. Gregory, what you name 
 is beyond reason ! " 
 
 Gregory made absolutely no response. After a long 
 silence, Ingraham said thoughtfully : — 
 
 "This is about the way I see for myself: from this 
 time on I shall seek to live a humbler and a sincerely 
 Christian life, and shall strive in every way open to me 
 to aid and further the cause of righteousness, with my 
 money and with my influence. In this way I shall 
 bring happiness and satisfaction to my wife, to whom 
 I owe the highest obligation, next to God, instead of 
 destroying her comfort by dragging her with me into 
 some late missionary endeavour or eccentric experiment. 
 Pardon me, Mr. Gregory, if I too speak plainly. 
 
 " But this is not all. Although I feel no individual 
 call in the direction of your cooperative colony, and am 
 not over sanguine of its success, I do believe profoundly 
 in you, personally, as I must have shown you. Now I 
 want you to reconsider what you said a little while ago. 
 Frankly, this discriminating between money made in 
 one way or another savours to me of superstition. This 
 
Night 245 
 
 money, which is mine, cannot be destroyed ; even you 
 would hardly advise that. Why not put it to a good use, 
 the best possible from your point of view ? I have never 
 given away money largely, but I am able to, and I want 
 to seal our interview to-night with a substantial gift." 
 
 As he spoke, Ingraham turned to his desk and 
 touched a check-book which lay upon it. 
 
 " Mr. Gregory, I want to write my check for fifty 
 thousand dollars to be placed unconditionally in your 
 hands. You want a little church down there in your 
 settlement, and you want it beautiful, worthy of its 
 purpose; you want a library — both are necessary to 
 carry on the kind of work you project. Here they are," 
 and again he touched the little leather book with his 
 forefinger ; " let me do that much as a memorial of this 
 night and what you have done for me." 
 
 John Gregory met the look of sincere and even 
 anxious appeal with which these words were spoken 
 with unyielding, although not unkindly, firmness. 
 
 " This is a generous impulse on your part, Mr. Ingra- 
 ham. Do not for a moment think I fail to appreciate 
 it. You are right ; the money must be used, and will 
 be, I hope, promptly and wisely. You must pardon me 
 a certain over nicety perhaps in preferring not to build 
 my church in Fraternia, or even my library, with it. 
 You will find plenty of men less fastidious, and no one 
 but myself will, I suppose, have reason to entertain such 
 scruples." 
 
 Gregory had risen, and was ready now to go. It was 
 four o'clock, he found, by his watch, and it had been a 
 long vigil ; but, while Ingraham's face was haggard and 
 even ghastly, that of Gregory was unchanged in its mas- 
 sive firmness and its strong, fine lines. 
 
246 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Ingraham stood at his desk plainly chagrined and ill 
 at ease. 
 
 " In your eyes, I see," he said ruefully, " I am still 
 in the place of the man who went away sorrowful be- 
 cause he had great possessions." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Gregory ; " it is too soon to tell." 
 
 "Every man must judge for himself, Mr. Gregory, 
 when it comes to the supreme acts of his life." 
 
 " Yes," said the other, sadly ; " to the supreme acts 
 or to the supreme compromises. Will you excuse me 
 now ? I believe that I must go." Gregory held out 
 his hand, which Ingraham grasped with eagerness. 
 "You have honoured me by your confidence and your 
 generosity. Count me your friend if you will. Good 
 night." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 I tire of shams, I rush to be. — Emerson. 
 
 Gertrude Ingraham was still unmarried, still 
 pretty, still charming in her dainty, high-bred way. 
 
 Perhaps the thought crossed Keith Burgess's mind 
 as he joined her in her father's library that even- 
 ing, after their return from Gregory's lecture, that she 
 would have been, as a wife, a shade less exigeante than 
 Anna. 
 
 Anna, shrinking from the small coin of discussion of 
 so great themes, had gone directly to their room, — the 
 room which had been Keith's on his first visit to Bur- 
 lington. Keith remained in the library to accept the 
 refreshment which Gertrude had prepared for their re- 
 turn, and found the situation altogether pleasing. It 
 was a rest to a sensitive, nervous man like himself to 
 sit down with a pretty woman who had no startling 
 theories of life and conduct ; one who had always 
 moved, and who would always choose to move, on the 
 comfortable lines of convention, instead of seeking some 
 other path for herself, rough and lonely. 
 
 Perhaps Keith lingered all the more willingly to-night 
 because he perceived a rough and lonely path opening 
 visibly before him, into which he must in all probability 
 turn full soon. 
 
 " What did you think of Mr. Gregory ? " asked 
 Gertrude Ingraham over her tea-cups. 
 
 " He is a tremendous speaker," said Keith, soberly ; 
 247 
 
248 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " I never heard a man who could mould an audience to 
 his will as he does. You were not there to-night." 
 
 " No, but I heard him before you and Mrs. Burgess 
 came, night before last. I think he has the finest phy- 
 sique of any orator I ever heard. Don't you think that is 
 one source of his power ? There is something absolutely 
 majestic about him when he is speaking. He seems to 
 overpower you — you must agree with him, whether you 
 do or not." 
 
 " Then do you accept this new doctrine of his, Miss 
 Ingraham ? " 
 
 " You mean that there should be no social distinctions, 
 no aristocratic and privileged class, no wealth and no 
 poverty, and all that ? I do not know what he said 
 to-night, you see, but that is the line on which he has 
 been speaking." 
 
 " Yes, that is what it all comes to." 
 
 " Why, no, of course I don't believe in it, when I get 
 away from Mr. Gregory," said Gertrude, laughing prettily ; 
 "because I really think he is going against the funda- 
 mental laws of God. There have always been rich 
 people and poor people, and it was intended that there 
 always should be, I think." 
 
 41 It does seem absolutely impracticable to carry out 
 any such theory in actual life. Certainly it would be 
 under existing conditions. It can only be done by 
 radical, by revolutionary methods. Have you heard 
 what Mr. Gregory is actually doing to illustrate his 
 theory ? Have you heard of Fraternia ? " 
 
 Gertrude Ingraham lifted her chin with a roguish little 
 movement and nodded with a charming smile. 
 
 " Yes, I have heard of Fraternia too ! Isn't it droll ? 
 That is why I didn't go to-night, you see. I was afraid 
 
Night 249 
 
 Mr. Gregory would get hold of me with that irresistible 
 power of his, and then I should have to go and work in 
 a cotton mill ! " and with this Gertrude lifted her eye- 
 brows with an expression of plaintive self-pity which 
 Keith found very taking. " I'm afraid I shouldn't like 
 it," she added archly ; " it would be so new, and one's 
 hands would get so horrid ! " 
 
 They laughed together, Keith naturally noting the 
 delicacy of the small white hands which were manipu- 
 lating the transparent china on the low table between 
 them. Then Mrs. Ingraham and others coming into 
 the room after them, Keith rose with graceful courtesy 
 to serve them and to draw them into the conversation. 
 But all the while Keith had a sense that he was 
 turning against himself the sharpest weapons which 
 could have been found, nothing being so instinctively 
 dreaded by him as to put himself in an absurd situation, 
 to awaken ridicule, even his own. 
 
 Just below the surface of his thought there lay two 
 formidable facts, like sunk, threatening rocks seen darkly 
 under smooth water. He knew that Anna would propose 
 to him that they should throw themselves into Gregory's 
 enterprise, and become disciples of the new school ; 
 and he knew that having cut off hitherto, involuntarily or 
 otherwise, each deepest desire of her soul for the service 
 of others, he should not dare to thwart her in this. If 
 she wished to do this thing, he must join her in it. 
 
 Keith had himself been deeply moved by Gregory. 
 The old passion for sacrifice and self-devotion had stirred 
 again within him. He felt the high courage, the gener- 
 osity, the strong initiative of Gregory ; he was thrilled 
 at the sight of a man who could throw himself unre- 
 servedly into a difficult and dangerous crusade, simply 
 
250 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 for an ideal, with all to lose and nothing to gain. He 
 too had once marched to that same music ; his blood was 
 stirred, and he felt something of the enthusiasm of his 
 student years, rising warm within him. He perfectly 
 understood the motions of Anna's spirit, and shared in 
 them, up to a certain point. This point was reached 
 when he touched the limit set by his inborn and inherited 
 conservatism, his constitutional preference for things as 
 they were, and his quick dread of making himself absurd. 
 And now, Gertrude Ingraham with her pretty mocking had 
 suddenly put the whole thing before him in the light he 
 dreaded most. 
 
 Anna was not thus divided in her mind, and could not 
 have been. Something of the steadfast simplicity of her 
 ancient German ancestry preserved her from this charac- 
 teristically American form of sensitiveness. She could 
 have adopted without hesitation, any outward forms, 
 however out of conformity to usage, however grotesque 
 in the eyes of others, if she had felt the inward call. 
 Gregory's stern and lofty utterances had come to her 
 with full prophetic weight, and had left nothing in her 
 to rise up in doubt or gainsaying. 
 
 In this mood Keith found her. She was standing, 
 still fully dressed, before the chimney-piece, where he 
 had sat one night and dreamed at once of her and Ger- 
 trude Ingraham. Her hands were clasped and hanging 
 before her ; her face was slightly pale, and her eyes 
 strangely large and luminous. Standing before her, 
 Keith took her clasped hands between his, and looked 
 at her with a questioning smile. 
 
 « Well, dear," he said, " what is it ? " 
 
 " You know," she answered softly. " Was it not to 
 you what it was to me ? Is it not the very chance we 
 
Night 251 
 
 wish, to redeem our poor lost hopes of service ? — to 
 leave all the luxuries and privileges and advantages, 
 and share the world's sorrows ? to become poor and 
 humble as our Master was ? to give what we have 
 received ? Oh, Keith, is it to be, or must another hope 
 go by ? " 
 
 As Anna thus cried out, the solemn appeal of her 
 nature, austere, and yet full-charged with noble passion, 
 breaking at last through the barriers which had long 
 held it back, gave her an extraordinary spiritual grandeur. 
 There was something of awe in the look with which 
 her husband regarded her. Weapons of fear and doubt 
 and cavil fell before that celestial sternness in her eyes, 
 — a look we see sometimes in the innocent eyes of 
 young children. 
 
 " It is to be, Anna. You shall have your way this 
 time, my wife." 
 
 The words were spoken reverently, with grave gentle- 
 ness, and Keith's own sweet courtesy. Was it Anna's 
 fault that she failed, in the exaltation of her mood, to 
 catch the sadness in them ? 
 
 Keith was hardly conscious of it himself. He was 
 thinking, on an unspoken parallel, that he would rather 
 be privileged to adore Anna Mallison in a moment like 
 this, even though she led him in a rough and lonely 
 path, than to dally with another woman in smoothness 
 and ease. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 I took the power in my hand 
 And went against the world ; 
 'Twas not so much as David had, 
 But I was twice as bold. 
 
 I aimed my pebble, but myself 
 Was all the one that fell. 
 Was it Goliath was too large, 
 Or only I too small ? 
 
 — Emily Dickinson. 
 
 We all have need of that prayer of the Breton mariner, ' ' Save us, O God ! 
 Thine ocean is so large and our little boats are so small." — Farrar. 
 
 "Trunks checked for Utopia! Direct passenger 
 route without change of cars ! Ye gods, it doth amaze 
 me!" 
 
 Thus Professor Ward, with a sardonic and yet dis- 
 comfited smile, standing in the studio of his friend 
 Pierce Everett, in Fulham. The room was in the dis- 
 order of a radical breaking up ; packing boxes standing 
 about and litter strewn everywhere. 
 
 Everett in his shirt sleeves was piling on a table a 
 mass of draperies which he had taken from the wall. 
 He was covered with dust, but his face was full of 
 joyous excitement. 
 
 " Yes, my good friend — straight for Utopia now ! 
 
 "'Get on board, chil'en, 
 Get on board, chil'en, 
 For there's room for many a more.' " 
 252 
 
Night 253 
 
 Everett trolled out the old negro chorus with hilari- 
 ous enjoyment. 
 
 "^»w Deus vult perdere — " began Ward, grimly. 
 " Oh, we're all mad, you know. We are simply not 
 so mad as the rest of you," interrupted Everett, gayly. 
 " We have intervals of sanity, and are taking advantage 
 of one of them to get out of the mad-house, leavino- 
 you other fellows to keep up your unprofitable strife 
 
 with phantoms by yourselves, while we actually yes, 
 
 we even dare to believe it — live. Think of that, 
 Ward, if you have the imagination ! " Ward shook his 
 head. " No, you haven't ; that is so. If you had, you 
 could not have listened to Gregory unmoved." 
 
 " Confound Gregory," muttered Ward. « What did 
 you ever get the man here for, turning our world up- 
 side down ! " 
 
 " That has been the occupation of seers and prophets 
 from the beginning, I believe," retorted Everett, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Seers and prophets ! " cried Ward, angrily, « that is 
 what I can stand least of all. This posing as a kind 
 of nineteenth century John the Baptist strikes me as 
 exquisitely ridiculous." 
 
 Everett's eyes flashed dangerously, but he made no 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "I saw your John the Baptist this morning in the 
 Central Station buying his railway ticket and mornino- 
 paper like any other average man. The locusts and 
 wild hcney were not in evidence." 
 
 " No, he doesn't take nourishment habitually in rail- 
 way stations," put in Everett, coolly. 
 
 " I didn't see any leathern girdle about his loins, 
 either, although of course he may wear it next the skin 
 
1 54 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 for penitential purposes. His clothing appeared to be a 
 species of camel's hair — " 
 
 " Falsely so called," put in Everett ; " it is really 
 English tweed. Very good quality." 
 
 " Yes, I'll venture to say that is true. Your prophet 
 of the wilderness strikes me as knowing a good thing 
 when he sees it. Plague take the fellow ! He has 
 just that sort of brute force and sheer overbearing per- 
 sonal dominance, which you idealists and credulous take 
 for spiritual authority." 
 
 " Come now, Ward, we may as well keep our tempers 
 and treat this matter decently. Nothing is gained by 
 calling names. You are naturally prejudiced against a 
 man who attacks the existing social order, and suggests 
 that even the rulers of the synagogue and the great 
 teachers of the schools have something yet to learn. 
 Gregory is radical, revolutionary perhaps, but not a 
 whit more so than the New Testament makes him. He 
 is an absolutely conscientious man ; he has given up 
 every personal ambition, wealth, position, all that most 
 men cling to — " 
 
 " In order to become a Dictator, in a field where 
 there is very little competition." 
 
 Everett suppressed the irritation which this interposi- 
 tion aroused, and continued in a lighter tone, — 
 
 " You are enough of a dictator yourself to see this 
 point, which had escaped the rest of us. I can see that 
 it is a little bitter to you to have Mrs. Burgess seeking 
 another spiritual and intellectual adviser, — going after 
 other gods, as it were." 
 
 " Yes," said Ward, gravely ; " it makes me sick at 
 heart to see a woman like Mrs. Burgess, with all that 
 glorious power of self-devotion of hers, throwing herself 
 
Night 255 
 
 blindly into this wild, Quixotic experiment — sure to 
 end in disappointment and defeat. It is mournful, 
 most mournful," and Ward shook his head in melan- 
 choly fashion. " And when it comes to Keith," he 
 resumed, " alas ! our brother ! Poor Keith, with his life- 
 long habits of luxurious ease, his conventional views 
 of duty, his yardstick imagination, and his wretched 
 health — to think of such a man being torn from all 
 the amenities of a refined Christian home, and carted 
 across lots, Government bonds and all, to be set down 
 in some malarial swamp to dig ditches with a set of 
 ploughmen, to prove, forsooth ! that all men are created 
 free and equal," and Ward groaned and bent his head 
 as if overcome by the picture he had called up. 
 
 Lifting his head suddenly, he added in a tone of pensive 
 rumination. 
 
 " He is one of those men Thoreau tells of, who would 
 not go a-huckleberrying without a medicine chest ; and 
 he would perish, I am convinced, if deprived of improved 
 sanitary plumbing." 
 
 " All very clever," said Everett, " but I will take the 
 liberty of mentioning the fact that the Burgess's physi- 
 cian hails the North Carolina project as the very best 
 thing which could happen for Keith's health." 
 
 Hardly had he finished the sentence when a light 
 knock was heard on the half-open door of the studio, 
 and Anna Burgess, at Everett's word, stepped into the 
 room. 
 
 She wore a thin black gown, for the day was warm, 
 and a broad-brimmed hat of some transparent black sub- 
 stance threw the fine shape of her head and the pure 
 tints of her face into striking relief. A handful of white 
 jonquils was fastened into the front of her gown, and 
 
256 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 the freshness of the June day seemed to enter the dusty, 
 despoiled studio with her. 
 
 Both men stood at gaze before her with deference and 
 admiration in every line and look. With a delicate flush 
 rising in her cheeks, Anna gave her hand to each, and 
 spoke a word of greeting in which her natural shyness 
 and her acquired social grace were mingled to a manner 
 of peculiar charm. 
 
 " I ran up to hand you these papers for Mr. Gregory," 
 she said to Everett, a vibration of suppressed joy in her 
 full, low voice which he had never heard before. "You 
 know he said he would like it if you would bring them," 
 and she placed a long envelope in his hand. " No, I 
 cannot stop a moment, Keith is waiting for me in the 
 carriage. I did not give the papers to the maid because 
 I wanted to say to you, Mr. Everett, that Keith does not 
 see it any differently, — about the estate, you know. He 
 pledges the income, freely, altogether, but he feels that 
 the estate itself should be kept intact." 
 
 " Thank Heaven, he has a spark of reason left ! " 
 exclaimed Ward under his breath, adding quickly, — 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. Burgess, but you know I am not 
 a Gregorian psalm myself, yet." 
 
 Anna turned to him with her rare smile, less brilliant 
 than clear and luminous. 
 
 " But I was so glad you came to the house, Professor 
 Ward, and heard Mr. Gregory," she said with gracious 
 courtesy ; " we cannot expect every one to follow out 
 these new theories practically as we hope to do, but at 
 least we want every one we care about to know really 
 what they are." 
 
 " Do you think that many of those present at your 
 house that afternoon were inclined to accept Mr. 
 
Night 257 
 
 Gregory's gospel, if I may so call it ? " asked Ward, 
 respectfully. 
 
 " Of course not," interjected Everett, " there was no 
 one there but cranks and critics." 
 
 Anna's face clouded a little. " No," she said simply. 
 "Fulham is not a good field for such a message; it was 
 quite different in Burlington. Most of them went away 
 saying it would be very fine if it were not wholly impos- 
 sible." 
 
 "And it does not occur to you, does it, Mrs. Burgess," 
 Ward pressed the question with undisguised earnestness, 
 " that perhaps they were right ? that there is something 
 to be said for the old order, as old as the race ? that 
 possibly certain distinctions are inherent in the nature of 
 things ? Such distinctions, for instance, as separate 
 you," and Ward gave the pronoun a freight of signifi- 
 cance to carry, " from that man," and he indicated a 
 labourer who had just left the room with an immense box 
 of merchandise on his broad, bent shoulders, and whose 
 slow, heavy steps could now be heard on the stairs 
 below. 
 
 He had struck the wrong chord. 
 
 " Professor Ward," cried Anna, her voice even lower 
 than its wont, but her emphasis the more intense, " did 
 that man choose to be reduced to the life and little more 
 than the faculties of a beast of burden, to be a brother 
 to the ox, to live a blind, brutalized, animal existence, 
 with neither joy nor star ? " 
 
 She paused a moment, and then added, with indescrib- 
 able pathos dimming the kindling light in her eyes : — 
 
 " It is that man, Professor Ward, and what he stands 
 for, that sends me to Fraternia, if perhaps I can yet 
 atone. It is I that have made that man what he is, and 
 
258 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 you, and all of us who have clung gladly to our powers 
 and privileges, and dared to believe that we were made 
 for the heights of life, and men like him for the abyss. 
 If we could read our New Testament once as if it were 
 not an old story ! If we, for one moment, could lay our 
 social cruelties beside that pattern shown us in the 
 mount ! " 
 
 The deep heart of her and the innermost motive 
 power broke forth from Anna's usual quiet and reserve 
 in these last words with thrilling influence upon both 
 men. She was beautiful as she spoke, but with the 
 beauty of some Miriam or Cassandra, — a woman, as 
 had been said of her long before, "to die for, not to 
 play games with." 
 
 Professor Ward, the irritation of his earlier mood 
 quite gone, stood regarding Anna as she spoke with 
 a sadness as profound as it was wholly unaffected. 
 Having spoken, she turned to go. 
 
 " Let me say one word, Mrs. Burgess," he said, ex- 
 tending his hand to detain her a moment. " I sympa- 
 thize deeply with your purposes, and I am not wholly 
 incapable of appreciating your motives. From my 
 heart I shall bid you God-speed on your way when your 
 time comes to go out into this new spiritual adventure. 
 It will be none the less noble because it is impossible." 
 
 " Good-by," she said, and smiled. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? 
 
 O sweet Content ! 
 Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? 
 
 O Punishment ! 
 Then he that patiently Want's burden bears 
 No burden bears, but is a king, a king. 
 
 O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content ! 
 Work apace, apace, apace, apace, 
 Honest labour bears a lovely face. 
 
 — Thomas Dekker, 1600. 
 
 A valley, two thousand feet above the sea level, 
 narrowing at its upper or northern end to a ravine 
 piercing thickly wooded hills, but widening gradually 
 southward, until, a mile lower down the mountain 
 stream which issues from the gorge, it becomes a broad 
 sunny meadow land. 
 
 On a day in the middle of March, when the sun 
 shone warm and a turquoise sky arched smiling over 
 this valley, signs of human activity and energy prevailed 
 on every side. In the bottom lands men were ploughing 
 the broad level fields ; here the river had been dammed, 
 forming a pond, on the bank of which stood a large 
 picturesque building sheathed with dark-green shingles. 
 From the wide and open windows of this building the 
 sound of whirring spindles and the joyous laughter of 
 girls and men issued. 
 
 Higher up the valley men were at work building a 
 light bridge of plank across the creek, while others were 
 carting newly sawed lumber, with its strong pungent 
 
 259 
 
260 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 smell, from the sawmill below. On the eastern side 
 of the valley, between this bridge and the mills half a 
 mile south, were scattered or grouped at irregular inter- 
 vals, forty or fifty small cabins, some of log, others of 
 unplaned boards ; thatched, or covered in red tile. Men 
 and women were at work in the damp mould of the 
 gardens by which these cabins were surrounded, and 
 fresh green things were shooting up. On the opposite 
 side of the stream, on a wooded knoll, stood a large, 
 low, barrack-like building with a red roof, and near it 
 a few cabins. It was opposite this group of buildings 
 that the foot-bridge was in process of making, to super- 
 sede a single plank and rail which had hitherto con- 
 nected the banks of the stream. Down the valley from 
 this small and separate settlement stretched fields already 
 under cultivation, for corn, potatoes, and cotton. 
 
 There were no streets in this rustic settlement. Foot- 
 paths led to the cottage doors through the thin, coarse 
 grass, and along the eastern side of the little river; and 
 between its bank and the houses ran a rough wagon 
 road, deeply rutted now by the wheels of the lumber 
 wao-ons in the soft, red soil. To the north and east the 
 hills rose abruptly, covered with oak and pine, and the 
 aromatic fragrance of the latter was in the air, mingling 
 with the scent of the soil. Beyond the lower hills to 
 the west loomed the shoulders of dim, blue mountains, 
 while looking south, down the shining river, beyond a 
 belt of woodland, the valley broadened out to the sunny 
 plain stretching to the horizon line. 
 
 The limpid clearness of the air, the fragrance of the 
 forest and the earth, the musical flow of the little river, 
 the wonderful brilliancy of the sky, with the vast uplift 
 of the mountains, gave a sense of wild perfection to the 
 
Night 261 
 
 ensemble. Such was Fraternia in the morning of its 
 second spring. 
 
 It was during that decade which saw the sudden 
 springing into life of so large a number of communistic 
 organizations and settlements throughout the country, 
 mainly in the south and west. Many of these experi- 
 ments were crude and obscure ; most of them were 
 shortlived. They were founded on widely different 
 social conceptions, ranging from those of unlimited 
 license and rank anarchism up to the high ideals of the 
 life of Christian brotherhood set forth in the early 
 church. 
 
 The latter was the foundation of John Gregory's 
 colony in Fraternia. Inflexible morality and blameless- 
 ness of Christian living were his cardinal laws. Built 
 upon them was the superstructure of economic and 
 social equality, of labour sharing, and of domestic sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 Thus far unusual promise attended the adventure, 
 and peace and good-will reigned in the little community. 
 
 Toward the upper end of the village half a dozen 
 men were at work around a circular excavation not 
 more than five or six feet in diameter, which had been 
 lined with irregular slabs and blocks of stone patched 
 together with clay. In blue overalls thickly bespattered 
 with red mud and the sticky clay, a man was working 
 on his knees at the edge of this basin. It was Keith 
 Burgess. Near him, measuring with rule and line and 
 marking out the width of the coping, stood the artist, 
 Pierce Everett. Their fellow-workmen were two Irish- 
 men — big, active fellows, with honest eyes' — and a wiry 
 little black-a-vised Jew, a quondam foreman in a New 
 York sweat-shop. He was mixing clay and laying the 
 
262 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 stone of the coping, while the Irishmen were at work 
 in an open trench through which ran the pipe which 
 was to conduct the water from a spring in the ravine 
 above into the new reservoir. 
 
 Emerging from the woods below the dam a little 
 crowd of children came straying up the valley, laughing 
 and shouting, and jumping gayly over the pools of red 
 mud in the road. Their hands were full of wild flow- 
 ers, — bloodroot, and anemones, and arbutus; their hair 
 was blown about in the wind ; their eyes were shining. 
 Among them, giving her hand to a little girl who 
 walked with a crutch, walked Anna Burgess, her face 
 as joyous as theirs, and a free, unhampered vigour and 
 grace in every line of her figure. She was the head 
 teacher in the village school, and was known to her 
 scholars, and, indeed, quite generally in the little com- 
 munity, as "Sister Benigna." 
 
 This name, " Benigna," which had come down in 
 Anna's family for generations, and had been given her 
 as a second name, had not been used for many years, 
 save by her mother, who still clung loyally to the full 
 " Anna Benigna." Who it was in Fraternia who had 
 revived the beautiful old Moravian name was not 
 known, but the use of it had been quickly established, 
 especially among the children and the foreign folk. 
 
 The habit of using " Brother " and " Sister " with the 
 given name in ordinary social intercourse was common, 
 although not universal, in Fraternia. Anna's assistants 
 in the school — a pale, little English governess, who had 
 apparently never known stronger food than tea and 
 bread until she came to Fraternia, and a rosy-cheeked 
 German kindergartner — were among the little flock, their 
 hands overflowing with wild flowers, and their faces 
 
Night 263 
 
 with the high delight the spring day brought them. It 
 was Saturday morning, and a holiday. 
 
 Suddenly there was a shout from some boys who 
 were foremost in the company, and they came scamper- 
 ing back to Anna exclaiming that the " fountain " was 
 almost finished, and, perhaps, the water would soon be 
 turned into it. By common consent the whole party 
 hastened on and soon encircled the workmen at the 
 basin with noisy questions and merry chatter. It was 
 to be so fine not to have to go up to the spring in the 
 ravine with pails and pitchers any more. Could they 
 surely have the water here for Sunday ? Then Fraulein 
 Frieda told them how the girls in her country came to 
 such fountains with their jugs, and carried them away 
 full on their heads. She showed them with a tin pail, 
 found lying in the clay, just how it was done, walking 
 away with firm, balanced step, the pail unsupported on 
 her pretty flaxen-haired head, on which the sun shone 
 dazzlingly. The little girls were greatly delighted, and 
 all declared they should learn to carry their water pots 
 home on their heads from the !?)uelle, as Fraulein Frieda 
 called it. 
 
 Anna stood at the edge of the basin, Keith at her 
 feet, on his knees, with the trowel in his hands, 
 smiling up at her, the little lame girl still at her side, 
 a trace of wistfulness in her eyes as she watched the 
 others. 
 
 " We will not carry our water pails on our heads, you 
 and I, will we, little Judith ? " Anna asked, kind and 
 motherly. " JVe want our brains to grow, and it might 
 crowd them down ; don't you think so ? " 
 
 The swarthy Jew looked up from the clay he was 
 mixing with quick, instinctive gratitude. Judith was 
 
264 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 his child. He grinned a broad and rather hideous grin, 
 and exclaimed in a broken dialect : — 
 
 " Das ist so, Kleine ; shust listen to our lady ! She 
 knows. She says it right." 
 
 Pierce Everett's dark eyes flashed with sudden enthu- 
 siasm. Turning to Anna he bowed profoundly and said 
 low to Keith, as well as to her : — 
 
 " There you have it ! Barnabas has found your title 
 — < our lady ' ! " 
 
 Anna looked into Everett's dark eager eyes with her 
 quiet smile, and was about to speak, when a sudden 
 noise of grating and rattling and horses' hoofs behind 
 them caused them all three to turn and look down the 
 river. A horse and stone drag were approaching rapidly, 
 driven by John Gregory, who stood on the drag, which 
 was loaded with big clean pebbles from the river-bed. 
 He wore a coarse grey flannel shirt, the collar turned 
 off" a little at the throat, and rough grey trousers 
 tucked into high rubber boots, which reached to the 
 thio-hs. The cloth cap on his head with its vizor bore 
 a certain resemblance to a helmet, and altogether the 
 likeness of the whole appearance to that of a Roman 
 warrior in his chariot did not escape the three friends 
 who watched its approach in the motley crowd around 
 the basin. 
 
 Gregory drove his drag close up to the edge of the 
 coping, now nearly laid, greeted the company with a 
 courteous removal of his hat and a cordial Good-morn- 
 ing, then discharged the load of pebbles in a glinting 
 heap on the soft red earth. 
 
 There was no conscious assumption of mastery or 
 direction in Gregory's manner, nothing could have been 
 simpler or more democratic than the impartial comradcry 
 
Night 265 
 
 with which he joined the others, nevertheless the sense 
 that the master was among them was instantly commu- 
 nicated throughout the little group. Up in the trench, 
 nearly to the base of the cliffs which marked the en- 
 trance to the ravine, one Irishman said to the other, in 
 a tone of satisfaction not unmixed with good-natured 
 sarcasm : — 
 
 " HimsilPs come now. The gintlemin masons will git 
 to rights or they'll lose their job, d'ye mind, Patrick ? " 
 
 " Oh, ay," said the other, " an' the same to yersilf, if 
 ye ivir noticed it." 
 
 There was a little silence even among the chattering 
 children as Gregory stooped by Everett's side, pulled up 
 with the ease of mighty muscle two or three stones, 
 took the trowel from Keith's hand and a hod of mortar 
 from the waiting Barnabas, and set the stones over on a 
 truer line, laughing the while with the men and turning 
 aside the edge of criticism with frank self-disparagement, 
 as being himself but a tyro. 
 
 A curious consequence of Gregory's appearance on 
 the scene after this sort, was the dwarfed effect of the 
 men around him, who suddenly seemed to have shrunk 
 in stature and proportions, and whose motions, beside 
 the virile force and confident freedom of his, appeared 
 incompetent and weak. 
 
 Anna had drawn back from her place near the basin's 
 edge. Gregory had not looked at her nor she at him 
 directly. In fact, they habitually, for some reason they 
 themselves could not define, avoided each other, and yet 
 could not avoid a piercing consciousness, when together, 
 of every look and word of the other. A sudden shyness 
 and subduing had fallen instantly upon Anna's bright 
 mood, and, while the others watched every look and 
 
166 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 motion of Gregory with almost breathless interest, she 
 stood apart and arranged little Judith's flowers with ap- 
 parent preoccupation. 
 
 Tossing the trowel back to Keith, with whom he 
 exchanged a few words of question, Gregory next has- 
 tened with long strides up the line of the trench to the 
 place where the Irishmen were at work. Here was a 
 primitive moss-grown trough, into which the water of 
 the spring had hitherto been conducted, and to which 
 all the people had been obliged to come for their supply 
 of drinking water. The new iron pipe already replaced 
 the rude wooden conduit which had done duty until 
 now, but the water still flowed into the trough, and 
 would do so until, the basin completed, the connection 
 might be made between the two sections of pipe. 
 
 Under Gregory's direction this was now effected, and 
 the water of the spring, if there was no flaw, should 
 now flow unimpeded into the basin below. To test the 
 basin, it was Gregory's purpose to make the experiment 
 at once. 
 
 Presently there was a shout, exulting and joyous, from 
 the company below. 
 
 " The water is here ! The water ! The water ! " 
 rose the cry into the stillness of the valley. The men 
 at work upon the bridge left their work, and hastened 
 to join the little crowd. 
 
 With strides even longer than before, Gregory came 
 down again, the Irishmen following him in a scram- 
 ble to keep up. Joy was in all their faces, and the 
 deepest joy of all in that of Gregory. They stood 
 together and watched the jet of water as it sprang from 
 the mouth of the pipe, turbid at first, but gradually 
 becoming clear and sparkling, and fell with a gentle, 
 
Night 267 
 
 musical plashing into the stone fountain. There was 
 complete silence for a little space, as they looked 
 intently at the increasing depth of the gathering pool, 
 and then, bringing down his hands with a will on the 
 shoulders of Keith and Everett, Gregory exclaimed : — 
 
 " Men, you have done well, all of you ! It holds, do 
 you see? It is tight as a ship. Hurrah ! " 
 
 They all joined in a great cheer, and then, swiftly 
 finding where she stood, or knowing, as he always 
 seemed to know, instinctively, Gregory's eyes sought 
 Anna Burgess. 
 
 "Will Sister Benigna come up here?" he asked 
 quietly, with the unhesitating steadiness of the man who 
 knows just what he means to do. 
 
 Anna came slowly forward, and stood on the new- 
 laid coping, by the side of Gregory, greatly wondering. 
 Just beyond her was Keith, side by side with Barnabas 
 Rosenblatt. Meanwhile, Gregory had taken from his 
 pocket a small folding drinking* cup of shining metal, 
 which he had held in the flow of the spring water until 
 it was thoroughly purified. Turning now to look at all 
 those who stood round about, he said : — 
 
 " Brothers, sisters, little children, this water is the 
 good gift of God. Let this fountain be now conse- 
 crated to all pure and holy uses. By the wish which I 
 believe to be in every one of you, let the first who shall 
 drink of this living water from the new fountain be our 
 Sister Benigna." 
 
 With these words Gregory filled the cup from the 
 sparkling outgush of the spring, the water so cold that 
 the polished cup was covered with frosty dimness, and 
 with simple seriousness handed it to Anna. Affection and 
 reverence were in the eyes of all the people as they 
 
268 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 watched her while with uncovered head, calm brow, 
 and the fine simplicity of unconsciousness she took the 
 cup and drank. But with the first touch of her lips to 
 the cup the hand in which she held it trembled ; and 
 when she drained the last drop, it trembled still. As 
 Anna stepped back, having drunk, into the ranks, Greg- 
 ory lifted his hand, and with the gesture which com- 
 mands devotion repeated the ancient words, — 
 
 " * O most high, almighty, good Lord God, to thee 
 belong praise, glory, honour, and all blessing ! 
 
 " ' Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and 
 for air and cloud, calms and all weather, by the which 
 thou upholdest in life all creatures. 
 
 " ' Praised be my Lord for our sister, water, who is 
 very serviceable unto us, and humble, and precious, and 
 clear.' " 
 
 Then with a deeper solemnity and significance in 
 face and voice, he continued : — 
 
 "'If thou knewest«the gift of God and who it is 
 that saith to thee, Give me to drink ; thou wouldest have 
 asked of him and he would have given thee living water.' 
 
 "'Jesus said, If any man thirst, let him come to me 
 and drink.' " 
 
 It was noon, and turning they all dispersed, each to 
 his own place, a deepened gladness in their faces. But 
 as for Anna Burgess, a dimness was upon her joy, a 
 thrilling undercurrent of dread and wonder which she 
 could not understand •, for she had drunk of the Cup 
 of Trembling — and knew it not. 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 We've toiled and failed ; we spake the word ; 
 
 None hearkened ; dumb we lie ; 
 Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread 
 
 Fell o'er the earth to die. 
 
 What's this ? For joy our hearts stand still, 
 
 And life is loved and dear, 
 The lost and found the cause hath crowned, 
 
 The Day of Days is here. 
 
 — William Morris. 
 
 The Burgesses had come to Fraternia in the preced- 
 ing December, although Keith had soon left again, 
 having still many business concerns to recall him to 
 Fulham. The house there was now closed, and the 
 life there for them presumably ended, and, late in Feb- 
 ruary, Keith had returned to Fraternia. 
 
 Anna had employed the months between their deci- 
 sion to join the cooperative colony and their actual 
 journey to the South, in taking a short course in nursing 
 in a Fulham hospital, reviving her old knowledge of the 
 subject, gained in her girlhood in Burlington. She had 
 it in mind to fit herself thus as thoroughly as the brief 
 interval allowed, for the duties of a trained nurse to the 
 little community, this being an occupation at once con- 
 genial to herself and important for the general good. 
 For uniformity of service was by no means according 
 to John Gregory's plan, and Gertrude Ingraham might 
 not have found herself shut up to the cotton mill even 
 if she had done so incredible a thing as to throw in her 
 
 269 
 
270 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 fortunes with Fraternia. All must labour, and all must 
 labour for the general good, — one of Gregory's prime 
 maxims being, If a man will not work, neither shall 
 he eat ; but as far as practicable that labour was to be 
 on the line of each person's best capacity, choice, and 
 development. Thus Keith Burgess's feat of stonelay- 
 ing had not been enforced, but self-chosen, as an expres- 
 sion of his good-will in the sharing the coarser labours of 
 the people. The work to which he had been assigned 
 by Gregory was clerical, not manual, being that of 
 secretary to the colony. 
 
 Anna, thus far, had had no opportunity for any especial 
 use of her vocation as nurse, the families of Fraternia 
 being remarkably healthy under the simple and whole- 
 some conditions of their life, and serious illness unknown 
 during that winter. Her trained and well-equipped 
 mind obviously fitted her for a work of intellectual rather 
 than industrial character, and the duties of teaching 
 the children of the colony five hours a day — the required 
 time of service for the women — were given to her by 
 common consent. 
 
 Neither at the time when she was chosen to this 
 service, nor at any other, had John Gregory directly 
 communicated his wishes to Anna or discussed his plans 
 with her; and yet, from the day of her arrival in Frater- 
 nia he had perhaps never formed a plan which was not 
 in some subtle manner shaped by unconscious reference 
 to her. In her own way, Anna's personality was hardly 
 less conspicuous than his; and these., two invisibly and 
 involuntarily modified each the other's action and de- 
 liberation as the orbits of two stars are influenced by 
 their mutual attraction and repulsion. 
 
 By the whole habit and choice of his life John Greg- 
 
Night 271 
 
 ory was a purist in morals and in his personal practice 
 of simplicity. The most frugal fare and the simplest 
 domestic appliances served his turn by preference, al- 
 though he had been born and bred in comparative lux- 
 ury. He was free and fraternal with men; gently 
 respectful to women, whom he yet never treated as if 
 they were superior to men by force of their weakness, 
 but rather as being on a basis of accepted equality ; 
 while to little children he always showed winning ten- 
 derness. Socially, however, he scrupulously avoided 
 intercourse with women, with a curious, undeviating 
 persistency which almost suggested ascetic withdrawal. 
 The other men of the colony, several of whom were 
 men of some social rank and mental culture, found it 
 pleasant to stop on the woodland paths or by the stream, 
 all the more in these soft spring days, and exchange 
 thought and word, light or grave, with the girls and 
 women, but never once had Gregory been seen to do 
 this, or to visit the households presided over by women 
 on any errand whatever. Whether a line of action 
 which thus inevitably separated him more and more 
 from the domestic life of the people, was pursued by 
 deliberate purpose or by the accident of personal incli- 
 nation was not clear, but certain it was that the fact 
 contributed to the distinction and separation which 
 seemed inevitably to belong to Gregory. With all 
 his simplicity of life and democratic brotherliness of 
 conversation, he lived and moved in Fraternia with 
 an effect of one on a wholly different plane from the 
 others, and with the full practical exercise of a dictator- 
 ship which no one resented because all regarded him 
 with a species of hero-worship as manifestly the master 
 of the situation. 
 
272 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 His residence was in one of the small cabins on the 
 western side of the river, to which the bridge gave con- 
 venient access. The other cabins served, one as a 
 rude, temporary library, the other as storehouse, while 
 the large barrack-like building furnished bachelor quarters 
 for the unmarried men. Gregory, since Everett's arri- 
 val, had shared his house with the artist. Their meals 
 were taken in common with the other men. No one 
 was in the habit of entering the house, Gregory having 
 a kind of office, agreeably furnished, at the cotton mill, 
 where he was usually to be found when not at work in 
 field or wood. This was, however, often the case, for 
 he never failed to discharge the daily quota of manual 
 labour which he had assigned himself; and it was notice- 
 able to all that if any task were of an offensive or difficult 
 nature, he was the one to assume it first and as a matter 
 of course. It was owing to this characteristic, perhaps 
 more than to any other, save his singular personal 
 ascendency, that the silent dictatorship of Gregory in 
 the little community was so cheerfully accepted. Nom- 
 inally the government of the village was in the hands 
 of a board of directors, with an inner executive com- 
 mittee, and of which Gregory was chairman. Several 
 women served on the larger board. Keith Burgess was 
 a director; Anna's name had not been proposed for the 
 office. There had been but one vacancy in the board 
 on their arrival, which was sufficient reason. The 
 councils of the directors were held weekly in Gregory's 
 office, and thus far a good degree of harmony prevailed. 
 
 Again it was Saturday morning. A week had passed 
 which had brought many days of heavy rain. The 
 river, swollen and yellow, dashed noisily down from the 
 gorge and filled its channel below with deep and urgent 
 
Night 2 y 3 
 
 current. On its turbid flood appeared from time to 
 time newly felled logs, floated down from the regions 
 above, where Fraternia men were at work, taking advan- 
 tage of the swollen river for conveying their lumber to 
 the sawmill. A west wind, the night before, had 
 blown the clouds before it, and this morning the sun 
 shone from an effulgent sky ; the wind had died to a 
 soft breeze laden with manifold fragrance ; and in place 
 of the chill of the north, the air possessed the indescrib- 
 able softness and balm of the southern spring. 
 
 It was again a busy morning in Fraternia, and every- 
 where, and in all the homely tasks, thrilled the unchecked 
 joy in simple existence of innocent hearts living out their 
 normal bent for mutual help and burden-sharing. In 
 the garden ground around their house, which was high 
 up the valley in a group of three others, one of which 
 contained the common kitchen and dining room for the 
 inmates of all, Anna Burgess was at work in her garden, 
 sowing and planting in the damp soil. Glancing down 
 the valley, she could see Everett hard at work with an- 
 other man, who had been an architect in Burlington, 
 erecting a little thatched pavilion, of original design' 
 graceful and rustic, to protect the new and precious 
 fountain from the sun, and keep its water clean and ser- 
 viceable. Across the river, in the library, Keith, she 
 knew, was at work at his bookkeeping, and also at the 
 task of collecting excerpts from the writings of social 
 economists for use in an address which he was prepar- 
 ing. A new mental activity had been stimulated in 
 Keith by the change of climate and conditions, and the 
 influx of new ideas ; and the ease and cheerfulness with 
 which he had adapted himself to the primitive habits of 
 pioneer life, would have amazed his friend Ward. 
 
274 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 Barnabas had been gathering one or two sizable 
 slabs of stone which had been left from the lining and 
 coping of the fountain, and Anna watched him a mo- 
 ment as, having loaded them into a wheelbarrow, he 
 proceeded to carry them down to the new bridge, and 
 so across to the west side of the river. She hardly 
 cared to wonder what he was about to do, being other- 
 wise absorbed, and her eyes did not follow him as he 
 wheeled his burden on up the knoll on which were the 
 library and the house of Gregory, set in their bit of pine 
 wood. 
 
 The door of Gregory's cabin stood open, as was cus- 
 tomary in Fraternia in mild weather. Barnabas dropped 
 the burden from his barrow just before the open door, 
 stood to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and then, 
 kneeling, began the self-imposed effort of placing the 
 stones together for a low step, which was yet lacking to 
 the rudely finished house. As he worked, he now and 
 then lifted his eyes and glanced into the interior of the 
 house which he had never entered. It had the walls 
 and ceiling of unplaned, uncovered boards of all the 
 Fraternia houses ; the floor was absolutely bare and 
 absolutely clean, damp in spots and redolent of soap 
 from recent scrubbing. The open windows let in the 
 sun-warmed, piney air, but the light was obscured, the 
 trees growing close to the house, and a dim gold-green 
 twilight reigned in the silent room. A door stood open 
 into the second room where two narrow iron beds came 
 within the field of vision. There was the ordinary 
 chimney, built of brick, of ample proportions, with a 
 pine shelf running across, and in the fireplace logs of fat 
 pine laid for a blaze in the evening, which was still sure 
 to be cool. Plain wooden arm-chairs stood near the 
 
Night 275 
 
 hearth ; an uncovered table of home manufacture, 
 clumsy and heavy, in the middle of the room, was 
 thickly strewn with books and papers and writing mate- 
 rials. It was the typical Fraternia interior, — bare, and 
 yet not comfortless, and with its own effect of simple 
 distinction, conveyed by absolute cleanness, order, and 
 the absence of the superfluous. 
 
 But it was none of these details which caught the eye 
 of Barnabas. Above the chimney there was fastened 
 by hidden screws close against the wall, so that it had 
 the effect of a panel, a picture, unframed, showing the 
 figure of a slender girl with uplifted head and solemn 
 eyes, set against an Oriental background. It was 
 Everett's study of the Girlhood of the Virgin, and 
 besides it there was no picture nor decoration of any 
 sort in the place. 
 
 Each time he lifted his eyes from the stones before 
 him to the picture whose high lights gleamed strangely 
 through the dimness of the room within, Barnabas was 
 more impressed with some elusive resemblance in the 
 face ; and at last, striking the stone with his hand, he 
 murmured to himself in his native tongue, "Now I 
 have it ! The damsel there is like our lady when she 
 prays." 
 
 Meanwhile the river ran between and thundered over 
 the dam below ; the red roofs gleamed warm in the sun, 
 and Anna, down on her knees like Barnabas, on a bit 
 of board, was tending her bulbs with loving hands, 
 while within her was springing a very rapture of poetic 
 joy. Almost for the first time in her life she was con- 
 scious of unalloyed happiness. Was it because the skv 
 was blue ? or because the vital flood of spring beat and 
 surged about her in the river, in the forest, in the air ? 
 
276 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Not wholly; nor even because under these kindly influ- 
 ences all the dormant poetic and creative instincts of her 
 nature were stirring into luxuriant blossoming, although 
 all these things filled her with throbbing delight. The 
 deeper root of her joy was in the satisfaction, so long 
 delayed, of her passion for brotherhood with lowly men 
 and poor ; the release from the constraint of artificial 
 conventions, and from the painful sense, which she could 
 never escape in the years of her Fulham life, that she 
 owed to every weary toiler who passed her on the street 
 an apology for her own leisure, her luxury and ease. 
 
 Suddenly Anna rose, and stood facing the west, her 
 eyes full of light. A voice within her had called and 
 said : — 
 
 u I can write poetry now, and I will ! " The fulness 
 of energy of joy and fulfilment in her spirit sought ex- 
 pression as naturally as the mountain spring sought its 
 outlet in the fountain below. 
 
 Just then her neighbour, in the house on the left, — it 
 was the dining-house, — put her head out of the window 
 and said, reflectively : — 
 
 " Say, Sister Benigna, I wish I knew how to get the 
 dinner up into the woods to the men-folks. It's half- 
 past eleven and time it went this minute, and Charley 
 has gone down to Spalding after the mail ; but I sup- 
 pose it's late or something. Anyway he ain't here, and 
 I've got the rest to wait on." 
 
 " Why, I could take the dinner pails up to them, 
 Sister Amanda," answered Anna, obligingly. The 
 " men-folks " alluded to were of her own group of fami- 
 lies and were felling lumber in the woods north of the 
 valley. 
 
 " You couldn't do it alone, but Fraulein Frieda, 
 
Night 277 
 
 she'd be tickled to death to go with you. There she 
 is now," and Sister Amanda flew to the cabin door 
 through which a neatly ordered dinner table could be 
 seen, and shouted down the slope to the young German 
 teacher who had just come over the bridge with some 
 books on her arm from the library. 
 
 A few moments later Anna sallied out from the house 
 with Frieda, both carrying well-stored dinner pails. 
 
 " No matter," said Anna, smiling at the sudden diver- 
 sion from her poetic inspiration ;" it is better to live 
 brotherhood than to sing brotherhood. But some day, 
 maybe, yet, I shall sing." 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement ! 
 He who smites the rock and spreads the water, 
 Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, 
 Even he, the minute makes immortal, 
 Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, 
 Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. 
 
 — Robert Browning. 
 
 Relays of men had been at work in the woods cloth- 
 ing the steep banks of the ravine above Fraternia for 
 three days, even while the rain was falling in torrents. 
 It was absolutely necessary to secure the lumber while 
 the river was of a depth to carry it down stream, and for 
 a time all other work was in abevance. 
 
 Gregory had worked steadily with the rest at the 
 wood cutting, but Keith had told Anna the night be- 
 fore that on Saturday morning he would be obliged to 
 go down to Spalding, the small town in the plain below 
 the valley, on urgent business concerning notes which 
 were coming due and must be extended if possible. 
 
 It was therefore with great surprise that Anna, as 
 they approached the spot where the men were at work, 
 heard Frieda exclaim : — 
 
 "There is the master himself; see, Sister Benigna ! " 
 
 They had had a merry scramble up the gorge, but a 
 hard one. The swollen stream had submerged the nar- 
 row path by which the ascent was commonly made, 
 and it was only by finding the footholds cut out by the 
 men with their axes in the earth of the dripping, slippery 
 bank above, that Anna and her companion had been 
 
 278 
 
Night 279 
 
 able to make their way on. Holding their pails with 
 one hand and clinging to overhanging branches or roots 
 of ferns and laurel with the other, shaking the splashes 
 of rain from the dripping leaves as they struck their 
 faces, the two had scrambled breathlessly forward ; and 
 now, at length, the welcome sound of the axe greeted 
 their ears, and they saw a little beyond, strewing the 
 underbrush, the new chips and shining splinters of 
 stripped bark which told that trees had recently been 
 felled. 
 
 Anna had just stopped to exclaim: — 
 
 "How good it smells, Frieda, — such a wild, pure 
 smell ! " and was laughing at her own choice of ad- 
 jectives, when Frieda had called her attention to John 
 Gregory. He was standing at no great distance from 
 them in the midst of the rapid, roaring creek where the 
 water reached nearly to the tops of his high boots, and, 
 with a strong pole in both hands, was directing the 
 course of the logs, which were eddying wildly about him 
 on the surface of the torrent, into the proper channel 
 which should carry them down stream. 
 
 Frieda's voice attracted his attention to their approach, 
 and without pause he strode through the water, leaped 
 up the bank and was promptly in the path, if it could be 
 called such, before them, holding out both hands to 
 relieve them of their burdens, and smiling a cordial 
 greeting. 
 
 Anna's cheeks wore a vivid flush. 
 
 " Then you did not go to Spalding ? " she asked, 
 seeking to quiet the confusion of her surprise and 
 the immoderate beating of her heart. Frieda, she 
 saw gratefully, was quite as excited ; it was so unusual 
 for Mr. Gregory to bestow attentions of this sort upon 
 
2.8o A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 them; it was not strange that one should be a little 
 stirred. 
 
 "No," he said, leading on in the now broadening 
 path, " I found I could send a letter by Charley, and 
 the men rather needed a long-legged fellow like myself 
 up here this morning. But I see that my doing this has 
 reacted unexpectedly upon you. Charley not being on 
 hand to bring the dinner, our ladies have had to take 
 his place," and Gregory turned toward them as he 
 spoke with regret and apology which were evidently 
 sincere. 
 
 " Are you very tired?" he asked simply, looking at 
 Frieda but speaking to Anna. 
 
 They both declared that it had been great fun and 
 they were not in the least tired ; and indeed the bright 
 bloom of their cheeks, and the laughter in their eyes, 
 and the elastic firmness of their steps were sufficient 
 reassurance. 
 
 " I think, Mr. Gregory," said Anna, quite at her ease 
 now, " that Fraternia women can never know anything 
 of that disease of civilization, nervous prostration. It 
 will become extinct in one spot at least." 
 
 " ' More honoured in the breach than the observance,' " 
 quoted Gregory, " we shall hail its loss." 
 
 Soon they reached a little clearing, where, the under- 
 brush trampled down, the rugged steepness of the bank 
 declining to a gentler slope, and the sun having found 
 full entrance by reason of the removal of the larger trees, 
 there was a possibility of finding a dry place to rest. 
 Here they were soon joined by half a dozen men, several 
 of whom had brought their dinner with them, and prep- 
 arations were made for a fire to heat the cofFee which 
 filled one of the pails brought by Anna and Frieda. The 
 
Night 281 
 
 other was solidly packed with sweet, wholesome brown 
 bread and butter and thick slices of meat. 
 
 The fat pine chips and splinters burned readily in 
 spite of the all-pervading dampness, and the coffee-pail, 
 suspended over this small camp-fire from a hastily impro- 
 vised tripod, was soon sending up a deliciously fragrant 
 steam. 
 
 The men treated the two women as if they had been 
 foreign princesses, covering a great tree-trunk with 
 their coats for a kind of throne for them, and serving 
 them with coffee in tin cups with much flourish of mock 
 ceremony. This part of the proceedings John Gregory 
 watched from a little distance, leaning against a tree, 
 a smile of quiet pleasure in his eyes. He refused the 
 coffee for himself, drinking always and only water, but 
 ate the bread and meat they handed him with hearty 
 relish and a vast appetite. 
 
 By a sort of inevitable gravitation, almost before the 
 meal was concluded, Frieda had strayed off into the 
 woods with Matt Taylor, son of Anna's neighbour, 
 whose devotion to her was one of the especial interests 
 for Fraternia folk that spring. A certain view from the 
 crest of the hill beyond the little clearing was by no 
 means to be missed. Then, one after the other, the men 
 took up their axes and returned to their work ; but John 
 Gregory kept his place, and still stood leaning against the 
 tree, facing Anna, the smouldering embers of the fire 
 between. 
 
 He had been speaking on a subject in which all had 
 been interested, — the prayer test advocated by Mr. 
 Tyndall, which had attracted the attention of the 
 scientific and religious world of that time. The men 
 had gone away reluctantly, leaving the conversation to 
 
282 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 these two. Heretofore Anna had hardly spoken, but 
 now with deepening seriousness she said : — 
 
 " I feel the crude, incredible impertinence of such a 
 test as this which Mr. Tyndall has proposed, and yet 
 it brings up very keenly to me my own attitude for 
 many years." 
 
 Gregory looked a question, but did not speak, and 
 Anna went on : — 
 
 " A good woman whom I once heard speak at Mrs. 
 Ingraham's in Burlington gave me an idea of prayer, 
 quite new to me then, but which I at least partially 
 accepted, and which has had its efFect on my inner life 
 ever since." 
 
 "It was — ?" 
 
 " That we were to pray to God for every small 
 material interest of life, and were to expect definite, 
 concrete, physical return. That if such was not our 
 experience it was because we were not dwelling near 
 God, and were out of harmony with him. This life of 
 answered prayer and perfect demonstrable union which 
 she described was called the ' higher life.'" 
 
 "What was your own experience ? " 
 
 " It has been a long experience of spiritual defeat. 
 I prayed for years for every temporal need, asked for 
 whatever I deeply desired, and — never — perhaps there 
 was one exception, but hardly more — received an 
 answer to my praying which I could fairly assume to be 
 such." 
 
 Anna's face was profoundly sad, as she spoke, with 
 the sense of the baffling disappointments of years. 
 
 " In the end what has been the efFect on you ? " 
 
 " I have ceased to pray at all, Mr. Gregory. I know 
 that sounds very harsh, perhaps very wrong, but I lost 
 
Night 283 
 
 the expectation of a response, and the constant defeat 
 and failure made me bitter and unbelieving. God seemed 
 only to mock my prayers, not to fulfil. It seemed to 
 me at last that I was dishonouring him by praying, and 
 that waiting in silence and patience was shown to be my 
 portion. Do you think that was sinful ? " 
 
 Anna raised her eyes timidly to Gregory's face with 
 this question, and met the repose and steady confidence 
 of it with a swift presentiment of comfort. 
 
 " No," he answered; "I think you were simply strug- 
 gling to release yourself from the meshes of the net 
 which a mercenary conception of prayer cannot fail to 
 throw over the soul. It was said of John Woolman, 
 and a holier man never lived, that he offered no prayers 
 for special personal favours. I believe the theory of 
 prayer of your Burlington friend not only mistaken, 
 but dangerous and misleading. Instead of such a habit 
 of mind as she described being a ' higher life,' I should 
 call it a lower one. The nearer the man comes to God, 
 the less he prays, not the more, for definite objective 
 things and externals ; the more he rests on the great 
 good will of God. Prayer was not designed for man to 
 use to conform a reluctant God to his will, to get things 
 given him, but to conform the man's own blind and 
 erring will to the divine. By this I do not mean to 
 say that no prayers for temporal objects are granted. 
 Many have been, but the soul that feeds itself on this 
 conception of prayer as a system of practical demand 
 and supply lives on husks." 
 
 " But there are many promises ? " Anna said with 
 hesitation. 
 
 " Yes," said Gregory, with the emphasis of sure con- 
 viction, crossing the space between them to stand 
 
284 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 directly before her, forgetting all his usual scruples; 
 " but you must interpret Scripture by Scripture, by the 
 whole tendency and purpose, not by isolated mottoes 
 which men like to drag out for spiritual decoration, 
 breaking off" short all their roots which reach down into 
 the solid rock of universal Truth ! Look at our Lord 
 himself — did he ask for l ease and rest and joys'? 
 It is only as we enter into his spirit that our prayers are 
 answered, and that almost means that we shall cease to 
 pray at all for personal benefits. He prayed, often, 
 whole nights together, but was it that he might win his 
 own cause with the people about him ? Was it not 
 rather for the multitudes upon whom he had compassion, 
 and that God the Father should be made manifest in 
 himself? Ah, Sister Benigna, few of us have sounded 
 the depths of this great subject of prayer. It is one of 
 the deepest things of God ; and, believe me, it is not 
 until we have cast out utterly the last shred of the notion 
 of childish coaxing of God to do what will please us, 
 that we can catch some small perception of its meaning. 
 But let me say just one thing more : you are too young 
 to count any prayer unanswered. At present you see 
 in part and interpret God's dealings only in part. At 
 the end of life your interpretation will be larger, calmer 
 than it is now. We ' change the cruel prayers we made,' 
 and even here live to praise God that they are broken 
 away ' in his broad, loving will.' " 
 
 Anna sat in silence, her eyes downcast, slowly passing 
 in review the nature of her own most ardent prayers and 
 the deep anguish and doubt of their non-fulfilment. 
 Not one, she saw, could bear the high test of likeness to 
 the mind of Christ, not one but had its admixture of 
 selfishness, not one but seemed poor and vain in this 
 
Night 285 
 
 new light. A nobler conception of the relation of her 
 soul to God seemed to dawn within her. She looked up 
 then, and saw upon Gregory's face that inner illumina- 
 tion which belongs to the religious genius. The look 
 of it smote her eyes as if with white and dazzling 
 light, and they fell as if it were impossible to bear it. 
 Then she rose, and they stood for a moment alone and 
 in silence, while a sense of measureless content over- 
 flowed Anna's spirit, and for an instant made time and 
 space and human relations as if they were not. So strong 
 upon her was the sense of uplift from the contact with 
 the spirit of Gregory. She hardly knew at first that the 
 incredible had happened. John Gregory had taken her 
 hand in his, with reverent gentleness, for some seconds. 
 He was asking her if he had been able to help her in 
 any wise, and asking it as if he cared very much. She 
 said " yes," quite simply, and turned to go. Frieda 
 was coming back, and they were lingering over long. 
 Slowly they descended the rugged path before them, for 
 a strange trepidation had come over Anna, — a vague, 
 new, disturbing joy. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 What went ye out into the wilderness for to see ? . . . A man clothed in 
 soft raiment ? Behold, they which are gorgeously apparelled, and live delicately, 
 are in kings' courts. — St. Luke's Gospel. 
 
 Instead of the masterly good humour, and sense of power, and fertility of re- 
 source in himself; instead of those strong and learned hands, those piercing and 
 learned eyes, that supple body, and that mighty and prevailing heart, which the 
 father had, whom nature loved and feared, whom snow and rain, water and land, 
 beast and fish, seemed all to know and to serve, we have now a puny, protected 
 person, guarded by walls and curtains, stoves and down-beds, coaches, and men- 
 servants and women-servants from the earth and the sky. — R. W. Emerson. 
 
 The spring passed in Fraternia, and the summer. 
 Not again did John Gregory and Anna come into direct 
 personal communication. They went indeed their sev- 
 eral ways with a steadier avoidance of this than before, 
 from an undefined, but instinctive, sense of danger. 
 Nevertheless, the fact that they breathed the same air 
 and shared the same lot in life sufficed to yield in the 
 heart of each an unfailing spring of contentment ; while 
 now and again it would happen that Anna, in her school- 
 room or cottage, and Gregory, at his work, lifting their 
 eyes at a footstep or a shadow, would be aware that the 
 other had drawn near and passed by, and contentment 
 would give place to nameless joy. 
 
 The poetic impulse which Anna had inherited from 
 both parents, but the expression of which had been 
 stifled bv the deadening of her high desires which life in 
 Fulham had brought, now developed unchecked. Many 
 influences promoted this development : her clear child- 
 delight in the rich life of nature about her, the release 
 
 286 
 
Night 287 
 
 of her long-cabined spiritual energy, and the stimulation 
 of her powers of discernment and interpretation by con- 
 tact with the strong intellectual power of Gregory. 
 
 Gregory was, in the simple system of life in Fraternia, 
 at once prophet, priest, and king; and his most potent 
 influence over the people was manifest in the Sunday 
 services and in the evening lectures which, for lack of 
 a church, were held in a large empty room on the upper 
 floor of the cotton mill. Anna found in these sermons 
 and lectures the strongest intellectual and spiritual food 
 upon which she had ever fared, and throve apace, having 
 good faculty of assimilation. The verses which she 
 wrote at intervals from a sudden and almost irresistible 
 impulsion were always, when completed, turned over to 
 her husband. Proud and pleased at this new gift of 
 Anna's, it was Keith's habit to take them straightway to 
 Gregory. Anna never knew this. She knew, however, 
 that her poetry found its way into print, and now and 
 then, she found, into the hearts of sincere people. This 
 was new food for unaffected gladness, and she was 
 glad. 
 
 The summer, although its fierce continuous heat had 
 been hard to bear, was yet the season par excellence for 
 Fraternia, and peace and plenty reigned in the valley. 
 But with the autumn came a change, gradual at first, but 
 later strongly accented. The wholesome occupations of 
 the spring and summer came, of necessity, to a stand- 
 still. There was now little vent for the energy and 
 working force of the people, while the scant resources 
 of the narrow valley offered nothing to counteract a dull 
 ennui which settled like a palpable cloud upon them. It 
 had been a bad year for all their crops ; the cotton crop 
 had been a total failure, and the mill was shut down. 
 
288 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 This threw nearly fifty of the little community into en- 
 forced idleness, and a smouldering resentment was bred 
 by the discovery that there had never been a profit, but 
 rather a sustained loss, on the output of the mill by rea- 
 son of Gregory's scruple against selling at any advance 
 beyond the bare cost of production. This principle 
 might have a fine and lofty sound from the lips of an 
 orator, speaking on broad, general lines ; but the hard 
 business sense of average men and women rebelled 
 against the concrete results of its application to their 
 own isolated case. 
 
 " If other people did the same, it might work. For 
 one manufactory alone to attempt it is simply commer- 
 cial suicide," they said to each other, and with justice. 
 
 It became known, moreover, throughout the com- 
 munity, that a heavy mortgage had been placed on the 
 land, held by a rich cotton planter in South Carolina, 
 and that a wide chasm yet intervened between their 
 present condition and that of self-support. A more 
 serious disappointment and a more immediate difficulty, 
 however, lay in the inadequacy of their food products 
 to the needs of the people, and the consequent demand 
 for ready money wherewith to buy the necessities of life. 
 
 The fare, hitherto of the simplest, was gradually made 
 coarser and less palatable, since better could not be. 
 Winter was coming on ; open-air life had become im- 
 possible ; fierce winds coming down through the gorge 
 swept the valley, and scattered the foliage of the forest, 
 while a grey and sullen sky hung over, and every day 
 brought chilly rains. There was some sickness, of a 
 mild nature, but it emphasized the discomfort and in- 
 conveniences of the homes. The prospect for the com- 
 ing months in Fraternia grew grim. The enthusiasm 
 
Night 2 8 9 
 
 of novelty had tided the little community over the two 
 preceding winters, but some stronger upholding must 
 evidently now be interposed; for the people openly mur- 
 mured, and began to say to each other sullenly, as once 
 another company, « Were we brought out into this wil- 
 derness to die ? As for this food, our soul loathes it." 
 
 Keenly conscious of the criticism of which he was 
 now the subject, Gregory withdrew proudly more and 
 more within himself, and touched less and less familiarly 
 the life of those about him. It was well known that he 
 deprived himself of all better fare than coarse bread and 
 the water from the spring, that he had unhesitatingly 
 devoted his last dollar to the enterprise so near his heart, 
 and the patience and courage of the man were unfailing. 
 But what of that ? It was his own enterprise, with 
 which he must stand or fall. Why should he not risk 
 everything and bear everything ? For the rest it was 
 different. They, too, had given their money, and 
 they had left their ceiled houses and their goodly flesh- 
 pots and their pleasant social commerce to further his 
 project ! They at least expected Christian food ! 
 
 Crossing the bridge from the library, on a raw after- 
 noon late in November, Anna Burgess met a woman of 
 her own age, a woman of cheerful, sensible tempera- 
 ment and habit, the wife of the architect, whom she had 
 known in Burlington. The husband, George Hanson, 
 had surrendered with unconditional devotion to Greg- 
 ory's teaching, and the wife, in loyal sympathy, although 
 herself by no means an idealist, had gathered her little 
 brood of children and a few household treasures together, 
 and had come to Fraternia with him. 
 
 As she approached the bridge, Mrs. Hanson, holding 
 up her wet skirts with both hands, cried to Anna: 
 
 u 
 
290 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Oh, how I hate this red mud ! Don't you ? It 
 seems to me I could stand it better if it were not this 
 horrid colour. One can never get away from it, or lose 
 sight of it." 
 
 Anna, who thus far, with only a few others, still kept 
 heart and courage unbroken through this gloomy season, 
 replied cheerfully that she rather liked the colour. 
 
 Mrs. Hanson gave a mournful sigh. 
 
 "You like Fraternia anyway, don't you, Sister Be- 
 nigna ? You always did ? " 
 
 Anna smiled at the naivete of the question, and as- 
 sented. 
 
 " I must like what I have chosen above all other 
 things." 
 
 " Well, I confess I never did like it, and I never shall. 
 Oh, it will do very well for a summer vacation if one 
 could be sure of getting safe home at the end. But as 
 for a life like this ! and when it comes to bringing up 
 children here ! — " and Mrs. Hanson's voice broke into 
 a suppressed sob. 
 
 " I am sorry," said Anna, gently. 
 
 " Oh, Sister Benigna ! " cried the other, letting loose 
 the floodgates of her tears, while they still stood on the 
 bridge in the piercing rain, " I never was so homesick 
 in my life ! When I hear my children asking if they 
 are not going home to see grandma pretty soon, it just 
 breaks my heart. They have no appetite for this hard 
 meat and coarse bread, and they look so white and thin, 
 and plead so for a good old-fashioned turkey dinner ! 
 I have a little money of my own, and I would spend 
 every cent of it for better food for them, but Mr. Han- 
 son, he says that would be unjust to the rest who can- 
 not have such things, and that all must share alike. He 
 
Night 29I 
 
 says it would cost a hundred dollars to give one such 
 dinner as the children want to the whole village." 
 
 " I suppose that is true," said Anna, seriously ; « and 
 then it would only be harder to come back " 
 
 "To prison fare," Mrs. Hanson interjected with 
 unconcealed bitterness. "Well, all I have to say is 
 that, if this is cooperation, I've had all I want of it. As 
 for ' the brotherhood of man,' I wish I may never hear 
 of it again as long as I live ! I believe we have some 
 duties to ourselves." 
 
 With this she passed slowly on, and Anna hastened 
 homeward, a deep pang in her heart. 
 
 Entering her own house, she found Keith, pale and 
 dispirited, leaning with outstretched hands over the fire 
 in an attitude unpleasantly suggestive of decrepitude and 
 want. He looked up as Anna came in, and smiled 
 faintly. 
 
 " I think I have taken a fresh cold," he said hoarsely ; 
 
 " this climate is lovely half the year, but the other half " 
 
 and he left the sentence unfinished, coughing sharply. 
 
 Anna sat down by the hearth and removed her mud- 
 sodden shoes, afterward hastening to prepare such scanty 
 remedies for Keith as the cabin afforded. There was a 
 dispensary down at the mill. She would go down for 
 medicine as soon as she had made him comfortable. 
 On the surface of her mind lay the habit of sympathy 
 and care for her husband's fragile health, but in the 
 depth below was a sense she could not have formulated 
 to herself of resentment at his lack of courage and forti- 
 tude. For Keith, although too finely courteous to share 
 in the open murmuring of the people, was himself in 
 the full swing of reaction from the comparative enthusi- 
 asm which he had felt six months ago. The fall weather 
 
292 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 had brought on ague, which, added to his chronic physi- 
 cal weakness^ made him altogether wretched ; and while 
 he punctiliously avoided contributing to the public dis- 
 content, Anna perceived and understood perfectly his 
 weariness with the enterprise. For the first time in 
 their married life his patience and sweetness of temper 
 failed ; he had grown irritable, and fretted at small in- 
 conveniences in a way which chafed Anna's hardier 
 spirit indescribably. 
 
 " I am very sorry, Keith, you are so miserable to- 
 day," Anna said now, with half-mechanical commisera- 
 tion. It chanced that, as she had come on her way 
 home from the little conversation with Mrs. Hanson, 
 a new sympathy had taken possession of her for the 
 lonely man upon whom fell the full burden of all this 
 reaction, but who bore it with such unflinching patience, 
 albeit so silently. Almost inevitably, her mind being 
 thus absorbed, the sympathy with Keith in his familiar 
 ailments and complaints was rendered perfunctory for the 
 time, and by comparison his weakness wore to her some 
 complexion of unmanliness. 
 
 Perhaps Keith discerned a shade of coldness in her 
 tone, and was stirred by it. 
 
 " I am sure I do not know," he said with significant 
 emphasis, " how long I can stand this condition of 
 things. You must see, Anna, that I am losing ground 
 from day to day. Look at my hands ! " and he held 
 out his left hand to her, clammy and cold, for all the 
 yellow blaze, wasted and thin even to emaciation. 
 
 Anna took the hand in hers, and caressed it with 
 womanly gentleness, murmuring that it was too bad, 
 and something must be done ; he certainly was not prop- 
 erly nourished. 
 
Night 293 
 
 " Why, Anna," the poor fellow cried, warmed by her 
 compassion, "I would give all my 'incomes from dream- 
 land,' all the fine-spun theories of economic religion and 
 social salvation that Gregory or any other idealist ever 
 dreamed of, to be for just one day in our own dear old 
 library, warmed all through, floor warm, walls warm — 
 everything, you know ; to see you, beautifully dressed 
 again, at your own table, with its silver and damask; to 
 have the service we always had ; and once, just once, 
 Anna — to have all the hot water I want for a bath ! " 
 
 Anna smiled, but forebore to speak. The echo of 
 Mrs. Hanson's wail was almost too much for her, and 
 yet she pitied and understood. Pioneers must be made 
 of sterner stuff, that was all ; men who, like Emerson's 
 genius, should " learn to eat their meals standing, and to 
 relish the taste of fair water and black bread." Were 
 there such men ? She knew one. She almost began to 
 doubt if there were any more. A few moments later 
 she brought Keith a tray containing tea and toast, served 
 with such little elegance as was possible, and with the 
 daintiness of shining linen and silver. 
 
 " We must find a way for you to spend the winter 
 in a different climate," she said, as she stood beside him. 
 She spoke very kindly, but with the inward sense of con- 
 cession as of the stronger to the weaker. u You cer- 
 tainly cannot remain here if this ague continues." 
 
 Keith watched her gratefully, as she prepared to go 
 out again, sure of some effective help when her strong 
 determination was enlisted. The last six months had 
 revealed his wife to him as six years had not done 
 before. As she was about leaving, he said thought- 
 fully : — 
 
 " Anna, I am not the only one to be anxious about. 
 
294 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Perhaps you do not know it fully, but the whole scheme 
 of Fraternia is on the edge of collapse." 
 
 " How do you mean, dear ? " she asked, alarmed. 
 
 " Through lack of funds. He says very little, but I 
 can see that Gregory has practically reached the end of 
 his resources and expectations." 
 
 Anna's face showed her great concern. 
 
 " I did not know it was so bad," she answered. 
 "Oh, Keith, would you not be willing to help out a 
 little more ? I know you have been wonderfully gen- 
 erous, but some one must come up to the point of real 
 sacrifice and save the day. You could sell the Mill 
 Street property, you know ? " and the timid tone of her 
 final question contrasted strangely with that in which 
 she had begun speaking. 
 
 It was the expression of Keith's face which had 
 dashed Anna's confidence. She had never seen him 
 look so much like his mother as when he replied. 
 
 " No, my dear, I shall have to stand my ground," he 
 said, " and abide by the terms I first proposed. My 
 mother's estate is not to be sacrificed for this doubtful 
 experiment. More than ever before I feel the prob- 
 lematic nature of Gregory's scheme. We must provide 
 for our own future as well as for his present crisis." 
 
 It was hard, Anna felt, as she started out again alone 
 into the wind and rain, not to reflect that, perhaps, the 
 sooner the experiment proved a failure the better Keith 
 would be satisfied. She struggled against a rising sense 
 of anger which the separation of their interest from 
 Gregory's gave her, at the characteristic caution, the 
 irritating prudence, the old familiar inflexibility, so like 
 his mother. Keith's decision chafed her all the more 
 because something warned her, in her own despite, that 
 
Ni g ht 295 
 
 he was after all justified in it. But the contrast between 
 his softness of yielding toward his own desires for lux- 
 ury, and the hardness of his withholding from the bare 
 needs of another, came just then into unfortunate juxta- 
 position. 
 
 The attitude of Keith toward Gregory was complex 
 and peculiar. When in the immediate presence of this 
 man he was brought under his personal influence to a 
 degree which even Anna often found surprising. Greg- 
 ory's intensely masculine and forceful nature appeared 
 to exert an almost irresistible control over the youna er 
 man so long as they were together. As soon, however 
 as Keith was removed from that immediate influence' 
 he reverted at once to an attitude not only critical 
 toward Gregory, but at times, and as if instinctively 
 antagonistic. J 
 
 Anna went on her way down the valley to the cot- 
 ton mill with a sore and heavy heart. On other days 
 she could rejoice even in a leaden sky, in the muddy, 
 sullen stream, in the stripped branches of the forest ; but 
 to-night, for twilight was falling now, all seemed clothed 
 in that oppressive ugliness of Tennyson's picture: — 
 
 " When the rotten woodland drips, 
 And the leaf is stamped in clay." 
 
 Reaching the mill, dark and silent otherwise, she noted 
 a light in Gregory's office and the sound of voices but 
 the door was closed. She passed through the corridor 
 to the small room beyond which was used as a dispen- 
 sary. Pushing open the door she found the room empty • 
 the young man whose charge it was seemed to have' 
 betaken himself otherwhere over early. However 
 Anna's knowledge of drugs was not inconsiderable, and 
 
296 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 in this case she knew precisely what Keith needed 
 and where to find it. So she proceeded without delay 
 to place on the small polished counter which stretched 
 across the narrow room, the necessary ingredients for 
 a certain powder, and then carefully mixed these in the 
 proportion called for bv her simple prescription. While 
 she was thus occupied she noticed with a sense of dis- 
 comfort that the voices in the office, only divided from 
 her now by a thin partition, grew louder and took on a 
 disagreeable quality. Presently the door of the office 
 was opened, and some one hastened from the building 
 in evident impatience, leaving the door wide open. 
 There was complete silence for a moment, and then 
 Anna heard John Gregory speak. She could not fail 
 to hear every word, although his voice was not raised, 
 and its wonted quietness and courtesy were unchanged. 
 
 " You will bear me witness, nevertheless, Mr. Han- 
 son," he said, " that I never promised an easy life for 
 those who came with me to Fraternia. I declared 
 plainly that simplicity and poverty and roughness were 
 to be accepted as necessary conditions." 
 
 " That is all very well," a voice replied, which Anna 
 recognized as that of the Burlington architect, whose 
 wife had evidently been working upon him ; " but 
 when simplicity means starvation for delicate women 
 and children, and poverty begins to look like bank- 
 ruptcy, the situation strikes me as pretty serious. All 
 I have to say is," and the man's voice rose to a pitch 
 of high excitement, " you are the dictator here, and 
 you are responsible ; you've got us into this scrape, Mr. 
 Gregory, by working upon our emotions, and all that, 
 and now you've got to get us out of it, somehow ! " and 
 with these words Anna heard the speaker leave the 
 
Night 297 
 
 office with rapid steps, and a moment after the outer 
 door of the mill closed upon him. 
 
 Anna had dropped the powders which she was divid- 
 ing now into their papers, and had started to go to the 
 door and close it that she might hear no more; but 
 before she could do this a step in the corridor which 
 she knew sent her back to her place with a beating 
 heart, and in another instant John Gregory stood in 
 the doorway. 
 
 Anna had never seen his face changed by any mental 
 agitation, nor was it now, save for a touch of weariness 
 and an unwonted pallor. There was a deep, sunk glow 
 in his eyes, which, together with the careless sweep of 
 the grey hair flung off his forehead, recalled with pecul- 
 iar emphasis the leonine effect Anna had often noticed. 
 The habitual grave composure of his manner was in no 
 way disturbed ; and although he could not have known 
 of her presence in the dispensary, it did not seem to 
 cause him surprise. 
 
 "Is some one ill at your house?" he asked with 
 evident concern but characteristic abruptness. He was 
 one of those few persons who do not find it necessary 
 to explain what is self-evident. 
 
 " Mr. Burgess is not very well," Anna replied, hesi- 
 tating somewhat, unwilling to strike another dart into 
 the soreness of his spirit, which she felt distinctly, for 
 all his outward firmness. 
 
 "I fear," Gregory said thoughtfully, "that Mr. Bur- 
 gess ought not to remain in Fraternia this winter. I am 
 very much afraid that his health will suffer. Both of 
 you deserve a little change," he continued, with a slight 
 smile, the pathos of which Anna felt sharply. « Fraternia 
 is not so pleasant at this time of year. Why do you 
 
298 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 not go North for a few months ? You would come back 
 to us ill the spring — perhaps? " 
 
 The apparent carelessness which he wished to convey 
 to this question contrasted strangely with the piercing 
 anxiety oi the look with which Gregory's eyes searched 
 Anna's face. She understood the instinctive desire to 
 forestall another attack, to take for granted an impend- 
 ing blow. 
 
 Quietly working at her powders, laughing a little, by 
 sheer effort of will, since tears were near the surface, she 
 replied : — 
 
 " I could not be spared, Mr. Gregory, this winter. I 
 see you are a little disposed to undervalue my services. 
 There are several cases of sickness now, and I am vain 
 enough to think I am needed. Besides, you know, I 
 love Fraternia. I do not want to go away from home." 
 
 The minor arts of coquetry were all unknown and 
 foreign to Anna, but the genius of her woman's nature 
 and intuition was thrown into the last sentence with 
 full effect. 
 
 The strong spirit of Gregory, which could meet the 
 assaults and buffets of reproach and detraction without 
 shrinking, and which would have rejected express sym- 
 pathy, was mastered for a minute by the delicate com- 
 prehension and implied fidelity of Anna's words. 
 
 She knew better than to see the momentary suspicion 
 of dimness in his eyes, or to note the silence which for 
 a little space he did not care to break. When at last 
 he spoke, it was to ask, in a wholly matter-of-fact 
 manner : — 
 
 " Have I not heard that Mr. Burgess was a particu- 
 larly successful public speaker ? " Anna looked up 
 quickly then. 
 
Night 299 
 
 " You may have heard it, for I am sure it is true," 
 she said. Another pause for reflection, and then Greg- 
 ory said : — 
 
 "It is becoming urgently necessary that the purpose 
 and future of Fraternia should be promoted by some 
 one capable of going about, particularly in the cities, 
 and presenting our aims publicly — before audiences of 
 people." 
 
 Anna had gathered up her powders now and put 
 them in her pocket and stood ready to go but she 
 stopped, and her face kindled with swift recognition 
 and welcome of the thought in Gregory's mind. 
 
 "And you have thought that A4r. Burgess might do 
 this, and so still serve the cause and yet do it for a 
 while under easier conditions ? " she exclaimed. " Mr. 
 Gregory, I cannot tell you how glad I should be if this 
 plan could be carried out. I am really a little anxious 
 about my husband. I am sure this would work well for 
 every one, and it might solve several problems at once." 
 
 He smiled, a little sadly, at her confident eagerness, 
 said they must consider it seriously, and then stood 
 aside to let her pass out and go home. It was not 
 necessary for him to say, as he bade her good night, that 
 he wished it were expedient for him to walk home with 
 her. She understood his theory of what was wise for 
 himself in such matters. She approved it. Neverthe- 
 less, she found it hard to leave him alone just then in 
 the deserted mill. Half-way back she met Everett, 
 plodding through the mud, with his hands in his pockets, 
 and whistling, to keep his spirits up, she fancied. 
 
 " Be extra good to Mr. Gregory to-night," she said, 
 womanlike, unable to resist the longing to help, as he 
 paused a moment. 
 
300 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Why ? " he asked, frowning ; " have they been at 
 him again ? " 
 
 Anna nodded and passed on, afraid to say more. 
 
 "Fools!" he murmured between his teeth, and 
 plunged on against the wind. 
 
 But Anna went home with a beatific vision to soothe 
 her spirit, of Keith comfortable at last in a good hotel, 
 with menus and waiters, bells and bathrooms, in an 
 infinite series. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 " Lo, fcol," he said, "ye talk 
 Fool's treason ; is the king thy brother fool ? " 
 Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill' d, 
 " Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools ! 
 Conceits himself as God that he can make 
 Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk 
 From burning spurge, honey from hornet combs, 
 And men from beasts — Long live the King of fools ! " 
 
 — Tennyson. 
 
 But yours the cold heart and the murderous tongue, 
 The wintry soul that hates to hear a song, 
 The close-shut fist, the mean and measuring eye, 
 
 And all the little poisoned ways of wrong. 
 
 — The Rubaiyat. 
 
 Everett had improvised a studio in a low loft over 
 the bachelors' quarters, contiguous to the cabin which he 
 and Gregory shared. 
 
 It was necessary, he said, for him to get down to 
 hard work now. That hedging and ditching nonsense 
 was great sport for a man's holidays, but he had no 
 more time to play ; he must paint. The work he had 
 produced in Fulham had not been, often, especially sal- 
 able or popular in its character, a certain mystic quality 
 pervading it not readily understood by casual observers. 
 All that, he declared, was now to be rigidly excluded 
 from his painting ; he should paint to sell — cheap, pretty 
 things, picturesque, palpable. With this purpose he 
 had set to work with a will, and by February had a few 
 hundred dollars to turn over to the treasury as the fruit 
 
 301 
 
3<D2 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 of his industry. His pictures were sold in the North 
 through Keith Burgess as intermediary. 
 
 He was hard at work in the studio at nine o'clock on 
 a night in February, laying in the outline for a bit of the 
 valley which he declared he could paint now with his 
 eyes shut, he had done it so often, having found it " a 
 good seller," when he heard Gregory's step on the stairs. 
 That the boy had just brought the mail up from Spald- 
 ing Everett knew, having heard the horse galloping over 
 the bridge, and stopping before the house. 
 
 Gregory came in now with several letters in his hand, 
 one open. He did not speak at first, and Everett let 
 him walk up and down the place undisturbed, seeing 
 that he was peculiarly perplexed, probably by the open 
 letter, which Everett noticed was in Keith Burgess's 
 handwriting. After a few moments he remarked slowly, 
 but with an unusually incisive quality in his tone : — 
 
 " Burgess is a singularly prudent little man. Did it 
 ever strike you so ? " 
 
 " He has some capacity, however, for the opposite 
 quality." Everett threw out this remark with no mani- 
 festation of especial interest, and it seemed to pass unno- 
 ticed. 
 
 " Having it in his power," Gregory continued, with 
 the same incisive deliberation, " to extricate us from our 
 whole present difficulty himself, with the utmost ease, 
 he yet jogs about the country after a comfortable fash- 
 ion, presenting the subject publicly as occasion ofFers, 
 and sends me back such letters as this." 
 
 Lifting the sheet in his hand, Gregory read from it : — 
 
 " I held a meeting last night in Grand Rapids, to 
 which I have been working up carefully for over a week 
 through the press, etc. The attendance was fair, and 
 
Night J03 
 
 the people listened well. I regret , however, to be 
 obliged to report that the practical results of the meet- 
 ing were not all that we could have wished-" and 
 dropping the letter, Gregory added : — 
 
 "And so on, copiously, through nearly four pages of 
 matchless amb.guity and polite phrases, which could all 
 have been condensed to the usual sum total of his re- 
 ports ; thus far, nothing ! " 
 
 "Still, Mr. Gregory, we must remember that he did 
 pretty well for the first few weeks." 
 
 'Yes," said Gregory, nodding a short assent, "while 
 he was covering the field which was readv for harvest - 
 seeing the men already committed to the cause We 
 can evidently expect nothing more from him. ' What 
 Kind of a speaker is he, Everett ? " 
 
 "Good really very good as a special pleader. He 
 had very fair success when he was missionary secretary " 
 I wonder at it," murmured Gregory,- « a miJd 
 prudent little man like that with his perpetual fears and' 
 scruples; I cannot fancy his ever letting himself go " 
 
 Everett, unwontedly sober and silent, worked' on 
 Gregory paced the room for a little while. He wanted 
 to ask Everett how Keith's marriage with a woman like 
 Anna could ever have come about, but he could no' 
 bring himself to frame the question, and presently left 
 the studio. } 
 
 Hanging about the door below, Gregory found Barna- 
 ba Rosenblatt, apparently waiting to speak with him. 
 Hello! said Gregory, not unkindly, but shortly. 
 Do you want me ? " y 
 
 "Well shust a minit, if Herr Gregory vas not too 
 busy, and the little ] GW shuffled along by Gregory's 
 side until they reached the door of the cabin 
 
304 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Gregory brought his visitor in and gave him a chair, 
 then stirred up a smouldering fire and threw on a piece 
 of pine, which, flaring up into a sudden blaze, made 
 other light unnecessary. The reflection of the yellow 
 flames played weirdly over the walls, and Barnabas 
 seemed unable to withdraw his eyes from the picture 
 above the chimney. 
 
 " Our lady," he said simply, nodding across at Greg- 
 ory, and closing his eyes impressively. 
 
 "Well, Barnabas, what is it you want?" asked his host. 
 
 " It's our lady," said Barnabas, sniffing quite vigor- 
 ously, "das is it. How she fall ofF! " and he shook 
 his head with a slow, mournful motion. 
 
 " Fall ofF what ? I do not understand, Barnabas. 
 You are speaking of Sister Benigna ? " Gregory's face 
 changed. 
 
 "So — so — " and the little man nodded emphati- 
 cally. "She's got awful poor ! Oh, my ! Her bones 
 comes right through zu next. My Klcine, she say our 
 lady don't eat notin's, shust only leetle, leetle milk, an' 
 work, work, work, like a holy angel everywheres at one 
 time, up an' down the valley ; sick folks an' well folks, 
 all derselbe. Light come all place she come ! " and 
 Barnabas relapsed into meditative silence, having found 
 his vocabulary hard tested by this prolonged statement. 
 
 " Do you mean that Sister Benigna is sick ? " asked 
 Gregory, with slight sharpness. 
 
 " Ja, ja, Herr Gregory ; she has went home sick 
 heut' abend from the sew class down to der mill. 
 When she go, all go. Fraternia ohne Sister Benigna," 
 and the little man drew his shoulders quite up to his 
 ears in a characteristic shrug strongly expressive of a 
 thing unthinkable. 
 
Night 305 
 
 Gregory rose, Barnabas following his example. 
 
 "I will go over and inquire," he said, taking his hat, 
 and they left the house at once. 
 
 The night was cold, a light fall of snow lay over the 
 valley, and the stars glittered from a frosty sky. 
 
 When they reached the neighbourhood of Anna's cot- 
 tage Gregory sent Barnabas up to the door, while he 
 waited at a little distance. In a few moments Frieda, 
 who now shared Anna's cabin, joined him, while Barna- 
 bas, with the action of a waiting watch-dog, humble, 
 and yet with a due sense of responsibility, hung about 
 near by. Frieda's account was reassuring, as far as 
 immediate solicitude for Anna was concerned ; she had 
 come home ill from the afternoon sewing class, and had 
 a chill, headache, and fever. She was resting now, and 
 would doubtless be up again in a day or two. 
 
 " Nothing can keep her down, Mr. Gregory," Frieda 
 said in conclusion. " I am not frightened just now, but 
 we all see plainly that Sister Benigna is killing herself 
 by inches. She eats hardly anything, and yet works as 
 if there were no limit to her strength. Sometimes I 
 think she is just laying down her very life for us here in 
 Fraternia, and we're not worth it," and with this Frieda's 
 voice broke a little, and without stopping to say more 
 she hurried back. 
 
 Gregory bade Barnabas good night hastily, and then, 
 instead of going home, he walked rapidly down the 
 rough road to the mill, unlocked the door, and went into 
 his office and sat down at his desk. His face had 
 changed strangely ; it had grown grey and his lips were 
 tightly compressed. He sat long in motionless silence, 
 thinking intensely. Although he had himself watched 
 Anna with growing uneasiness, the suggestions of 
 x 
 
306 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Frieda and Barnabas came upon him with startling effect. 
 He asked himself now with unsparing definiteness 
 whether this was indeed the final turn of the wheel of 
 torture on which he was bound, or whether he could 
 wait for another. The conviction was upon him, stark 
 and stern, that in the end he should yield and seek the 
 one means of escape which was still open to him, and 
 which he had been holding off with almost dogged reso- 
 lution. He recalled the shaping of events in Anna's 
 life during the last {ew months, and his face softened. 
 
 Late in November, when Keith went North, she had 
 accompanied him, having been sent for by her sister 
 Lucia*. Their mother, Gulielma Mallison, upon whom 
 age and infirmity had increased heavily, had conceived 
 a controlling desire to return to her childhood home, 
 the Moravian town of Bethlehem, to end her days. 
 Anna had visited Haran therefore, and had brought her 
 mother back to her early home, establishing her there in 
 the quiet Widows' House in peace and satisfaction. 
 
 At Christmas, when she returned alone to Fraternia, 
 Anna had seemed to bring with her a new infusion of 
 active and aggressive force. Relieved of anxiety for 
 Keith, whom she had left in good spirits, and from the 
 constant ministration to his comfort, she was now wholly 
 free to devote herself to the common good. With new 
 and contagious ardour she had thrown herself therefore 
 into the life of the discouraged little community, cheer- 
 ing the faint-hearted and rekindling the flagging pur- 
 poses of the fickle. She taught the girls and women 
 quaint fashions of embroidery and work on linen which 
 she had learned from her mother, and inspired them 
 with the ambition to earn something with their needles, 
 thus dispelling their listlessness. She seemed at times 
 
Night 307 
 
 to possess in her own enthusiasm and courage sufficient 
 motive power to energize them all ; she worked and 
 moved among them as if no less a task had been given 
 her, and with a sweetness and sympathy that never 
 failed. 
 
 All who watched her wondered at the power in her, 
 and many who had murmured hitherto now declared 
 themselves ashamed, and responded willingly. John 
 Gregory marvelled more and more at the qualities of brill- 
 iant leadership which she now developed. Within him 
 a voice, which he could not always silence, sometimes 
 whispered that if such a nature as that which had been 
 gradually revealed to him in Anna Burgess, in its pleni- 
 tude of power and its greatness of purpose, could have 
 been allied to his own, a movement far beyond what he 
 had even dreamed of in Fraternia might have been 
 possible. 
 
 But while a certain reenforcement of courage had 
 followed Anna's strong initiative, and while in some 
 respects the domestic conditions of the people had been 
 improved and their murmurings for the time partially 
 silenced, the gravity of the situation and of the prospects 
 for the future as Gregory saw them remained unchanged. 
 Keith's mission had proved unproductive, as the letter 
 just received emphasized afresh. Gregory himself could 
 not leave Fraternia at this juncture without manifest 
 peril. Only his personal influence now availed to hold 
 together many discordant elements which were very 
 actively at work and arrayed against each other. From 
 no quarter could he discern any hope of substantial 
 support. 
 
 And now, last of all, she was laid low; worse, they 
 told him she was laying down her life in her devotion 
 
308 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 to his cause — she, his one high-hearted, intrepid, 
 dauntless ally ! Bitterly Gregory said to himself that 
 she who had freely left wealth and station was starving 
 and working to her death to save him from defeat, and 
 all in vain, unless — Should he calmly sit by and 
 permit the sacrifice ? Great of heart as she was, all her 
 work could not avail, nor his, unless aid of another 
 kind could be found, and that at once. 
 
 And it could be found ; of that he had little doubt. 
 To find it he must, indeed, make a certain compromise, 
 but it was one which involved only himself, his own po- 
 sition, — perhaps, after all, only his own pride. Had he 
 not himself preached against the subtle selfishness which 
 underlies the passion for individual perfection ? Did not 
 the common good and the larger interests of his cause 
 call for the sacrifice ? 
 
 Gregory rose at last and went to the outer door of 
 the mill. It was five o'clock of the February morning, 
 and off" to the east a faint yellowish light was climbing 
 up the sky. The mill pond lay dead in its stillness 
 below him ; the water fell quietly, stilled with ice, over 
 the dam ; the valley stretched out white and cold ; a 
 mile below was the black belt of the forest, and beyond, 
 the dim plain, with the stars shining over. It was pure 
 and cold and pitiless. In sky or earth no sign of relent- 
 ing, no suggestion of a gentler day. But Gregory was 
 not looking for signs, or reckoning with omens, save 
 the omen which had come unasked and taken up its 
 abode in his mind. He was thinking, not of the scene 
 before him, nor of the sleeping village behind, nor even 
 of the outline of the future, nor of Anna in her pain 
 and patience. 
 
 An old story was repeating itself within him of the 
 
Night 309 
 
 ancient king to whom the sibyl came bringing nine 
 books, which, being offered, he rejected ; and of how, in 
 the end, it had been the fate of the king to desire the 
 three which alone were left, and to obtain them at a 
 threefold price. 
 
 Presently the door of the mill was closed, and Greg- 
 ory returned to his desk. There was sternness in his 
 face as he set about writing a letter, and self-disdain 
 and humiliation; but he wrote on, and finished the letter, 
 which he signed and sealed. Then, without further 
 hesitation or pause, he crossed the road to the mill 
 stables, brought out and saddled his own horse, a tall 
 roan, fit to carry a man of his proportions, mounted it, 
 and rode away down the valley toward Spalding. The 
 letter which he chose to mail with his own hand was 
 addressed to Senator Ingraham, and it stated briefly that 
 the writer had come to the conclusion that his rejection 
 of the generous gift offered him on a certain night known 
 to them both v/as ill advised, and that if the same or 
 any part of it were offered him now for the furtherance 
 of his cooperative work, it would not be refused. 
 
 A week passed, and Anna, protesting that she was as 
 well as ever, had returned to her regular round of cares. 
 The only change in her appearance was a peculiar 
 whiteness of the tints of her skin, such that her face at 
 times seemed actually to emit light. The contrast of 
 this whiteness of tint with the masses of her dull, dark 
 hair and the large, clear eyes, full of the changing lights 
 which lurk in hazel eyes, gave her at this time a star- 
 tling beauty, startling because it suggested evanescence. 
 Most marked, Fraternia people said, was this phase of 
 Anna's appearance on a night near the end of another 
 week, when a large company was gathered in the hall 
 
310 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 over the mill for an entertainment. Anna had been 
 much interested through the winter in a series of 
 author's evenings, and this chanced to be the occasion 
 for the closing programme of the series. The subject 
 was Lowell, and prose had been read and poetry de- 
 claimed; the changes rung on all, — humorous, pathetic, 
 and patriotic. The little hall was full and the audience 
 eager for the closing number, because it was to be given 
 by Anna herself, who had a charming gift in rendering 
 poetry. 
 
 She had chosen a number of passages from the " Com- 
 memoration Ode," and as she stood on the platform with 
 its dark crimson background and drapery, 'dressed, as 
 she was habitually when indoors, in white, her eyes 
 kindling as she spoke the noble words of the noblest 
 American poem, the audience watched her face with an 
 attention even closer than that with which they listened 
 to her voice. This, indeed, showed a slight weakness, 
 but the eloquence and energy of her spirit subdued it to 
 a deeper pathos, while its impressiveness was most 
 marked when she reached the close of the fifth strophe, 
 every word of which to her meant John Gregory : — 
 
 " But then to stand beside her, 
 When craven churls deride her, 
 To front a lie in arms and never yield, 
 
 This shows, methinks, God's plan 
 And measure of a stalwart man, 
 Limbed like the old, heroic breeds, 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Fed from within with all the strength he needs." 
 
 She was half-way through the lines when a striking 
 and incomprehensible change passed over her. Her 
 
Night 3 1 1 
 
 eyes dilated, then drooped, her breath almost forsook 
 her, and her quiet hands clasped each other hard. She 
 continued to speak, but her voice had lost its tone and 
 timbre. Almost mechanically she kept on to the close 
 of the part she had selected, but those who loved her 
 feared to see her fall before the end. When she reached 
 the room behind the stage, the faithful Frieda was wait- 
 ing to receive her. 
 
 What had happened ? Was it merely that Sister 
 Benigna was still weak from her illness ? As they 
 broke up, these questions were repeatedly asked among 
 the people. Some of them called attention to the fact 
 that while she was speaking a stranger had tiptoed into 
 the hall so noiselessly that only a few persons had been 
 aware of his coming, but he was a man of so singular 
 a physiognomy and an expression so repellent that a 
 vague connection was felt to link Anna's agitation with 
 his appearance. 
 
 This man was Oliver Ingraham. 
 
 Anna, with Frieda, hurrying out of the mill alone 
 into the blackness of the starless and stormy night, 
 and turning homeward, heard steps approaching, heavy 
 and hard. Some one passed them. Anna knew only 
 by the great height and breadth of shoulder, dimly 
 discerned through the dark, that it was Gregory. She 
 stopped, and he turned, catching a glimpse of her white 
 face. 
 
 " Mr. Gregory," she said, " Oliver Ingraham is here. 
 What can it mean ? " 
 
 " Here already ! " he cried almost harshlv. " I have 
 only this moment received a despatch ! " and he hastened 
 forward, as if he might yet interpose some obstacle to 
 this most unwelcome arrival. 
 
312 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 The words in the despatch, crumpled fiercely and 
 thrust into Gregory's pocket, were these : — 
 
 " Mv son will be the bearer of the funds required. 
 Trust you will give him the opportunity he desires for 
 study of social problems. 
 
 " Ingraham." 
 
 It was the first word of reply to his letter which Greg- 
 ory had received, and it was a word which made him 
 set hard his teeth and groan like a wounded lion. 
 
 "Perhaps it is fair," he said to himself, as he crossed 
 the bridge ; " but Ingraham's Nemesis as the price is a 
 higher one than even I expected." 
 
 Above, in the mill hall, Oliver was mingling with the 
 people who were in the habit of remaining together for 
 an hour of social interchange after the programme, on 
 these occasions. He quickly found his old townsman, 
 Mr. Hanson, who seemed more amazed than rejoiced to 
 greet him in Fraternia. 
 
 "Stopped over, eh, to see our village?" he asked. 
 " On your way North, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," said Oliver, smiling complacently; "I 
 have come straight from home. I have a commission 
 for your czar from my father, and I rather look to throw- 
 ing in my fortunes with you folks. I want to see how 
 this experiment works ; study it, you know, on all 
 sides. If I like it, I guess I shall stay." 
 
 " Oh, really," said Hanson, a little aghast. 
 
 "How are you getting on, anyway?" proceeded 
 Oliver, craftily. " Rose-colour washed off yet ? Has it 
 been pretty idyllic this winter ? Say, I should think 
 catering for a crowd up in this valley would be quite a 
 job. Don't get salads and ices every day, I take it." 
 
Night 313 
 
 Hanson shook his head impatiently, longing to get 
 away from the questioner. 
 
 " Well," said Oliver, " I suppose by this time Greg- 
 ory the Great has issued his edicts and made all the 
 poor people rich, hasn't he ? and all the rich people 
 poor? That seems to be the method of evening up. I 
 don't wonder the poor fellows like it. Should think 
 they would." 
 
 " You will know better about us when you have been 
 here awhile, Mr. Ingraham." 
 
 Oliver nodded cheerfully. " Oh, yes, of course. I am 
 going to take notes, you see. Perhaps I'll write it up 
 by and by," and he tapped the neat note-book which 
 protruded from a pocket of his coat. "Are all the 
 sinners saints by this time ? " he added. 
 
 " Hardly." 
 
 " Well, then, we'll put it the other way," said Oliver, 
 with a peculiar significance in his high voice, " are the 
 saints all sinners yet ? " The malicious leer with which 
 this question was accompanied seemed to turn it into 
 a hateful insinuation, which Hanson, with all his half- 
 suppressed discontent, resented hotly. He was about to 
 make a hasty reply when Gregory came up and spoke 
 to Oliver, to whom he held out his hand. His manner 
 was as cold as could be with decent courtesy, and when 
 Oliver had shaken his hand he passed his handkerchief 
 over it with the impulse a man has after touching a slug 
 or a snake. 
 
 Oliver noticed the gesture, and rubbed his long white 
 hands together reflectively. 
 
CHAPTER' XXXIV 
 
 Look in my face ; my name is Might-have-been ; 
 
 I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell ; 
 
 Unto thine ear I hold the dead sea-shell 
 Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; 
 Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen 
 
 Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell 
 
 Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, 
 Of ultimate things unuttered, the frail screen. 
 
 Mark me, how still I am ! 
 
 — D. G. Rossetti. 
 
 It was mid-April and the afternoon of a day of per- 
 fect weather, of summer rather than spring. 
 
 The hills around Fraternia were covered now in sheets 
 of flame-colour, white and rose, from the blossoming of 
 the wild azalea and laurel. The air was laden with 
 perfume and flooded with sunshine. 
 
 It was at the close of the afternoon school when 
 Anna, a company of the children with her, started to 
 climb the eastern hill which rose a little beyond the 
 mill pond, to gather flowers. 
 
 Gregory, from the open window of his office in the 
 mill, watched the pretty troop as they threaded their 
 way up the steep path and were soon lost to sight in the 
 woods. He heard them speak of Eagle Rock as the goal 
 of their expedition, — a favourite point of view, less than 
 a mile to walk, and nearly on the crest of the hills. 
 
 Anna was dressed in the coarse white cotton of Fra- 
 ternia manufacture which was the usual dress of the girls 
 and women of the village in the house and out in dry, 
 
 3»4 
 
Night 3I5 
 
 warm weather, simply made, easily laundered, cleanly, 
 and becoming. Her tall figure, the last to disappear up 
 the woodland path, had attracted the eyes of another, as 
 well as of John Gregory. 
 
 Oliver Ingraham, in these two months grown an all- 
 too-familiar figure in Fraternia, finding his way stealthily 
 and untiringly to every favourite nook and corner of the 
 valley, had also watched the start from some lurking- 
 place. It was half an hour later when Gregory noticed 
 him sauntering casually along the foot of the hill, and 
 with an air of indifference striking into the same path 
 which Anna and the children had taken. Gregory 
 watched him a moment fixedly, his eyebrows knit to- 
 gether, and he bit his lip with impatience and disgust. 
 Of late Oliver had shown an ominous propensity to 
 haunt Anna, whose dislike of his presence amounted 
 well-nigh to terror. More than once Gregory's watch- 
 ful eyes, which never left Oliver's movements long un- 
 noted, had observed attempts on his part to follow or to 
 overtake her, to seek her out and attach himself to her. 
 Invariably Oliver found himself foiled in these attempts, 
 although he had no means of attributing the interfer- 
 ence to Gregory. Thus far the intervention had been 
 accomplished almost unnoticeably, but none the less 
 effectively. 
 
 The afternoon was a busy one for Gregory. The 
 mill, no longer silent and deserted, was running now on 
 full time ; and, to the great satisfaction of a majority 
 of the colonists, Gregory had withdrawn his scruples 
 against selling the products of their manufacture at a 
 reasonable profit. He was finding it easier and easier 
 to compromise with his initial scruples. It had also 
 become more imperative to try to meet, in so far as 
 
3 16 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 was reasonable, the demands of the people, since already 
 Fraternia had suffered serious defections. A number of 
 substantial families had withdrawn earlier in the spring, 
 among them the Hansons and the Taylors, who had 
 taken the pretty Fraulein Frieda with them, to Anna's 
 great regret. Others talked of leaving, and, in spite of 
 the greater financial easiness, criticism and jealousy were 
 at work in the little company at first so united. The 
 almost insuperable difficulties attending the experiment 
 had now fully declared themselves. 
 
 However, there was plenty of work to do, which was 
 a material relief. Gregory glanced now at the pile of 
 papers before him on his desk, and then once more 
 through the window at the figure of Oliver, receding up 
 the hill. No, he could not run the risk of allowing 
 him to overtake and annoy Anna. The work must 
 wait. Taking his hat, he left the mill hastily ; but, in- 
 stead of choosing the path behind Oliver, Gregory 
 turned and went up the valley a little distance, struck 
 through behind the houses, crossed a bit of boggy ground 
 which lay at the foot of the hill in this part of the valley, 
 and so mounted the hill below Eagle Rock in a line to 
 intercept Oliver before he could overtake Anna, if such 
 were his purpose. 
 
 There was no path up this side of the hill, but Greg- 
 ory found no trouble in striding through the deep under- 
 brush which would have swamped the women and 
 children completely. Soon he reached a point from 
 which he commanded a sight of Eagle Rock, and a 
 glance showed him the fluttering dresses of the children 
 already on its summit. In another moment he dashed 
 up on a sharp climb, for the hill was very steep at this 
 point, and reached the path only a short distance from 
 
Night 317 
 
 the base of the rock. He looked up, but no one was in 
 sight ; then down the path, and in a moment Oliver 
 came into view walking much more rapidly than fifteen 
 minutes before, when he had entered the woods. He 
 slackened his pace as he caught sight of Gregory slowly 
 approaching down the path, and sought to hide a very 
 evident discomfiture with his evil smile. 
 
 " You got up here in pretty good time, didn't you, 
 Mr. Gregory ? " he asked, as he reached him. " I saw 
 you, seems to me, in your office when I came along. 
 I've taken my time, you see. A beautiful day for a 
 walk." 
 
 Oliver's small green-grey eyes twinkled wickedly as 
 he spoke these apparently harmless words, for he saw, 
 or felt, that beneath every one of them Gregory's anger, 
 roused at last, reached a higher pitch. Oliver perfectly 
 understood what he was here for. 
 
 " I have a word to say to you," said Gregory, stormily. 
 "You will have to stop haunting the women and chil- 
 dren, and annoying them with your attentions. I speak 
 perfectly plainly, Mr. Ingraham; they are not agreeable 
 and they must be stopped." 
 
 " You rule with a rod of iron here, Gregory," said 
 Oliver, his long fingers twining together; "what you 
 say goes. Still, you know, you might go a little too 
 far." 
 
 Gregory did not reply, but stood watching him as a 
 lion might watch a reptile. 
 
 " I am willing to stay in Fraternia, under favourable 
 conditions," Oliver proceeded, with hideous cunning ; 
 l( but I should think, as I am paying pretty well for my 
 accommodations, I ought, at least, to get the liberty of 
 the grounds. What do you say ? " 
 
3 1 8 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " I say, Go, this minute, or I'll throw you neck 
 and crop down that bank," said Gregory, with unmistak- 
 able sincerity, ?t which Oliver, suddenly cowed, and his 
 weak legs trembling under him, faced about promptly 
 and retreated down the path. He paused at a safe dis- 
 tance, while Gregory's hands tingled to collar him, and 
 called back, in a loud, confidential whisper: — 
 
 " You can have her all to yourself this time. That's 
 all right," and with this he hurried off, his thin lips 
 writhing in a malicious smile, and his hands clenched 
 tightly and cruelly. 
 
 For a moment Gregory stood still in the path. A 
 dark flush had mounted slowly even to his forehead. 
 He was irresolute whether to follow and find Anna, or 
 to return directly to the valley. Something in Oliver's 
 ugly taunt acted like a challenge upon him, it seemed, 
 for, turning, and catching through the trees the glimmer 
 of Anna's white dress, he hastened on up the path. 
 
 He found her sitting on a mossy rock at the foot of 
 the cliff, where there were trees and shade and a fair 
 view of the valley, and the blue billowing sea of the 
 mountain ranges beyond. Her strength and colour had 
 returned with the out-door life of the spring, and she 
 looked to-day the embodiment of radiant health. 
 Greatly astonished at Gregory's appearance, she yet 
 welcomed it with unaffected gladness, starting to rise 
 from her low seat with the impulses of social observance 
 which she could not quite outgrow even in the wilder- 
 ness ; but he motioned to her to sit still. All around 
 her the children had flung; their branches of laurel and 
 azalea, running off to gather more and bring her, and the 
 delicate suffusion of colour made an exquisite background 
 to the picture. The picture itself, Gregory thought, 
 
Night 319 
 
 Everett ought to have painted for a Madonna ; for in 
 Anna's lap leaned a sturdy, fair-haired boy, with a cherub 
 face, a child of less than four years, his head thrust back 
 against her shoulder as he looked out from that vantage 
 ground with serene eyes at Gregory, while Anna held 
 one round little hand in hers and looked down upon the 
 child with all the wistful fondness of unfulfilled mater- 
 nal love. 
 
 " Do not smile," said Gregory, with affected stern- 
 ness at last, as she glanced up from the child to him 
 with a questioning smile, expecting some explanation 
 for his presence here ; " I have come this time to scold 
 you." 
 
 " O dear ! " said Anna, with a gay little laugh of sur- 
 prise. " My turn has come ! " 
 
 " Yes, your turn has come," he continued gravely. 
 " Do you not know that when you come away on such 
 long, lonely climbs as this, even with the children, you 
 give us anxiety for you, and trouble ? I have had to 
 come all this distance to take care of you." 
 
 Anna shook her head, much more puzzled than 
 penitent. 
 
 " What is there to be troubled about ? " she cried. 
 
 Gregory did not answer at once. He found it im- 
 possible to make mention of Oliver in her presence. 
 He fixed his eyes on the little child, who was on his 
 knees now, by Anna's side, pouring out into her white 
 dress a small handful of scarlet berries, and letting 
 them run like jewels through his fingers, laughing to 
 see them roll. 
 
 " Do you not know," he began again, very slowly, 
 " that we fear for your strength, for your endurance, 
 upon which you will never, yourself, have mercy ? " 
 
320 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Anna began to protest a little, her colour deepening at 
 some vague change in his tone and manner. 
 
 " Do you not know," he continued, not heeding her 
 interruption, " that you are the very heart of our life, 
 here in Fraternia ? that we all turn to you for our 
 inspiration, our hope, our ideal ? Should we not 
 guard you, since without you we all should fade and 
 fail ? " 
 
 Never before had Anna heard this cadence of tender- 
 ness in Gregory's voice, nor in the voice of man or 
 woman ; the whole strength of his protecting manhood, 
 of his high reverence and his strong heart, was in it, 
 but there was something more. What was it ? A 
 tremor ran through Anna's heart. Could she dare to 
 know ? She lifted her eyes at last to meet his look, and 
 what she read was what she had never dreamed of, 
 never feared nor hoped — the supreme human love which 
 a man can know. Reading this, she did not fear nor 
 faint nor draw her own look away, but rather her eyes 
 met his, full of awe and solemn joy ; for at last, in that 
 moment, her own heart was revealed to itself. 
 
 " O Anna ! — O Benigna ! " 
 
 Gregory spoke at last, or rather it seemed as if the 
 whole deep heart of the man breathed out its life on 
 the svllables of those two names. 
 
 In the silence which followed Anna sat quite quiet 
 in her place, the sun and the soft shadows of the young 
 oak leaves playing over her face and figure. The child 
 still tossed his red berries with ripples of gleeful laughter 
 over the whiteness of her dress, and not far away could 
 be heard the busy voices of the older children as they 
 ruthlessly broke away the blossoms from their stems. 
 And in the sun and shade and the stillness Anna sat, 
 
Night 32.1 
 
 while wave after wave of incredible joy broke over her 
 spirit. For the first time in her life she knew love, 
 knowing it for what it was. She had not asked to 
 know it, nor mourned that she had missed its full 
 measure, nor dreamed that it could yet be hers ; but 
 it had come, not stayed by bonds nor stopped by vows. 
 It was here ! The man whose strong spirit, in its 
 freedom and power, had cast its spell upon her mysteri- 
 ously even before she had seen his face save in a dream, 
 loved her, with eyes to look like that upon her and that 
 mighty tenderness ! Life was fulfilled. Let death come 
 now. It was enough ! 
 
 The moment, being supreme in its way, was not one 
 to leave room for outward excitement, for flutter and 
 trepidation. Anna rose now from her place with per- 
 fect calmness, and bent to take the little, laughing child 
 by the hand, while she went to call the others together. 
 Gregory had turned away slightly, and with his arms 
 crossed over his breast was leaning hard against the 
 rugged wall of the cliff", his head thrown back against 
 it, his face set, his whole aspect as of some granite 
 figure of heroic mould, carved there in relief. Anna 
 heard a sound like a groan break from his lips, and 
 turning back, with an irresistible impulse, laid her hand, 
 light as a leaf, upon his arm. 
 
 From head to foot Gregory trembled then. 
 
 " Don't," he said sternly, under his breath. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Anna, confused at his sudden 
 harshness. 
 
 "It is the end," he said, with low distinctness and the 
 emphasis of finality. 
 
 Then, only then, did Anna waken to perceive that 
 what in that brief moment of joy she had taken for 
 
 Y 
 
322 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 glory, was only shame and loss and undoing, unless 
 smothered at the birth. 
 
 An inarticulate cry broke from her then, so poignant, 
 although low, that the little child, pulling at her dress, 
 began to cry piteously. She stooped to comfort him, 
 gave him again the hand which she had laid on Gregory's 
 arm, then, turning, walked slowly away. 
 
 Gregory made no motion to detain her or to follow, 
 but stood as she left him, braced against the rock. Anna 
 gathered her little flock, and they hastened down the hill 
 in a gay procession, with the waving branches of April 
 bloom, and the merry voices of the children. Only 
 Sister Benigna, as she walked among them, little Judith 
 noticed, was white and still. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 Then fell thick rain, plume droopt and mantle clung, 
 
 And pettish cries awoke, and the wan day 
 
 Went glooming down in wet and weariness ; 
 
 But under her black brows a swarthy one 
 
 Laugh' d shrilly, crying : " Praise the patient saints, 
 
 Our one white day of Innocence hath past, 
 
 Though somewhat draggled at the skirt. So be it." 
 
 — Tennyson. 
 
 At nine o'clock that evening Barnabas Rosenblatt, 
 working around the mill stables, was startled at the sud- 
 den appearance of Gregory, who passed him without 
 speaking, as he went hurriedly into the stall and brought 
 out his horse. The day had been followed by a night 
 of brilliant moonlight, and Barnabas saw, as distinctly as 
 if it had been day, that his face, usually firm and com- 
 posed, was drawn and haggard to a degree. He started 
 to speak to him, but an imperious gesture of Gregory 
 silenced him. Without a word Barnabas therefore as- 
 sisted him in saddling the horse, and then stood perplexed 
 as he watched him gallop away down the valley in the 
 moonlight. 
 
 Straight on through a narrow bridle-path which led 
 by a short cut through the stretch of oak wood to the 
 little hamlet of Spalding, Gregory galloped. He had 
 reached the outskirts of the woods, and was in sight of 
 the level meadows and the cluster of lights of the village 
 beyond, when he suddenly perceived the figure of a man 
 on foot approaching him from the direction of Spalding. 
 A few steps more, and Gregory saw, with surprise and 
 
 3 2 3 
 
324 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 strange perturbation, that it was Keith Burgess. He 
 reined up his horse and stood motionless, until Keith had 
 reached him, and called out a greeting as he stood in the 
 path, looking a pigmy beside the Titanic proportions of 
 the horse and rider. The moonlight showed Keith more 
 thin and wan than ever. He had returned to Fraternia 
 once before this spring, in March, but, after a week, had 
 been glad to go back to Baltimore, with some rather 
 vague commission. His return at this time was wholly 
 unexpected, even by Anna. 
 
 Keith had long since come to stand to Gregory for 
 something like a concrete embodiment of his many 
 disappointments and vexations, by reason of his luke- 
 warm participation in his own purposes, his ineffective 
 labours, and his continual draft upon Anna's sympathies. 
 As Gregory looked down upon him, thrown at this 
 moment so unexpectedly in his path, a singular hardness 
 toward the man came upon him, for he was hard beset by 
 passion; and while he meant to have no mercy upon 
 himself, he was not in the mood to have mercy upon 
 another man, least of all, perhaps, upon Keith. 
 
 "You are going back to Fraternia?" he asked coldly, 
 his tone striking Keith with chill surprise. The latter 
 assented as a matter of course. 
 
 There was a moment of silence ; Keith felt something 
 sinister in the nature of it. 
 
 " Why should you go back there ? " Gregory asked 
 now, with the same careless coldness; "you have no 
 heart in Fraternia or its purposes." 
 
 Keith was stirred, and answered pointedly : — 
 
 " I have at least a wife in Fraternia, Mr. Gregory." 
 
 Gregory looked at him a moment with a measuring 
 glance, noting his wasted and feeble appearance. 
 
Night 325 
 
 " I suppose you do need nursing," he said slowly. 
 
 Keith Burgess turned ashy pale. Was this wanton 
 injury ? Did Gregory wish to insult him ? What did 
 it mean ? Gregory did not know himself. He knew 
 only that, in the agony of that night, for he had fully 
 resolved himself to see Anna no more, the sight of 
 Keith Burgess worked like madness in his brain. 
 
 " Mrs. Burgess," he said now, with the deliberation 
 of strongly suppressed excitement, " is more highly en- 
 dowed for great issues than any person I have ever 
 known. It is almost a pity that she should not have 
 freedom to use her powers in the greater activities to 
 which she is fitted." 
 
 Each sentence, cruel with all the cruelty which the 
 climax of pride and passion could inspire, pierced the 
 heart of Keith like a shaft barbed with steel. He stepped 
 backward and leaned against a tree, breathing hard. 
 The occult, mysterious quality of the moment's experi- 
 ence to him was that he saw himself, distinctly and as if 
 by an inexorable necessity, turning away from Fraternia, 
 and going back by the way which he had come. 
 
 Without another word, Gregory tightened his rein 
 and galloped on, out through the wood's edge and so 
 down to the plain. He did not see, in the high excite- 
 ment of the moment, the figure of a man lurking stealth- 
 ily among the trees at no great distance from where 
 Keith stood. When the sound of the horse's hoofs had 
 died away, this figure stepped softly out from its shelter 
 and passed along the bridle-path, peering inquisitively in 
 the face of Keith as he still stood where Gregory had 
 left him. But neither did Keith observe him, nor 
 care who he was, and so he went on his way toward 
 Fraternia. He looked back once or twice. His last 
 
2i6 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 look showed him that Keith had gathered himself to- 
 gether and was walking slowly away, in the direction 
 from which he had come. 
 
 Keith walked blindly on, not knowing why he went, 
 nor where he went, like a man who has suffered a heavy 
 blow upon his brain, and moves only automatically with- 
 out thought or will. On the outskirts of the village, 
 near the railroad, he passed a barn, rickety and disused, 
 but there was old hay in a heap on the floor of it, it 
 offered shelter, and shelter without the contact with 
 others from which he shrunk as if he were in dis- 
 grace, and fleeing for his life. Accordingly Keith went 
 into this place, drawing the broken door together as far 
 as he could move it on its rusty hinges, threw himself 
 on the heap of hay, and slept until five o'clock in the 
 morning. The one passenger train of the day passing 
 through Spalding eastward was due at five o'clock. 
 Keith was wakened by the long whistle announcing 
 its approach, and came dizzily out into the chill and 
 wet of a miserable morning. 
 
 The train slowed down as it neared the place where 
 he stood. He swung himself upon it with the brief but 
 tense nervous energy of great exhaustion, sank into a 
 vacant seat in the foul, unventilated car, and was car- 
 ried on, whither he did not know or care. 
 
 Anna, coming back from the walk to Eagle Rock, 
 had gone to her own house alone. Here she spent the 
 earlier hours of the evening in the deepest travail of soul 
 she had ever known. The purity and unworldliness of 
 all her life, both the life of her girlhood and that with 
 Keith, had served to keep far from her familiarity with 
 possibilities of moral danger. She was as innocent of 
 certain kinds of evil as a child, and the thought that a 
 
Night 327 
 
 temptation to a guilty love could assault her would, 
 until this day, have appeared to her incredible. And 
 now, in the fierce struggle of this passion, the only one 
 she had ever known, she knew herself not only capable 
 of sin, but caught at last in its power. 
 
 Not that for a moment she dreamed of any compro- 
 mise of outward fidelity ; such a thought she rejected 
 with horror as inconceivable either to herself or to 
 Gregory, whom she firmly believed to be far stronger 
 than she. But the flaw in faithfulness had come 
 already, beyond recall, beyond repair. Her whole soul 
 moved toward this man, who had so long secretly domi- 
 nated her inner life, with a mighty and overwhelming 
 tide. 
 
 Her relation to Keith had been that of gentlest con- 
 sideration, kindliness, and affection. More it had never 
 been ; and to-night it seemed as powerless to stay the 
 flood of passion as a wall of sand built on the shore of 
 an infinite sea by the hands of a child. 
 
 So Anna thought, so she felt. She went to the door 
 of her cabin with this thought mastering her, driven by 
 restlessness, and longing to feel the coolness of the night 
 air on her face. For a moment she stood in her open 
 door, and saw mechanically that the moonlight was shed 
 abroad in the valley ; she heard the voices of the men 
 across the river singing in a strong, sweet chorus. 
 
 Then, suddenly, as if the words had been spoken in 
 her ear, the thought came to her, " But Keith needs me; 
 he needs me now ! " 
 
 What was it ? She did not know. She never under- 
 stood. The sense was strong upon her that Keith was 
 near her ; that he was in some danger, and needed her. 
 
 Without pause to consider what she did, Anna flew 
 
328 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 down the river path and reached the mill breathless. 
 The pond lay in the moonlight, motionless. The air 
 did not stir. The mill was still and dark and deserted. 
 The woods were dim with their night mystery. She 
 looked down the valley, and up, and across the river, 
 and everywhere was perfect peace, save in her own 
 heart. Then in the silence she heard a step approach- 
 ing from the direction of the woods below. She drew 
 back hastily into the protection of the mill porch and 
 waited for the steps to pass. Whoever it was paused 
 for a little time above the mill, and Anna's heart beat 
 hard with a sense of dread and danger. Finally she 
 heard the steps pass on, and when she returned to the 
 road she recognized the unmistakable figure of the man 
 now moving on in the unshadowed moonlight to the 
 bridge above. It was Oliver Ingraham. 
 
 Slowly Anna returned to her own cottage, not daring 
 to do otherwise, a heavy oppression on her heart. 
 
 Early in the morning, which was cold and rainy, 
 Oliver was at her door, and she answered his summons 
 herself, full of a vague, trembling anxiety. He scanned 
 her face narrowly ; it was careworn and hollow-eyed, 
 for she had slept not at all. 
 
 In silence he handed her a letter, broken at the edges, 
 and soiled with long carrying about. She glanced at 
 the address. It was Keith's, written by herself perhaps 
 a month before; not a recent letter. She looked at 
 Oliver in speechless perplexity. 
 
 " I found that lying on the ground down near Spald- 
 ing last night," he said, still eying her craftily, and with 
 that hurried off, giving her not another word. 
 
 Anna went in, closed the door, and drew out the 
 letter. It was unimportant, insignificant, simply an 
 
Night 329 
 
 ordinary letter of wifely affection and solicitude, but one 
 which had evidently been much read, being worn on the 
 folds. Who could have carried it save Keith himself? 
 Had he, then, been really near her the night before ? 
 Was he really coming ? 
 
 Anna knew already that it was for this she longed 
 supremely. 
 
 Noon brought to Everett a special messenger with 
 a letter from Gregory, who brought with him also the 
 roan horse ridden the night before to the county 
 
 town, C , and evidently ridden fiercely. At C 
 
 was the bank where Gregory transacted all his business. 
 This letter stated, first of all, that he had suddenly 
 reached the conclusion that it was important and im- 
 perative that he should go at once to England in the 
 interests of the colony. He should not return to Fra- 
 ternia before sailing. He wished to empower Everett 
 to act in his place during his absence, which would not 
 be for more than three months. 
 
 Various items of business were enumerated, and the 
 letter closed with this remarkable statement : " The 
 funds furnished by Mr. Ingraham of Burlington have 
 been returned to him with the exception of the five 
 thousand dollars already used, which I shall restore at 
 my earliest opportunity. This removes the obligation 
 from us of counting Mr. Oliver Ingraham as one of our 
 number, and I beg that you will signify to him my 
 conviction that his continued presence in Fraternia is 
 impossible. Do not allow him to stay a day if you can 
 help yourself, and keep him under your eye while he 
 remains." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 I said farewell ; 
 I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 
 'Twould yawn behind me. I must walk right on, 
 
 . . . Fate has carried me 
 'Mid the thick arrows ; I will keep my stand, 
 Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 
 To pierce another : oh, 'tis written large 
 The thing I have to do. 
 
 — George Eliot. 
 
 The following morning Anna sent for Oliver. 
 Word had reached her that he was about to leave 
 Fraternia. In the depth of her present distress and 
 perplexity a thought which " had no form, a suffering 
 which had no tongue " had arisen. Gregory, she 
 knew, had left the village hastily that night under stress 
 of powerful emotion, perhaps in a condition of mental 
 excitement exceeding his own control. It seemed to 
 her possible that somewhere on the way from Fraternia 
 to Spalding he might have encountered Keith. The 
 letter brought by Oliver indicated, she was more and 
 more convinced, that he had really been on his way 
 to her. If this were true, some event had interposed, 
 something had occurred to hinder his coming. What 
 could it have been, supposing him to have been but two 
 miles away, save some mysterious, unthinkable effect 
 of an interview with Gregory, if such there had been ? 
 It was no longer possible, no longer justifiable, to await 
 events. She must herself discover all that Oliver knew, 
 even if the discovery were to mean despair. 
 
 330 
 
Night 331 
 
 Alone, in her own cabin, she received Oliver. If 
 Keith had been in Fraternia, or John Gregory, it would 
 not have been permitted ; but her intense anxiety and 
 suspense overbore her usual shrinking from contact with 
 the man, and Everett yielded to her wish to see him 
 alone. 
 
 Oliver entered the cabin, noting its simple appoint- 
 ments with his characteristic curiosity. Anna pointed 
 to a chair which he took, although she herself remained 
 standing. Her face was as white as her dress, her eyes 
 deeply sunken, her manner sternly imperious. 
 
 " You are going away from Fraternia to-day ?" she 
 asked, with swift directness. 
 
 "Yes," said Oliver, nodding with his peculiar smile; 
 "this precious demigod or demagogue — whichever you 
 please — of yours, your imperial Gregory, has issued a 
 ukase against me, in short, has done me the honour to 
 banish me from the matchless delights and privileges 
 of Fraternia ! " The last word was spoken with a slow 
 emphasis of condensed contempt. 
 
 " There is something really a little queer about it," 
 Oliver continued, in a different tone. " I am on to 
 most of what happened between my father and Gregory, 
 but Fve missed a link now somewhere. You see, the 
 governor, in a fit of temporary aberration, offered Greg- 
 ory a magnificent contribution for his socialist scheme 
 down here; but Gregory was pretty high and lofty just 
 then, and, 'No, sir,' said he — I heard him, though he 
 and the governor don't know it — 4 No, sir, I couldn't 
 touch your money. I am just that fastidious.' The 
 governor had been confessing his sins to Gregory, the 
 worse fool he ! It seemed that his money had come to 
 him in a way that might make some men squeamish, and 
 
331 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 Gregory, oh, dear, no ! he wouldn't have touched those 
 ill-gotten gains as he was feeling then — not with the 
 tip of one finger. 
 
 " But the joke is," Oliver went on, " that he had to 
 come to it. Oh, yes; he got down on his marrow bones 
 to the governor here about three months ago, and wrote 
 to him that he had reconsidered the matter, and saw his 
 mistake," and Oliver gave a low chuckle ; " so the 
 governor had to come down with the lucre, more or 
 less filthy as it was, and I don't think he was quite so 
 much in the mood for it either as he was at the first, to 
 tell the truth. But he sent it all the same, and sent 
 me with it, don't you see? I came as the saviour of 
 Fraternia, although I have never been so recognized. The 
 whole town has been run the last month or two on 
 Ingraham money, and it seems to have greased the 
 wheels about as well as any other money, for all I see. 
 But now comes the unexpected ! Off goes Gregory to 
 England, sends back the governor's check , so I hear 
 from Everett, and kindly writes me to take myself off. 
 What brought him to that is what I don't quite see 
 through yet." 
 
 " I have no doubt," said Anna, concealing her dismay 
 at Oliver's malign disclosure with a manner of cold 
 indifference, " that Mr. Gregory had good reasons for 
 thinking it better for you to return to Burlington." 
 
 " You're right there," retorted Oliver, quickly ; " oh, 
 yes, he had excellent reasons, the best of reasons. A 
 man who knows too much is often inconvenient, you 
 know." 
 
 " Mr. Ingraham," Anna asked hastily, apparently 
 ignoring this insinuation although she trembled now 
 from head to foot, " I am not interested in the busi- 
 
Night 333 
 
 ness relations of your father and Mr. Gregory. It was 
 not to hear of them I sent for you. You brought me a 
 letter yesterday which I think must have been not long 
 ago in my husband's possession. I wish you to tell me 
 if, on the night when you found this letter, that is the 
 night before last, you saw my husband in the neighbour- 
 hood of Fraternia ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied Oliver, as if it were quite a matter 
 of course ; " were you not expecting him ? " 
 
 "Where did you see him ? " The question came quick 
 and sharp. 
 
 " Well," said Oliver, reflectively, " you would like me 
 to be exact, I suppose. Let me see, how shall I describe 
 the place so that you will recall it — distinctly." 
 
 There was a certain cold deliberation in the articu- 
 lation of these words which gave them a sickening cruelty. 
 They called up strange visions of dread and dismay to 
 Anna's tortured imagination. 
 
 " Speak more quickly," she commanded, rather than 
 asked, " the precise spot makes no difference. " 
 
 " It was near the edge of the woods, on the Spalding 
 side, that I saw him first. The night was quite bright 
 with moonlight, if you remember. I had taken a stroll 
 down to Spalding myself for some of those little luxu- 
 ries which Fraternia doesn't furnish, and was on my way 
 back when I first noticed Mr. Burgess. He was just 
 striking into the path, there by that dead oak tree; you 
 may remember it. I noticed it because it stood out so 
 white in the moonlight, and it was just at the foot of it 
 :hat I picked up that letter. I did not know that he 
 had dropped it, nor whose it was until after I got 
 home." 
 
 ''Undoubtedly false," thought Anna; "you had not 
 
334 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 had the chance to read it, that was all," but she did not 
 speak. Oliver too was silent, as if he had answered her 
 question, and was done. 
 
 " Please go on." Anna kept her patience and control 
 still. 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Oliver, as if surprised, "you want 
 to hear more, do you ? All right. I guess likely I'm 
 the only man that can tell you, being the only witness, 
 in fact." 
 
 " Witness of what ? " Anna cried importunately. 
 
 " Well, that's it. That's what I've asked myself 
 more than once since that night, and I rather guess as 
 good a description as I could give would be to call it 
 a kind of moral murder; a moral murder," and Oliver 
 repeated the phrase as if gratified by the acuteness of 
 his perception in forming it. 
 
 He watched her face closely, and beginning to fear 
 from the bluish shade which tinged her pallor that Anna 
 would soon be released from his power to torture by 
 unconsciousness, hastily took another line. 
 
 " Oh, you've nothing to worry about, Mrs. Burgess, 
 nothing at all. That was just a little fancy of mine, 
 just my metaphorical way of stating things. It was a 
 very simple little incident, nothing which need afreet a 
 man unpleasantly in the least. It just happened, you 
 see, that Gregory was galloping down the path toward 
 Spalding, and he met your husband, and they had a little 
 talk together, — a mere quiet conversation for a few mo- 
 ments, — and Mr. Burgess seemed to change his mind 
 about going to Fraternia just then, and turned back 
 toward the village. That was all. I watched him a 
 little, to be sure he didn't need any help, you know, 
 afterward. Gregory galloped right along ; he was going 
 
Night 33 $ 
 
 to catch a train, I suppose, at C , and that made him 
 
 in something of a hurry, of course." 
 
 " Why should my husband have needed help, Mr. 
 Ingraham ? Will you be good enough to explain your- 
 self clearly, and in as few words as possible ? " Anna 
 spoke more calmly now, but her eyes were like coals of 
 fire. 
 
 " Certainly, certainly. I cannot repeat Gregory's 
 language, not literally, but it seemed to cut Mr. Bur- 
 gess up a good deal at the time, — at least I fancied so. 
 That is what I meant by that little simile of mine 
 awhile ago. He's all over it now, of course. It was 
 only a few words anyway. Just that Gregory said, in 
 that short way he has once in awhile — Probably 
 you've never heard him ; he wouldn't be apt to speak 
 so to you," and Oliver decorated the sentence with one 
 of his most insinuating smiles. 
 
 " Mr. Gregory said — ? " Anna asked, looking into 
 his face with an unflinching directness, before which 
 Oliver's eyes wandered nervously. 
 
 " Why, he seemed surprised that Mr. Burgess should 
 be coming back so soon, and he gave him to understand 
 that a man like him, who was sick all the time, and not 
 much of a Fraternian, either, was rather a drag on such 
 a woman as you, don't you see ? and it might be fully 
 as well if he should keep away and give you your free- 
 dom most of the time." 
 
 " Did my husband make any reply that you heard ? " 
 asked Anna, huskily, this hideous distortion of unformu- 
 lated traitor thoughts which had lurked in the back- 
 ground of her own consciousness confronting her now to 
 her terror, and her heart doubly sick with the loathing of 
 being forced to ask such information from such a source. 
 
336 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " He said you were at least his wife, I remember that. 
 I guess that was about all. It struck me at the time 
 that there was something in what he said, with all due 
 respect for Gregory. He rules everything here, of 
 course, though, I suppose, — even to the relations be- 
 tween husbands and wives." 
 
 The last words were lost upon Anna. 
 
 " You may go now, if you please, Mr. Ingraham," 
 she said calmly. Her look and an unconscious gesture 
 of dismissal were imperative, and Oliver, not daring to 
 disobey, left the place without another word. 
 
 For two days Anna sat alone and in silence, waiting 
 for the summons which she knew by a sure intuition 
 must come. 
 
 Oliver's story had been confirmed in so far that it 
 had been learned that Keith had been seen in Spalding 
 on the night of Gregory's departure, and had been known 
 to take an east-bound train on the following morning. 
 Nothing further was discovered regarding his movements, 
 and it was useless to try to follow and find him. Anna 
 could only wait. 
 
 When the message came it was, as she had known it 
 would be, urgent and ominous. Keith was in Raleigh ; 
 he was very ill ; she must go at once. 
 
 Everything was ready, and with a strange composure 
 and quietness as of one carrying out a line of action 
 fully foreseen, Anna went on her journey, so like and 
 yet so unlike that other journey to Keith which she had 
 taken in her girlhood, ten years before. That had ended 
 in their marriage. How would this end ? 
 
 Reaching the city in the afternoon, Anna was driven 
 with the haste she demanded to the address named in 
 the message which had come, not from Keith himself, 
 
Night 337 
 
 but from a physician. It was not that of a hotel, as she 
 had expected, but of a boarding-house of very moderate 
 pretensions in a quiet street. Even the small details of 
 the place, in their cheap commonness, smote her heart. 
 Was it in places like this that Keith had, after all, been 
 living, instead of in the well-appointed hotels in which 
 she had always fancied him ? 
 
 The landlady, a kindly, careworn woman, plain of 
 dress and of speech, received Anna with a mournful 
 face, but forebore explanations, seeing that it was time 
 rather for silence, and led her down a long corridor to 
 the door of a dim and silent room. 
 
 There was a little stir as Anna stood in the open 
 door; the physician came out and spoke to her, and 
 she saw a nurse sitting quietly by a window. But Anna 
 did not know that she saw or heard them; her sense 
 took in only her husband, with eyes closed and the 
 shadow of death upon his face, lying upon the strange 
 bed in this place of strangers. 
 
 She was by his side and his hands were in hers, when 
 presently he opened his eyes. Seeing her, a sudden 
 light of clear recognition illuminated his face, a trium- 
 phant ray of joy and satisfaction. He tried to speak^ 
 but could not, but Anna felt the faint pressure of his 
 hand. 
 
 Once more his lips moved, and Anna saw rather 
 than heard the words : — 
 
 " Good-by, darling," and with them the same look 
 of ineffable love and peace. Then his eyes closed and 
 he sank again into unconsciousness. 
 
 The physician, leaning over, said softly, " He will not 
 rouse again. This was most unexpected." He has been 
 unconscious since morning." 
 z 
 
338 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 The end came soon after midnight, unconsciousness 
 falling into death without pain or struggle. 
 
 Of the days which followed Anna could never recall 
 a distinct or coherent impression. Detached scenes and 
 moments alone lived in her memory. 
 
 She knew that Everett was there and that they started 
 for Fulham. Somewhere on the way Professor Ward 
 met them, and Foster, the old family servant. Nothing 
 seemed strange and nothing seemed natural ; all passed 
 to her as in a dream. 
 
 She was at Fulham ; she remembered afterward that 
 she sat in the library which Keith had longed for so, 
 and his body lay beside her, below the mantelpiece 
 where she had so often seen him lean. The old ser- 
 vants, hastily summoned for the occasion, went and 
 came, and looked at her, she thought, with eyes of cold 
 respect and mute reproach. Then Everett stood there, 
 and she saw that tears were on his face as he looked 
 upon his old friend, but she did not cry. Only when 
 Everett turned toward her she said, very simply, with a 
 motion of her hand which signified all that the place 
 meant : — 
 
 " Keith gave his life — for me." Then Everett had 
 looked at her as if alarmed at what he saw in her face, 
 and had gone out hastily and sent some woman to her, 
 whom she did not want. 
 
 The incidents of the funeral seemed to pass by un- 
 noticed. She remembered the moment at the grave when 
 at last she fully realized that this was the end. Then 
 she was at the Fulham railroad station, and Professor 
 Ward had come to her on the train and had held her 
 hands strongly in his, and had said with urgent em- 
 phasis : — 
 
Night 339 
 
 " You must always remember that Keith's physician 
 and all his old friends believe that his life was prolonged 
 rather than shortened by your living in the South. Do 
 not for a moment dwell on the opposite thought." 
 
 She had felt her dry lips tremble then and her eyes 
 grew dim, but she did not speak. The train had moved 
 out soon, and she knew that kind eyes watched her, 
 but she could not meet their look. 
 
 Of the journey down into the West to her mother 
 that night she remembered nothing, save that the incessant 
 jar of the train seemed to follow in a rhythmic endless 
 repetition the familiar refrain of the old passion hymn, — 
 
 " Was ever grief like mine ? " 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 From the unhappy desire of becoming great ; 
 Preserve us, gracious Lord and God. 
 
 — Old Moravian Liturgy. 
 
 There is a time when religion is only felt as a bridle that checks us, and 
 then comes another time when it is a sweet and penetrating life-blood, which 
 sets in motion every fibre of the soul, expands the understanding, gives us the 
 Infinite for our horizon, and makes all things clear to us. — Lacordaire. 
 
 On the quiet street of the hill town of Bethlehem 
 stands the quaint and ancient building set apart in the 
 Moravian economy as the Widows' House. 
 
 In the interior of the old stone house, with its massive 
 walls and rows of dormer windows, are wide, low- 
 ceiled halls, and sunny, sweet-smelling chambers, clean 
 and orderly, chaste and simple, as those of a convent. 
 Here in mild monotony and peace the women of the 
 " Widows' Choir " live their quiet life, and here in 
 September we find Anna Burgess, who had fled to this 
 haven of her mother's abiding-place, as to a sanctuary. 
 
 The evening was warm, and the windows of Gulielma 
 Mallison's room were open to the sunshine and the sweet 
 air. Flowers blossomed in the deep window-sills ; the 
 bare floor was as white as scrubbing could make it ; the 
 appointments of the room were cheerful and refined, al- 
 beit homely, and the atmosphere was that of still repose. 
 By the window Gulielma Mallison sat knitting, her face 
 beneath its widow's cap calm and strong in its submissive 
 sadness. Opposite her on the sofa lay Anna, each line 
 of her face and figure expressing the suffering of a 
 
 340 
 
Night 34I 
 
 stricken heart. There had been months of slow, weari- 
 some illness and of grievous mental suffering, in which 
 her days had been a Purgatorio and her nights an 
 Inferno ; and now weeks of convalescence, which were 
 bringing life back into her wasted frame, still failed to 
 bring healing to her mind. 
 
 The mother's fond eyes, glancing unperceived across 
 her knitting, noted the listless droop of the long white 
 hands upon the white dress, the marblelike pallor of the 
 forehead from which the hair was so closely drawn, the 
 hollow cheeks, the piteous sadness of the mouth, 
 the glassy brightness of the eyes, fixed in the long, still 
 gaze of habitual introspection. 
 
 " Surely," sighed Gulielma Mallison to herself, as she 
 had before a hundred times, "there is more than the 
 bitterness of death in her face; widowhood alone to 
 the Christian brings not such havoc as this. It is in 
 some place of danger that her thoughts are dwelling. I 
 should fear less for her if she could only speak ! " 
 
 But Anna's grief could not find its way to words. 
 How could her mother, in her sober, ordered existence, 
 her decorous and righteous experiences of life and love' 
 and death, comprehend what it was to live with shadows 
 of faithlessness, even of blood-guiltiness, for perpetual 
 company ? For to Anna's thought Keith had been 
 driven to his lonely death by the hardness of Gregory, 
 by words which had issued from the white heat of his 
 passion for her, a passion unrebuked by her, — nay, 
 rather, shared to the full. Was she then guiltless of 
 her husband's death ? 
 
 Not for a moment could Anna divide herself from 
 Gregory in responsibility for the action which Oliver 
 had characterized as "moral murder." Unsparingly 
 
342 A Woman of Yesterday- 
 
 just to herself, she bore to the very limit of reason all 
 the fellowship which was imposed upon her by the 
 mastery of a love so long lived in its unconsciousness 
 and silence, so soon cut off, once perceived and acknow- 
 ledged. It has been said that " all great loves that have 
 ever died, dropped dead." Anna's mighty passion had 
 been stillborn, slain by the words which had sent Keith 
 on his dim way to death. For she had never doubted 
 that Oliver's rehearsal of the scene in the woods between 
 Gregory and Keith had been substantially true. She 
 knew there had been spiritual violence done, and her 
 soul recoiled from the very strength and power which 
 had once enchained her. Something of diabolical pride 
 seemed to her now to invest even the austere morality 
 of Gregory. He would have spurned a yielding to the 
 weakness of the flesh, his moral fastidiousness would 
 have made it impossible; but he fought the fire of love 
 fiercely with the fire of pride, not humbly with the 
 weapons of prayer. No shield of faith nor sword of the 
 spirit had been his in the hour of temptation, for all his 
 high ideals, but the sheer, elemental force of human will. 
 He had conquered, or rather had grappled with, the one 
 passion ; but the very force by which he had conquered 
 turned again and conquered him, and his very power 
 became his undoing. 
 
 Beside this conception of Gregory which had now 
 taken possession of Anna's mind, Keith's gentleness, 
 his faithful, patient life, above all, the greatness of the 
 silent sacrifice which he had made for her sake when he 
 embarked on the Fraternia adventure, became sacred 
 and heroic. She saw at last what his leaving his normal 
 life had been ; she believed, as she had said to Everett, 
 that he had literally given his life for her, and the sense 
 
Night 343 
 
 of his devotion, so little understood, so scantily recog- 
 nized, wore ceaselessly at her heart. Her one drop of 
 balm was the memory of Keith's last smile of trium- 
 phant love and faith ; the bitterest drop in her Cup of 
 Trembling that not one last word had been given her to 
 show her by what paths his soul had fared, and whether 
 thoughts of peace had lightened his sufferings. Having 
 loved her, he had loved her to the end, — this only she 
 knew. His faithfulness had not failed. 
 
 Words which her father had spoken to her shortly 
 before his death, vaguely comprehended at the time, 
 haunted her now, " With greatness we have nothing at 
 all to do ; faithfulness only is our part." 
 
 If only she had earlier discerned their meaning ! 
 
 Such shape did these two men take to Anna now ; 
 the one who had moulded all her outward life and touched 
 her inner life hitherto so faintly, the other who had 
 mastered her in her innate longing for power and free- 
 dom, and controlled her inner life for many years : Keith 
 seemed to her now like some spirit of gentle ministration, 
 humble, faithful, undefiled ; Gregory, like some proud spirit, 
 even as Lucifer, son of the morning, who had said, c I will 
 ascend into heaven,' but who had been brought down to 
 hell, dragging with him all that was highest and holiest. 
 And she had thought him so different ! Like another, 
 her heart would cry out : — 
 
 ** I thought that he was gentle, being great ; 
 
 God, that I had loved a smaller man ! 
 
 1 should have found in him a greater heart." 
 
 Once, some weeks earlier, there had come to her a 
 brief note from Gregory, written soon after his return to 
 Fraternia. It said only : — 
 
344 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " I have sinned deeply, against God ; against him ; 
 most of all against you. I cannot even venture to ask 
 you to forgive. I can only say to you, the penalty is 
 wholly mine to bear. You are blameless." 
 
 Having read the note, Anna threw it into the fire, and 
 wrote no word in return. 
 
 And for herself — ? 
 
 There was no softness of self-pity in Anna's remorse. 
 Dry and tearless and despairing, she saw herself, after 
 long years of spiritual assurance, of established and un- 
 questioned righteousness, overwhelmed at last by sin ; not 
 by the delicate and dainty and inconclusive discords 
 which religious experts love to examine and analyze, but 
 by a gross ground-swell of primitive passion, linking her 
 with men of violence and women of shame. 
 
 Looking back upon her girlhood, Anna thought with 
 sad self-scorning of her young desire for " a deeper 
 sense of sin." It had come now, not as the initial stage 
 in a knowledge of God, and of her relation to him, but 
 as a tardy revelation of the possibility of her nature, un- 
 dreamed of in her long security. The cherished formu- 
 las of the old system, its measure of rule and line applied 
 to the incalculable forces of the human spirit ; its hard, 
 inflexible mould into which the great tides of personal 
 experience must be poured, seemed to lie in fragments 
 about her now, like wreckage after a storm. She remem- 
 bered that Professor Ward had once spoken to her of her 
 inherited religious conceptions as terrible in their power 
 to mislead, to deceive the heart as to itself; she saw the 
 danger of a belief founded not on infinite verities, but on a 
 narrow mediaeval logic. She knew sin at last, and knew 
 that it was not slain in the hour of spiritual awakening. 
 
 She thought of the night preceding her union with 
 
Night 345 
 
 her father's church, and the recoil of nameless dread 
 with which she had seen passing under her window the 
 village outcast whom she supposed to be incredibly 
 guilty and cut off from fellowship with all who, like 
 herself, were seeking God. And it was that very night 
 that she had first dreamed of the mighty personality, 
 the embodiment of power and greatness, which she had 
 thought to find in Gregory. Though late, she now 
 clearly perceived that in no human being could that ideal 
 of her dream find full manifestation. 
 
 Such thoughts as these were passing behind the pale 
 mask of Anna's pain-worn face, which her mother's 
 eyes were watching. The impress of suffering which 
 they gave was hard to see, and a long involuntary sigh 
 escaped Gulielma Mallison's lips. 
 
 Anna looked up-with eyes as sad as those of Michel 
 Angelo's Fates. 
 
 « Mother dear," she said, her voice strangely dulled 
 from its former clear cadence, " why do you sigh ? Do I 
 make you unhappy ? " 
 
 " I cannot comfort you, Anna Benigna," said the 
 mother, sorrowfully. " It is for that I sigh." 
 
 " No," Anna said slowly, her eyes falling again from 
 her mother's face ; " you cannot do that, no one can. 
 No one lives who can comfort your child, mother." 
 
 "I have often thought, Anna, that you may have 
 suffered," the mother ventured almost timidly, "as many 
 others have, from the sad mistakes so common to people 
 who regard the Christian life and the married life as 
 ends, instead of beginnings." 
 
 Gulielma noticed a slight quickening of interest in 
 Anna's eyes, and went on thoughtfully, with her simple 
 philosophy of life : — 
 
346 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " To read the books that are written, and to hear the 
 things that are said, young people can hardly help sup- 
 posing that when they become Christians they will 
 know no more of sin, and when they are married they 
 will have only joy and perfect union. To my way of 
 thinking, these wrong ideas are responsible for a great 
 deal of needless unhappiness. The Christian life is 
 really a school, with hard discipline and harder lessons. 
 As for marriage — " 
 
 "Well," said Anna, as her mother paused, u as to 
 marriage ? " 
 
 " It may be a crown," said Gulielma, slowly, " but it 
 is sure to be in some measure a cross. It is a testing, 
 a trial, a discipline, like the rest of life. Only, whether 
 it happens to be happy, or happens to be hard, it is 
 equally to be borne faithfully and in the fear of God." 
 
 There was silence for a little space, and then a laugh- 
 ing voice in the street outside, called : — 
 
 " Mrs. Mallison ! " 
 
 Gulielma rose and stepped to the window, looking 
 out over the crimson and purple asters into the street. 
 A young girl who stood there handed her up a letter. 
 
 " I don't know whether it belongs to Mrs. Burgess or 
 not. The address has been changed so many times, 
 but the postmaster said I was to ask you." 
 
 " Very well," was the answer, and as Gulielma 
 turned back, a letter in her hand, she found Anna sit- 
 ting up, leaning upon her elbow, her eyes strangely 
 eager. She held out her hand, not speaking, and 
 received the letter. The upper line, which struck her 
 eyes instantly, was her own name, and it had been 
 written by Keith. She could not be mistaken. The 
 mother's anxious eyes saw every trace of colour ebb away 
 
Night 347 
 
 from Anna's face and lips, and then stream back until 
 the faint flush rose to her forehead. She had not 
 stopped to decipher the many addresses written below, 
 crossed and recrossed by many pens, but, seeing her own 
 name written by the dear dead hand, she pressed the 
 letter hard against her heart and so lay a moment, silent. 
 
 Soon she looked up and met her mother's eyes. A 
 wistful, heart-breaking request was in her own, which 
 she hardly dared to speak. 
 
 " May I be all alone, mother ? " she asked faintly ; 
 " my letter is from him. It has gone wrong, but it has 
 come to me, you see, at last. In the morning I will see 
 you. I will tell you then — all." 
 
 In another minute, the door quietly closing, Anna 
 found herself alone. Breaking the seal, she saw that the 
 letter had been written three days before Keith's death. 
 An error in the original address, doubtless due to his 
 exhaustion, had sent it far astray. The letter said : — 
 
 My own Anna, — I am here in Raleigh in a com- 
 fortable house, and with kind people, but I fear that 
 I am very ill, and that the end is now not far away, 
 and I want you as soon as you can come to me. I 
 hope there will be no need of alarming you with a tele- 
 gram, for I know that you will start as soon as this 
 reaches you, and that will be in good time. 
 
 Do not think that this crisis is sudden and unfore- 
 seen. The physician in Baltimore told me plainly that I 
 could have but a short time to live, and when I knew 
 that I hastened to reach you as quickly as I might. It 
 was for you only, Anna, in all the world that I longed. 
 I believed that a few weeks of quietness were for us, 
 not harder than we could bear, being- together. 
 
348 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 I think you will know that something turned me 
 back almost at my journey's end. John Gregory is 
 honest, and he will tell you, if indeed he knows himself. 
 
 I do not know now what he said to me, I do not 
 care to remember. Whatever it was it should have had 
 no weight, being spoken, I know, under some strong ex- 
 citement, but with it there went that strange, irresistible 
 influence which Gregory exerts over me, and before 
 which I was, or seemed to myself, powerless. I felt 
 his will was for me to go back, not onward to you, and 
 I yielded as if unable to do otherwise. I do not know, 
 I cannot understand. I wish it had not been so, but 
 rather for him than for myself, for I know that in his 
 higher mood the thought of that night must be hateful 
 to him. 
 
 I want to say now while I can that neither you nor 
 he must look upon these events in a way to exaggerate 
 or overemphasize their importance. I can see that you 
 with your sensitive conscience and he with his great 
 moral severity may judge over hardly. The difference 
 to me has not been great. The end was very near, and 
 is not hastened, and I shall see you yet before it comes. 
 If I had not been weak I should have kept on my way. 
 It was my weakness that sent me back rather than the 
 outward compulsion. 
 
 I shall not want to talk of this when I see you, 
 Anna, and so I will write to-dav some things which have 
 come to my mind this winter, for I have come to see 
 many things in a new light. 
 
 John Gregory loves you. I do not blame him for 
 that, nor wonder. " We needs must love the highest 
 when we see it." He is a man of great power and of 
 the highest spiritual ambition. Pie is far nearer to you 
 
Night 349 
 
 in ability than I ; he could enter more deeply into your 
 purposes and sympathize in fuller measure with your 
 intellectual life. I believe you could have loved him, if 
 you had been free, and that the union of two such 
 natures would have been nobly effective for good. But 
 I found you first, and with my fond dream that a sign 
 was given me, won you for my wife. What then ? 
 
 It fell to my part, although not of my own will, to 
 give your life the shape it has taken. Sometimes I see 
 plainly that I, a poor, pale, colourless fellow, wholly 
 beneath both you and John Gregory, have maimed both 
 your lives, so much stronger and more potential than 
 mine could ever be. 
 
 And yet, Anna, for all this I cannot wish the past 
 undone. I claim you wholly, heartily, for my own, and 
 whatever the future may hold for you, and however the 
 past has tried you, I believe in your love for me, and in 
 the union of our spirits. My heart is at rest. My trust 
 in you is absolute and beyond hurt or harm, and all the 
 joy my life has known has come through you, my true 
 and faithful wife. Never doubt this if you love me 
 and would honour my name. 
 
 I wish to lay no hint of limitation or direction upon 
 your future. Wherever you go, the dear Lord will go 
 with you, and you will bring peace and consolation. 
 You cannot go astray, nor your work be brought to 
 naught, for God is with you. All that I have is yours 
 without reserve or condition, beyond the few legacies I 
 have named in a letter to my lawyer in Fulham. Use 
 what was ours together freely wherever you will, 
 whether to establish Fraternia, or in any line of effort 
 which appeals to you. My keenest regret is that here- 
 tofore I have withheld from you what you desired. For- 
 
3 50 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 give me. Those scruples look small and mean to me 
 to-day. 
 
 Good night, my Anna — my Benigna, my highest 
 grace and blessing. 
 
 Do not think of me as left comfortless. I am not 
 alone. The King is at the door, and I hear his voice. 
 He has even come in and will sup with me and I with 
 him. 
 
 Let his peace be upon us both. 
 
 Keith. 
 
 It was morning. 
 
 Entering her room, Gulielma Mallison found Anna 
 fully dressed, standing in a stream of sunshine, with a 
 brighter light than that of the sun upon her face. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " she cried, stretching out both her 
 hands, " I can live. I can sleep. I can even cry now. 
 Oh, these tears ! how they have fallen like rain on a 
 thirsty ground. See, mother ; after all I am young still 
 and strong. Feel my pulse, how full it is this morning, 
 how strong and steady ! I am at peace. The peace 
 of God has come to me at last. Keith has comforted 
 me." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, 
 To spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won 
 God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain 
 And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 
 
 — Sidney Lanier. 
 
 While we are not to forget that we have fallen, we are not always to carry 
 the mud with us ; the slough is behind, but the clean, clearly defined road 
 stretches ahead of us ; skies are clear, and God is beyond. We were made for 
 purity, truth, and fidelity, and the very abhorrence of the opposite of these 
 qualities bears testimony that our aspirations are becoming our attainments. The 
 really noble thing about any man or woman is not freedom from all the stains 
 of the lower life, but the deathless aspirations which forever drive us forward. 
 . . . Better a thousand times the eager and passionate fleeing to God from a 
 past of faults and weaknesses, with an irresistible longing to rest in the everlast- 
 ing verities, than the most respectable career which misses this profound impulse. 
 
 — Anon. 
 
 It was Easter morning in Bethlehem. The stars 
 still shone in the sky, and the little town lay in the hush 
 and stillness which precede the earliest dawn, when sud- 
 denly, far off, like a whisper from the sky, the tones of 
 the trumpets could be heard announcing the risen 
 Christ. 
 
 Down through the quiet streets passed the solemn 
 choir, the trombones blowing their deep-breathino- mel- 
 ody in full and thrilling power. They stopped for a 
 little space upon the bridge, and as their herald choral 
 swelled and grew and filled the air, lights came out in 
 visible response here and there throughout the sleeping 
 town; and as they passed on down the streets, under 
 
 35i 
 
352 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 the starlit sky, groups of men and women joined them 
 in quiet fashion until the procession grew to a great 
 though silent throng. 
 
 From the Widows' House Gulielma Mallison and 
 Anna came out and stood together for a moment in the 
 dusk, watching the approaching stream of people as it 
 moved forward in the gloom, and listening to the strains 
 of music which called to their ears : — 
 
 " Rise, heart ; thy Lord is risen ! " 
 
 Soon the procession had reached their door, and, join- 
 ing it with humble gladness, mother and daughter fol- 
 lowed with the rest, greeting their friends and neighbours 
 in simple, heartfelt kindliness. 
 
 The church was reached, and within it a solemn ser- 
 vice was begun, and continued until the brightening of the 
 eastern sky gave token of the sunrise. Then, as with 
 one accord, and with the quietness of dear and familiar 
 custom, the great congregation streamed out into the 
 twilight of the early dawn, and, again forming in proces- 
 sion, moved forward up the winding hill to the cemetery, 
 the choir with the pastor leading the way. 
 
 It was an early spring, and on the air was the thrill 
 of awakening life. As she stood in the midst of the 
 reverent throng now waiting, as if expectant, in the still 
 churchyard, Anna felt the deep significance of the time 
 as it had never been given her to feel it before. 
 
 Again the trombones poured forth their deep, yearn- 
 ing music in the ancient Easter hymn, the people sing- 
 ing in full chorus : — 
 
 "Amen ! Come, Lord Jesus ! Come, we implore thee ; 
 With longing hearts we now are waiting for thee ; 
 Come soon, O come ! ' ' 
 
Night 353 
 
 Then followed, in slow, rhythmic chant, the noble 
 words of the old Moravian liturgy : — 
 
 "This is my Lord, who redeemed me, a lost and undone 
 human creature, purchased and gained me from all sin, from 
 death and from the power of the devil ; 
 
 " Not with gold or silver, but with his holy, precious blood, 
 and with his innocent suffering and dying ; 
 
 " To the end that I should be his own, and in his kingdom 
 live under him and serve him in eternal righteousness, innocence, 
 and happiness ; 
 
 "So as he, being risen from the dead, liveth and reigneth 
 world without end." 
 
 With awe and joy came back the great volume of 
 the response : — 
 
 " This I most certainly believe." 
 
 " Keep us, oh Lord," came then the prayer, " in ever- 
 lasting fellowship with those of our brethren who since 
 Easter Day have entered into the joy of their Lord and 
 with the whole Church triumphant, and let us rest 
 together in thy presence from our labours." 
 
 The sun rose. The quiet God's Acre was gilded 
 with its misty beams, and the pale opal tints of the 
 morning clouds reflected its glory. From the whole 
 assembly burst forth the mighty hallelujahs of the hymn 
 of praise, borne up by the deep diapason of the trump- 
 ets : — 
 
 "The Lord is risen. He is indeed risen." 
 
 As Anna came out of the churchyard in the sunrise 
 light, the peace of God was in her look, and the victory 
 of the Resurrection morning shone in her eyes. 
 
 Hardly had she reached the street, when some one 
 
354 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 who had stood, awaiting her coming, put out his hand 
 and greeted her. It was Pierce Everett. 
 
 " I saw you in the churchyard," he said. " I wish 
 to speak to you now, if I may." 
 
 Anna welcomed him with quiet gladness, and they 
 walked on together through the street, until they were 
 beyond the crowd. Then Anna asked : — 
 
 " Do you come from Fulham ? " 
 
 " Oh, no," was the answer, " from Fraternia, or from 
 what was Fraternia. My home is there now, and will 
 be." 
 
 " I did not know," Anna said simply, not finding it 
 easy to say more. 
 
 " There is little left there now of the old village or 
 of the old life. Even the name is gone. They call it 
 Gregory's now." 
 
 u I heard that the land had gone into the hands of 
 the man who held the mortgage." 
 
 "Yes, it is all gone now; all except the bit of ground 
 that Mr. Gregory's house stands on. The house and 
 land we have kept for our own." 
 
 "And there you live alone? Are all the others gone?" 
 
 " Nearly all. Some stay and work in the cotton mill, 
 which has been enlarged, but the cabins are mostly used 
 now by the coloured people who work the land, and are 
 employed also in the mill." 
 
 They were silent for a moment, and then Everett 
 said : — 
 
 " We have heard that you are going soon to India. 
 Is it true ? " 
 
 " Yes, I go next month." 
 
 " As a teacher ? " 
 
 * l Yes, partly, but I am also to be connected with a 
 
Night 3SS 
 
 hospital. You know that is work which I have always 
 liked, and this is to be a new hospital, bearing my hus- 
 band's name." 
 
 Everett was silent, and Anna noted as she had not 
 before the profound sadness of his face. Presently he 
 looked at her with undisguised anxiety and asked a ques- 
 tion which she had already begun to dread. 
 
 " Would you be willing to see Mr. Gregory before 
 you go ? " 
 
 A painful change passed over Anna's face. 
 
 " I cannot," she replied quickly ; " it is not necessary. 
 Is he here, Mr. Everett? Did he come with you?" 
 and he noticed that she trembled and lost colour. 
 
 " No," he answered very gently ; " do not be troubled. 
 He is not here. He will not seek to find or follow you. 
 He will never leave Fraternia again." 
 
 Her eyes questioned his face, for it was impossible not 
 to detect some melancholy significance in his words. 
 
 " Mr. Gregory has received a severe injury," Everett 
 went on, as if in answer to her look. " It was a month 
 ago. He was at work with the lumbermen up in the 
 ravine. He was working midway of the river, which 
 was unusually high, and he slipped and fell. Before he 
 could get to his feet, a heavy log which was carried for- 
 ward very swiftly by the current struck him with tre- 
 mendous force and stunned him. We were near enough 
 to reach him almost immediately, but the blow was on 
 the spine, and it produced instantaneous paralysis. He 
 will never walk again." 
 
 Swift changes had passed over Anna's face. In a 
 softened voice she said : — 
 
 " How strange, how very terrible. Is he himself in 
 other ways ? " 
 
356 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Perfectly. His mind was never clearer nor more 
 active. I think he was never stronger in spirit. His 
 body is a magnificent wreck, that is all." 
 
 "And he does not wish to leave Fraternia ? " 
 
 " No, I think nothing could suit him so well as our 
 little stronghold in the solitude there. He does not 
 mind the changes even, as one would expect. There 
 is no bitterness. He is too large-minded for that. He 
 acknowledges himself defeated, but his faith is still 
 strong in his cause." 
 
 " And how about yourself? " 
 
 " I am with him, heart and soul," Everett answered, 
 with strong emphasis ; " nothing could take me from 
 him now, — unless my presence ceased to be acceptable 
 to him. He is, in spite of all that has passed of failure 
 and defeat, my leader, and will be to the end. He is 
 imperfect, being human ; perhaps there are men least 
 in the kingdom of heaven who are greater than he. 
 Nevertheless, he is the bravest man I have ever known 
 and the most sincere, — I would almost add, the humblest. 
 So we live on together. He writes, I paint. Barnabas 
 takes care of the house for us, and little Judith gives us 
 the touch of womanhood we need to humanize us. An 
 oddly assorted family perhaps, but we are satisfied." 
 
 Anna listened with intense eagerness to every word, 
 and found sincere satisfaction in the simple picture 
 which Everett had thus drawn for her. 
 
 "And you have come to Bethlehem — " Anna hesi- 
 tated, and Everett took up the word quickly. 
 
 " I have come all the way from Fraternia to ask you 
 to go back with me and see John Gregory once more. 
 He may live for a number of years, but it is hardly 
 probable that you ever will see him again. He asks this 
 
Night 357 
 
 as the greatest kindness you can do him, but he told 
 me to say that, if you do not feel that you can go, he 
 will still be perfectly sure that you are doing right." 
 
 Something in the new note of humility, of submission, 
 in the implied finality of the request, most of all the 
 vision of the strong man in his present helplessness and 
 acknowledged defeat, wrought powerfully upon Anna's 
 resolution. 
 
 They walked on silently for some moments, and then, 
 turning abruptly to retrace her steps into the town, 
 Anna said : — 
 
 " Yes, I will go with you. We will start to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 It was late on Tuesday afternoon when they reached 
 the valley. As they drove past the mill Anna gave a 
 sudden exclamation of dismay as she caught a passing 
 glimpse of a well-remembered figure which she least 
 expected to see again in Fraternia. 
 
 " That could not be Oliver Ingraham," she cried, 
 " and yet no other man could look like him." 
 
 " It was Oliver himself," said Everett, smiling a little. 
 " How can it be ? What has happened ? " 
 " To begin with, I should tell you that Mr. Gregory 
 succeeded in paying back, even to the last dollar, Mr. 
 Ingraham's contribution." 
 Anna's face grew brighter. 
 " I am glad," she said. 
 
 " Yes, it was better, I am sure. But when this was 
 accomplished a sense of compunction seized him toward 
 Oliver for some fancied harshness in the past. Six 
 months ago he sent for him to come if he would, and he 
 appeared promptly. Mr. Gregory had conceived the 
 idea that something better could be made of the man 
 
35$ A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 under right influences, and he determined to make the 
 attempt." 
 
 " Can you see any change ? " asked Anna, still incredu- 
 lous. 
 
 " It was rather hopeless for a time, only that he so 
 evidently, for all his former spleen and spite, came to 
 have a regard for Mr. Gregory, himself, approaching 
 worship. But when the accident happened up in the 
 woods and he saw Mr. Gregory helpless as he is now, 
 it seemed to produce an extraordinary change in the fel- 
 low. He is softened and humanized in a marvellous de- 
 gree. He can never be wholesome exactly to ordinary 
 mortals. I sometimes think he is a snake still, but a snake 
 with its poisonous fangs drawn. Yes, Mr. Gregory has 
 made it possible to hope for good even from Oliver." 
 
 " Only a great nature could have made that possible," 
 said Anna, musingly. 
 
 "Yes," responded Everett, "and only then a great 
 nature which had learned obedience by the things which 
 it suffered." 
 
 Anna was silent. This action of Gregory's seemed 
 very great to her, so wholly was it in opposition to his 
 deep, instinctive antipathy toward Oliver. This man 
 had seemed to embody in himself the evil forces which 
 had entered Fraternia to destroy all of highest hope and 
 purpose with which it had been established. And now 
 Gregory had stooped to lift up, even to draw to himself, 
 the man in all his hideous moral ugliness. Idealist as 
 Anna had ever been, she saw in the nature thus revealed 
 to her, in spite of failures and falls, a more robust vir- 
 tue, a higher spiritual efficacy, than any of which she had 
 known or dreamed. Again she found herself convicted 
 of a too narrow and partial view of the working of the 
 
Night 2S9 
 
 human spirit in her passionate withdrawal from Gregory 
 in his time of temptation. 
 
 They had crossed the bridge now, and up the wooded 
 slope Anna saw Barnabas and little Judith standing 
 before the door of Gregory's cabin. With simple and 
 unaffected delight they welcomed her, and then suffered 
 her to enter the house alone. 
 
 When the door had closed behind her, Barnabas came 
 up quietly and took his place upon the rude steps which 
 his hands had laid, and so sat, throughout the interview, 
 as one self-stationed, to keep guard. 
 
 The interior of the cabin was as it had always been, 
 with its rude furniture and its one picture, save that 
 a broad and capacious couch covered with leather stood 
 with its head just below the south window. On this 
 couch, with a rug of grey foxskin thrown over his 
 limbs, lay John Gregory, his head and shoulders 
 propped high, his powerful hands lying by his sides with 
 their own expression of enforced idleness. 
 
 He lifted his head as Anna entered, and leaned forward, 
 raising his right hand in a pathetic salutation of reverence 
 and gratitude. 
 
 Overcome by the new and more august repose of his 
 face and by the pathos of his look and gesture, Anna 
 crossed to where Gregory lay, and fell upon her knees 
 by his side, her tears bathing his hand, although this she 
 did not know. 
 
 For a space neither spoke nor moved. Then, as she 
 rose from her knees, Anna said under her breath : — 
 
 " Life is greater than I thought." 
 
 " Life is great," returned Gregory, " because we live 
 in God." Then he asked humbly, all the fire of his 
 earlier habit of speech quenched, — 
 
360 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Do you then forgive me ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have forgiven you," she said softly. " I 
 could not until, months after my husband's death, a 
 letter came to me from him, which had been lost long 
 in reaching me. It was so noble, so great, so reconcil- 
 ing, that it sufficed for all — even that," she added, with 
 unsparing truthfulness. Then, even more gently : — 
 
 " It is altogether from him that I am here to-day. 
 I could never have seen you again if it had not been for 
 that letter." 
 
 " Then I owe to him the greatest mercy of my life," 
 said John Gregory, solemnly, " and it is fitting that I 
 should. He was a gentler man than I, a better man. I 
 did not rightly appreciate him when he was among us." 
 
 "He had no noisy virtues," Anna said. "I think 
 none of us perceived fully what he was until he was 
 gone." 
 
 Then with great delicacy she told Gregory all that 
 the letter had brought of reconcilement, and especially 
 the word to him. He heard it in brooding silence, and 
 his face grew very calm. 
 
 " I wanted you to know," Gregory began after a 
 lonp- pause, " that my feeling toward you has not been 
 evil or base or wholly selfish. From the time I first 
 saw that picture," and he pointed to that above the fire- 
 place, "you became to me a kind of religion. You 
 stood to me for the absolute purity of my ideal, un- 
 tainted by self and sin and even sorrow. That picture 
 gave you to me as a virgin soul in the first dawning of 
 a great and noble expectation. It was a picture which 
 a Galahad might have worshipped. But alas ! I was no 
 Galahad. 
 
 " I was bringing the picture back to this country, and 
 
Night 361 
 
 it happened, although you never knew it, that I crossed 
 on the same ship with you." 
 
 " How could it have been," cried Anna, " that I never 
 
 saw you 
 
 " I was with my East London people in the other 
 part of the ship. But I used often to see you with your 
 husband and with the many friends who always made a 
 circle about you, and I fancied I saw a change in your 
 look, — a change which betokened a gradual dimming of 
 your higher vision, a fading of your ideal. I thought the 
 people about you were changing you to their own like- 
 ness in some degree, and the thought haunted and dis- 
 turbed me more than I had a right to let it. 
 
 " I came to Fulham with the picture, which I had 
 promised to return to Everett. When I reached his 
 house late in the evening, his mother received me and 
 told me that he and * all the world ' were at a great re- 
 ception at your house. She further told me that your 
 husband's mother had confided in her her hopes and 
 her confidence that a new era of social leadership was 
 now before you, and added that you were indeed already 
 quite ' the fashion ' in Fulham's aristocratic circle. 
 
 " I had hardly an hour in Fulham — hardly a moment 
 to reflect. I acted on my impulse and sought you and 
 called you out from your brilliant company. You know 
 what I said. My motive was pure, I think, whether the 
 action were well judged or ill. When I saw you before 
 me in that brief interview, in your loveliness, and in the 
 docility which underlay your frank and candid joy, a 
 strange impulse arose in me to gain some spiritual con- 
 trol over you, to have an essential influence over your 
 thinking and to direct your development and your activ- 
 ity as I believed would be noblest and best. 
 
362 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Naturally I had no opportunity to carry out such an 
 impulse for a long period, but I think it never left me. 
 When I saw you that night in the audience at Burlington, 
 I knew that you would go to Fraternia. I determined 
 in my own heart that if it could be right, you should. 
 There was no thought then or for many months that 
 anything could arise between us which could impair our 
 faith and duty. Indeed, I never knew myself that it 
 was you who had wholly mastered me rather than I you, 
 until that day on Eagle Rock. When I left Fraternia 
 that night, I knew all — to the very depth. I understood 
 the blindness and tyranny of my passion, and I left, 
 meaning never to see you again. Benigna, I did not have 
 it in my heart to do you wrong, least of all to do wrong 
 to your husband. It was the suddenness of his coming 
 before me, and the struggle I was myself undergoing, 
 which threw me at the moment into a kind of still 
 frenzy of evil impulse. Gladly would I have died to 
 atone for it. 
 
 " Now, looking back, I almost think I can see that 
 I was permitted, so far as my individual life was con- 
 cerned, to reach some climax of pride and passion, that I 
 might be brought low in my humiliation. Perhaps in no 
 other way could I have learned the way of the Cross 
 than through seeing the failure of my own strength, in 
 which God knew, I see now, I had taken an uncon- 
 scious pride. 
 
 M There is nothing left of it. No drop of the worm- 
 wood and gall has gone untasted. But I believe 
 solemnly to-day in the forgiveness of sins, and rest 
 in a good hope of salvation through our Master, 
 Christ." 
 
 Again silence came between them, a silence which 
 
Night 363 
 
 was full of peace, and then, with something of his old 
 abruptness, Gregory said : — 
 
 " And now you will tell me about your going to India. 
 You are glad to go ; so much I understand." 
 
 " Yes," Anna replied, " it is a great fulfilment. I 
 have lived a whole round of life since I first felt the call 
 to this service, and now I come back to it with a pur- 
 pose and conviction even deeper than those which first 
 inspired me." 
 
 " Then the larger hopes of final destiny do not, in the 
 end, weaken the missionary motive, you think ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. That fear belonged only to the time of 
 transition. The message I have now is a far mightier 
 and a more imperative one than I had at first. I know 
 something now of the reality of sin and its terrible 
 fellowship, and at least far more than in those old days, 
 both of law and of love. I have learned also a greater 
 reverence for man as well as for God." 
 
 " Yes," he said quietly ; " it is true. You have been 
 in training for your work." 
 
 " I am gladder than I can tell you," continued Anna, 
 " that I was withheld from going out on such a mission 
 with the hard and narrow message which was all I had 
 then to give. It was you, Mr. Gregory, who opened 
 to me the great truth of the unity of the race, you who 
 taught me to see that ' redemption is the movement of 
 the whole to save the part.' I share the burden of sin 
 and suffering with all my fellow-men, and I simply seek 
 to lift that burden so far as I may where it presses most 
 sorely. Can there be any doubt that this is where Christ 
 is not known, — among pagan nations ? " 
 
 John Gregory thought for a moment before he replied. 
 " I believe you are right," he said finally. " The 
 
364 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 needs there are grosser than here, and they are actual 
 and intolerable ; inherent in the system, not artificial. 
 You have the gift of high ministry. You used it with- 
 out stint for our people here in Fraternia, but the 
 issues were inadequate to your powers ; for the condi- 
 tions were, after all, abnormal, being produced volun- 
 tarily rather than by necessity." 
 
 "Then do you feci, Mr. Gregory, that the message 
 of brotherhood, of equality, cannot be spread bv such 
 means as we tried in Fraternia ? " Anna asked timidly, 
 and yet without fear. 
 
 " I believe that such isolated, social experiments, for 
 many years at least, will be as ours has been, prema- 
 ture and ineffective. They are symptoms rather than 
 formative agencies. They have significance as such, 
 but are otherwise unproductive. 
 
 " I have not learned this lesson easily," he added 
 with a faint return of his rare smile, and the swift, 
 strong gesture with which he had always been wont to 
 dash the hair from his forehead. Anna knew without 
 words that in the fall of Fraternia his dearest hopes, his 
 most cherished plans, and highest pledges had fallen too. 
 It was not necessary to open the old wound that she 
 should know his pain. 
 
 " There are more steps between the clear perception 
 of a condition and the application of remedial measures 
 than I supposed before I started our colony here. I was 
 in a hurry, but God seems to have plenty of time. 
 There must be years, generations, perhaps — I some- 
 times fear it — centuries still of education and training 
 before men understand that they are not created oppress- 
 ors by the grace of God, nor oppressed by the will of 
 God. I read this the other day," he continued, taking 
 
Night 3 6 5 
 
 a book from the table beside him ; " it will show you 
 what I mean: 'When a man feels in himself the up- 
 heaval of a new moral fact, he sees plainly enough that 
 that fact cannot come into the actual world all at once — 
 not without first a destruction of the existing order of so- 
 ciety — such a destruction as makes him feel satanic ; 
 then an intellectual revolution ; and lastly only a new 
 order embodying the new impulse.' 
 
 " That is good," he commented, laying the book 
 down, " but what is said there in a few sentences may, 
 in actual fulfilment, require several centuries." 
 
 " It is hard to wait," said Anna. 
 
 " Yes, it is hard," Gregory repeated, his eyes resting 
 on her face with that sympathetic response to her 
 thought which, she was startled to find, could still stir 
 the old warm tremor in her heart ; " but I can wait, can't 
 you ? You can if you believe, as we are bound to be- 
 lieve, in a c divine event toward which the whole creation 
 moves.' I believe, I thank God, also, that, unworthy and 
 powerless as I am in this marred soul and destroyed body 
 of me, I can still hope, still work, still greet the unseen 
 and expect the impossible." 
 
 They talked long, and Anna rose at last to go. 
 
 " Oh, you will be leaving now ! " John Gregory cried, 
 as if he had forgotten that she did not belong to Fra- 
 ternia. 
 
 " Yes," Anna said gently, " I am to return to Spald- 
 ing in an hour for the night, and I start home from 
 there in the morning." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "that is right. You must go;" 
 but with the thought all colour left his face, and his 
 breath came hard and fast. She saw the physical 
 change in him then. She hnd hardly seen it before. 
 
366 A Woman of Yesterday 
 
 " Can I help you ? Can I bring you anything you 
 need ? " she asked quickly. 
 
 He pointed to a glass on the mantel, and said, smiling 
 faintly : — 
 
 " It is so new to make others wait on me. It is not 
 quite easy to lie here and submit to be served, — even 
 by you, Benigna." 
 
 As she brought him the glass, the simple act of ser- 
 vice bore with it a peculiar power of suggestion and 
 produced upon Anna herself an effect far beyond its 
 apparent importance ; for, as she thus served Gregory 
 in his helplessness, a wave of yearning compassion and 
 pure womanly tenderness broke over her heart. He 
 would lie here for years, perhaps, prostrate, defeated, 
 suffering, and she who had so loved him would go her 
 way and leave him alone and uncomforted ! Could it 
 be right ? 
 
 Before the imperious power of this question all other 
 motives lost their significance. 
 
 Greo-ory had recovered from the sharpest effect of his 
 agitation, and raised his eyes again, full of patient and 
 quiet sorrow. 
 
 " Tell me," she cried low and breathlessly, " shall I 
 stay ? I said I wished only to go where was most need 
 of me. Is it here ? Oh, I trust you wholly now, John 
 Gregory ! If you need my service, I will serve you 
 while we both live." 
 
 Then, as they faced each other with looks of solemn 
 question, Anna saw into the depth of the man's strong 
 spirit, and she was prepared for what would follow. 
 
 "That might have been," he said very slowly, and as 
 if he were pronouncing his own doom, " even that 
 unspeakable joy ; but I myself, my child, made it impos- 
 
Night 3 6 7 
 
 sible. Do you no longer see the great gulf fixed between 
 you and me ? " 
 
 He was holding both her hands now, and his own 
 were firm and steady, but his face reflected the stern 
 agony of the moment, while that of Anna was white as 
 death. A throbbing silence filled the room, and all the 
 air seemed to vibrate with the fierce pulsations of their 
 hearts, for in both the cry arose that their punishment, 
 self-inflicted, was greater than they could bear. 
 
 Then calmness fell, for as with one consent their eyes 
 met again, and each perceived the light of a final spiritual 
 conquest, and the shadow of an ultimate renunciation. 
 
 Again, as once before, John Gregory said, " It is the 
 end," and thus, most quietly, they parted. 
 
 ****** 
 It was evening when Anna left Fraternia. As the 
 road entered the woods where the valley widened to the 
 plain, she turned and caught a last glimpse of the soli- 
 tary light which shone from the lowly house on the 
 river's farther side. 
 
 Through all the years and changes which remained to 
 her, never did Anna lose the vision of that light, shining 
 apart in the high valley. But John Gregory she never 
 saw again. 
 
 THE END