THE NEW WORLD

Gabriella stood in front of the station, ecstatically watching George while he struggled for a cab.  In the pale beams of the early sunshine her face looked young, flushed, and expectant, as if she had just awakened from sleep, and her eyes, following her husband, were the happy eyes of a bride.  She wore a new dress of blue broadcloth, passionately overtrimmed by Miss Polly Hatch; on her head a blue velvet toque from Brandywine’s millinery department rested as lightly as a benediction; and her hands clasped Arthur’s wedding present, a bag of alligator skin bearing her initials in gold.  One blissful month ago she and George had been married, and now, on the reluctant return from a camp in the Adirondacks, they were confronting the disillusioning actuality of the New York streets at eight o’clock in the morning.  While Gabriella waited, shivering a a little, for the air was sharp and her broadcloth dress was not warm, she amused herself planning a future which appeared to consist of inexhaustible happiness.  And mingling with her dreams there were divine memories of the last month and of her marriage.  After that one quarrel George, she told herself, had been “simply perfect.”  His manner to her mother had been beautiful; he had been as eager as Gabriella to obliterate all memory of the difference between them, though, of course, after his yielding that supreme point she had felt that she must give up everything else ­and the giving up had been rapture.  He had shown not the faintest disposition to crow over her when at last, after consulting Mrs. Carr, she had told him that her mother really preferred to stay with Jane until summer, though he had remarked with evident relief:  “Then we’ll put off looking for an apartment.  It’s easier to find one in the summer anyway, and in the meantime you can talk it over with mother.”

After this everything had gone so smoothly, so exquisitely, that it was more like a dream than like actual life when she looked back on it.  She saw herself in the floating lace veil of her grandmother, holding white roses in her hand, and she saw George’s face ­the face of her dreams come true ­looking at her out of a starry mist, while in the shining wilderness that surrounded them she heard an organ playing softly “The Voice That Breathed O’er Eden.”  Then the going away!  The good-byes at the station in Richmond; her mother’s face, pathetic and drawn against the folds of her crape veil; Cousin Jimmy, crimson and jovial; Florrie’s violent waving as the train moved away; Miss Jemima, with her smiling, pain-tortured eyes, flinging a handful of rice; the last glimpse of them; the slowly vanishing streets, where the few pedestrians stopped to look after the cars; the park where she had played as a child; the brilliant flower-beds filled with an autumnal bloom of scarlet cannas; the white-aproned negro nurses and the gaily decorated perambulators; the clustering church spires against a sky of pure azure; the negro hovels, with frost-blighted sunflowers dropping brown seeds over the paling fences; the rosy haze of it all; and her heart saying over and over, “There is nothing but love in the world!  There is nothing but love in the world!”

“I’ve got a cab ­the last one,” said George, pushing his way through the crowd, and laying his hand on her arm with a possessive and authoritative touch.  “Let me put you in, and then I’ll speak to the driver.”

As he gave the address she watched him, still fascinated with the delicious strangeness of it all.  It was like an adventure to have George whisk her so peremptorily into a cab, and then stand with his foot on the step while he curtly directed the driver.  Nothing could surpass the romance ­the supreme exciting romance of life.  Every minute was an event; every act of George’s was as thrilling as a moment in melodrama.  And as they drove through the streets, over the pale bands of sunshine, she had a sense of lightness and wonder, as if she were driving in a world of magic toward ineffable happiness.

“Isn’t it strange to be here together, George?” she said.  “I can hardly believe it.”  But in her heart she was thinking:  “I shall never want anything but love in my life.  If I have George I shall never want anything else.”  The bedraggled, slatternly figures of the women sweeping the pavements in the cross-street through which they were driving filled her with a fugitive sadness, so faint, so pale that it hardly dimmed the serene brightness of her mood.  “I wish they were all as happy as I am,” she thought; “and they might be if they only knew the secret of happiness.  If they only knew that nothing in the world matters when one has love in one’s heart.”

“You’ll believe it soon enough when we turn into Fifth Avenue,” replied George, glancing with disgust out of the window.  A month of intimacy had increased the power of his smile over her senses, and when he turned to her again after a minute, she felt something of the faint delicious tremor of their first meeting.  Already she was beginning to discover that beyond his expressive eyes he had really very little of importance to express, that his prolonged silences covered poverty of ideas rather than abundance of feeling, that his limited vocabulary was due less to reticence than to the simple inarticulateness of the primitive mind.  Through the golden glamour of her honeymoon there had loomed suddenly the discovery that George was not clever ­but cleverness mattered so little, she told herself, as long as he loved her.

“I hope your mother will like me,” she said nervously after a minute.

“I’ll be sorry for her if she doesn’t.”

“Do I look nice?”

“Of course you do.  I never saw you when you didn’t.”

“I feel so dreadfully untidy.  I never tried to dress in a sleeping-car before.”

“It did rock, didn’t it?”

“I’ll never travel again at night if I can help it.  There’s a cinder in your eye; let me get it out for you.”  It thrilled her pleasantly to remove the cinder with the corner of her handkerchief, and to order him to sit still whenever the cab jolted.  It was incredibly young, incredibly foolish, but it was all a part of the wonderful enchantment in which she moved.  The cinder had made an agreeable episode, but when it had been removed there was nothing more for them to talk about.  In four weeks of daily and hourly companionship they had said very easily, Gabriella had found, everything they had longed so passionately to say to each other.  It was strange ­it was positively astounding how soon they had talked themselves empty of ideas and fallen back upon repetition and ejaculation.  Before her marriage she had thought that a lifetime would be too short to hold the full richness of their confidences; and yet now, after a month, though they still made love, they had ceased, almost with relief, to make conversation.

After turning into Fifth Avenue they drove for ages between depressing examples in brownstone of an architecture which, like George, was trying rather vaguely to express nothing; and then rolling heavily into Fifty-seventh Street stopped presently before one of the solemn houses which stood, in the dignity of utter ugliness, midway of a long block.  “They are all so alike I don’t see how I shall ever know where I live,” thought Gabriella.  Then, as George helped her out of the cab, the door opened as if by magic, and beyond the solemn manservant she saw the short, stout figure of a lady in a tightly fitting morning gown of black silk.  Hurrying up the steps, she was pressed against a large smooth bosom which yielded as little as if it had been upholstered in leather.

“My dear daughter! my dear Gabriella!” exclaimed the lady in a charming voice; and looking down after the first kiss, Gabriella saw a handsome, slightly florid face, with the vivacious smile of a girl and a beautiful forehead under a stiffly crimped arch of gray hair which looked as hard and bright as silver.

“I’ve been up since seven o’clock waiting for you.  You must be famished.  Come straight in to breakfast.  Your father is already at the table, George.  Poor man, he has to start downtown so dreadfully early.”

Bright, effusive, vivacious, and as emphatically Southern as if she had never left Franklin Street, Mrs. Fowler took off Gabriella’s hat and coat, kissed her several times while she was doing so, and at last, still talking animatedly, led them into the dining-room.

“Archibald, here they are,” she said in a tone of unaffected delight, while a thin, serious-looking man, with anxious eyes, pale, aristocratic features, and skin that had a curious parchment-like texture, put down the Times, and came forward to meet them.  Though he did not speak as he kissed her, Gabriella felt that there was sincere, if detached, friendliness in his little pat on her shoulder.  He led her almost tenderly to her chair; and as soon as she was comfortably seated and supplied with rolls and bacon, resigned her contentedly to his wife and the butler.  His manner of gentle abstraction, which Gabriella attributed first to something he had just read in the newspaper, she presently discovered to be his habitual attitude toward all the world except Wall Street.  He ate his breakfast as if his attention were somewhere else; he spoke to his son and his daughter-in-law kindly, but as if he were not thinking about them; he treated his wife, whom he adored, as if he had not clearly perceived her.  In the profound abstraction in which he lived every impression appeared to have become blurred except the tremendous impression of whirling forces; every detail seemed to have been obscured except the gigantic details of “Business.”  His manner was perfectly well-bred, but it was the manner of a man who moves through life rehearsing a part of which he barely remembers the words.  From the first minute it was evident to Gabriella that her father-in-law adored his wife as an ideal, though he seemed scarcely aware of her as a person.  He had given her his love, but his interests, his energies, his attention were elsewhere.

“Is that the way George will treat me ­as if I were only a dream woman?” thought Gabriella while she watched her father-in-law over the open sheet of the Times.  Then, with her eyes on her husband, she realized that he was of his mother’s blood, not his father’s.  Business could never absorb him.  His restlessness, his instability, his love of pleasure, would prevent the sapping of his nature by one supreme interest.

The table, like everything else in the room, was solid, heavy, and expensive.  On the floor a heavy and expensive carpet, with a pattern in squares, stretched to the heavy and expensive moulding which bordered a heavy and expensive paper.  Mrs. Fowler’s taste, like Jimmy’s (he was her third cousin), leaned apparently toward embossment, for behind a massive repoussé silver service she sat, as handsome and substantial as the room, with her face flushing in splotches from the heat of her coffee.

Some twenty-odd years before the house had been furnished at great cost, according to the opulent taste of the early ’seventies, and, unchanged by severer and more frugal fashions, it remained a solid monument to the first great financial deal of Archibald Fowler.  It was at the golden age, when, still young and energetic, luck had come to him in a day, that he had bought the brownstone house in Fifty-seventh Street, and his wife, also young and energetic, had gone out “to get whatever she liked.”  Trained in a simple school during the war, and brought up in the formal purity of high-ceiled rooms furnished in Chippendale and Sheraton, her natural tastes were, nevertheless, as ornate as the interiors of the New York shops.  Though the blood of colonial heroes ran in her veins, she was still the child of her age, and her age prided itself upon being entirely modern in all things from religion to furniture.

As she sat there behind the mammoth coffee urn, from which a spiral of steam floated, her handsome face irradiated the spirit of kindness.  Because of her rather short figure, she appeared at her best when she was sitting, and now, with her large, tightly laced hips hidden beneath the table and her firm, jet-plastered bosom appearing above it, she presented a picture of calm and matronly beauty.  Not once did she seem to think of herself or her own breakfast.  Even while she buttered her toast and drank her steaming coffee, her bright blue eyes travelled unceasingly over the table, first to her husband’s plate, then to Gabriella’s, then to her son’s.  It was easy to see that she was the dominant and vital force in the household.  She ruled Archibald, less indirectly perhaps, but quite as consistently as Cousin Pussy ruled Cousin Jimmy.

“My dear, you must eat your breakfast,” she said urgently to her daughter-in-law.  “Archibald, let me give you your second cup of coffee.  Remember what a trying day you have before you, and make a good breakfast.  It is so hard to get him to eat,” she explained to Gabriella; “I have to coax him to drink his two cups of coffee, for if he doesn’t he is sure to come home with a headache.”

“Well, give me a cup, Evelyn,” replied Mr. Fowler, in his gentle voice, yielding apparently to please her.  In his youth he must have been very handsome, Gabriella thought; but now, though he still retained a certain distinction, he had the look of a man who has been drained of his vitality.  What surprised her ­for she had heard him described as “a hard man in business” ­was the suggestion of the scholar in his appearance.  With his narrow, carefully brushed head, his dreamy and rather wistful blue eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, his stooping, slender shoulders, and his long, delicate hands covered with prominent veins, he ought to have been either a poet or a philosopher.

“You must be happy with us, my dear,” he had said to Gabriella, showing a minute later such gentle eagerness to return to a part of the newspaper which Gabriella had never read and did not understand, that his wife remarked pityingly:  “Read your paper, Archibald, and don’t let our chatter disturb you.  There are a thousand things I want to say to the children.”

“Well, it’s time for me to be going, Evelyn,” Mr. Fowler responded, reluctantly folding the pages; “I’ll look into this on the way down.”

“Remember, dear, that Judge Crowborough is coming to dinner.”

“I’ll remember.  Is there any one else?”

“Mrs. Crowborough, of course, and Colonel Buffington, and one or two others.  Nobody that you will care for except the judge and Patty and Billy.”

“I shan’t forget, but I may be a little late getting home.  Good-bye, my dear, until evening.”

Bending over her chair, he kissed her flushed cheek, while George remarked carelessly:  “I’ll see you later, father, when I’ve had a bath and a shave.”

After the gentle tones of Mr. Fowler, the vitality of George’s voice sounded almost brutal, and he added just as carelessly when the front door had shut softly:  “The old man looks seedy, doesn’t he, mother?”

A worried look brought out three startling lines in Mrs. Fowler’s forehead, and Gabriella observed suddenly that there were tiny crow’s feet around her blue eyes where the whites were flecked ever so faintly with yellow.  Though she was well into the mid-fifties, her carefully preserved skin had kept the firmness and the texture of youth, and she still flushed easily and unbecomingly as she had done as a girl.

“He hasn’t been a bit well, George.  I am very anxious about him.  You know when he worries over his business, he doesn’t eat his meals, and as soon as he stops eating he begins to have nervous dyspepsia.  He has just had a bad attack; that’s why he looks so run down and haggard.”

“Can’t the doctor do anything for him?”

“He gave him some drops, but it is so hard to get your father to take medicine.  Rest is what he needs, and, of course, that is out of the question while things are so unsettled.  You must help him all you can, my boy, and Gabriella and I will manage with each other’s company.”

Her bright smile was still on her lips, but Gabriella noticed that she pushed her buttered roll away as if she were choking.

In the early afternoon, when George had gone to join his father in the office, and Gabriella, seated at a little white and gold desk in the room which had been Patty’s, was just finishing a letter to her mother, Mrs. Fowler came in, and pushing a chintz-covered chair close to the desk, sank into it and laid her small nervous hand on the arm of her daughter-in-law.  She was wearing a velvet bonnet, with strings, and a street gown of black broadcloth, which fitted her like a glove and accentuated, after the fashion of the ’nineties, her small, compact waist and the deep substantial curves of her bosom and hips.  Her eyes, behind the little veil of spotted tulle which reached to the tip of her nose, were bright and wistful, and though her colour was too high, a smile of troubled sweetness lent it a peculiar charm of expression.

“How nice you look, my dear,” she said, with her pleasant manner, which no anxiety, hardly any grief, could dispel.  “Are you very busy, or may I talk to you a little while?”

Drawing closer to her, Gabriella raised the plump little hand to her lips.  Beneath the surface pleasantness of Mrs. Fowler’s life ­that pleasantness which wrapped her like a religion ­she was beginning to discern a deep disquietude.

“I want to talk to you, mamma,” she said, and her manner was a caress.

“You love George very much, dear?” asked Mrs. Fowler so suddenly that Gabriella looked at her startled.

For a minute the girl could not speak.  “Oh, yes; oh, yes,” she answered presently, and choked over the words.

“We wanted so much to go to your wedding ­we were afraid you would think it strange that we stayed away, but Archibald had his attack just then, and on top of it he was terribly worried about his affairs.  We have had a very hard year, and we feel so sorry, both of us, that we can’t do more for your pleasure.  As it is, we are cutting down our expenses in every way, and I have even decided to give up my carriage the first of next year.

“I know, I know,” said Gabriella, who had never had a carriage, and to whom the giving up of one seemed the smallest imaginable sacrifice.  “We mustn’t add to your cares,” she went on after a minute.  “Wouldn’t it be better, really better, if we were to take an apartment at once instead of waiting until June?”

“Until June?” repeated Mrs. Fowler vaguely, and she added quickly:  “It is the greatest pleasure to have you here.  Since Patty went I get so terribly lonely, and I don’t think it would be at all wise for you to go to yourselves.  George has hardly anything except what his father is able to give him, you know.  The poor boy hasn’t the least head for business.”

“But we shouldn’t need much.  I am sure I could manage just with what George makes ­no matter how little it is.”

For an instant Mrs. Fowler looked at her thoughtfully.

“You could, but George couldn’t,” she answered.

“You mean he is extravagant?”

“He has never had the slightest idea of the value of money ­that is one of the things you must teach him.  He is a dear boy, but he has never made a success of anything he has undertaken, and his father thinks he is too unpractical ever to do so.  But you must try to get him to live within your means, my dear, or you will both be miserable.  Try to keep him from borrowing.”

“But he refuses to talk to me about his work.  It bores him,” said Gabriella; and her simple soul, trained to regard debt as a deeper disgrace than poverty, grew suddenly troubled.  In her childhood they had gone without food rather than borrow, she remembered.

“The matter with dear George,” pursued Mrs. Fowler ­and from the sweetness of her manner she might have been paying him a compliment ­“is that he has never been steady.  He doesn’t stick at anything long enough to make it a success.  If he were left to himself he would speculate wildly, and this is why his father is obliged to overlook all that he does in the office.  It is just here that you can be of such wonderful help to him, Gabriella, by your influence.  This is why I am telling you.”

But had she any influence over him?  In spite of his passion for her had she ever turned him by so much as a hair’s breadth from the direction of his impetuous desires?  Once only she had withstood him ­once only she had triumphed, and for that triumph she had paid by a complete surrender!  She had been too glad to yield, too fearful of bringing a cloud over the sunny blue of his eyes.

“I want to help him ­I want you to tell me how I can help him,” she said earnestly.  “While we are with you this winter, you must teach me how to do it.  Before we begin housekeeping in the summer, I want to learn all I possibly can about George’s affairs.  He won’t talk to me about practical matters, so you must do it.”

“But where are you going, Gabriella?  I thought you had decided to live with us?”

“But didn’t George tell you?  Surely he must have told you.  We are to take an apartment in June so my mother can come to us.  I felt, of course, that I couldn’t leave mother, and George understands.  He was perfectly lovely about it.”

“I see, I see,” murmured Mrs. Fowler, as if she were thinking of something else.  “Well, that will all come right, dear, I hope.”

Rising abruptly, she began to draw on her gloves.  “If you only knew how I long to make you happy,” she said softly; “as happy as I have been with George’s father.”

“They are so unlike,” answered Gabriella, and the next day when she remembered the admission, she wondered how it had slipped from her.

“Yes, they are unlike,” agreed Mrs. Fowler.  “George takes after me, and I am a frivolous person.  But there doesn’t live a better man than my husband,” she added, glowing.  “I’ve been his wife for thirty years, and in all that time I don’t believe he has ever thought first of himself.  Yes, it was thirty years ago that I drove through the streets with my bridal veil on, and felt so sorry for all the girls I saw who were not going to be married.  To-day I feel exactly the same way ­sorry for all the women who couldn’t have Archibald for a husband.  I’ve lived with him thirty years, I’ve borne him children, and I’m still sorry for all the other women ­even for you, Gabriella.”

“He seems so kind,” said Gabriella; “I felt that about him, and it’s the best thing, after all, isn’t it?” It was the best thing, and yet she knew that George was not kind ­that he was not even good-tempered.

“Yes, it’s the best thing, after all, in marriage,” answered the older woman; “it’s the thing that wears.”

“I have always wanted the best of life,” rejoined Gabriella thoughtfully; and she went on gravely after a moment:  “I couldn’t love George any more than I do, but I wish that in some ways he would grow like his father.”

“The boy has a very sweet nature,” replied George’s mother, “and I hope marriage will steady him.”  It was a warning, Gabriella knew, and she wondered afterwards if her silent acquiescence in Mrs. Fowler’s judgment had not been furtive disloyalty to George.

“A great deal will depend on you, dear, for he is very much in love,” resumed Mrs. Fowler when Gabriella did not speak, and she repeated very solemnly, “I hope marriage will steady him.”

In her heart Gabriella was hoping so, too, but all she said was, “I promise you that I will do all I can.”  She had given her word, and, looking into her eyes, Mrs. Fowler understood that her daughter-in-law was not one to give her word lightly.  Gabriella would keep her promise.  She would do her best, whatever happened.

The older woman, with her life’s history behind her, watched the girl for a minute in silence.  There was so much that she longed to say, so much that could never be spoken even between women.  She herself was an optimist, but her optimism had been wrung from the bitter core of experience.  Her faith was firm, though it held few illusions, for, if she was an optimist, she was also a realist.  She believed in life, not because it had satisfied her, but because she had had the wisdom to understand that the supreme failure had been, not life’s, but her own.  If she could only have lived it again and lived it differently from the beginning!  If she could only have used her deeper wisdom not to regret the past, but to create the future!  Much as she had loved her husband, she knew now that she had sacrificed him to the world.  Much as she had loved her children, she would have sacrificed them, also, had it been possible.  To the tin gods she had offered her soul ­to the things that did not matter she had yielded up the only things that mattered at all.  And she knew now that, in spite of her clearness of vision, the worldliness which had ruined her life was still bound up in all that was essential and endurable in her nature.  She still wanted the illusions as passionately as if she believed in their reality; she still winced as sharply at the thought of Patty’s marriage and of all that Patty had given up.  In the case of George, she admitted that it was her fault ­that she had spoiled him ­but how could she have helped it?  She remembered how he had looked as a child, with his round flushed face, his chestnut curls, and his eager, questioning eyes.  He had been a beautiful child, more beautiful even than Patty, and because of his beauty she had been able to refuse him nothing.  Then she thought of his boyhood, of his reckless extravagance at college; of the tales of his wildness to which she had shut her ears; of his debts, and still of his debts, which she had paid out of the housekeeping money because she was afraid to let his father know of them.  Yes, George, in spite of his sweet nature, had given them a great deal of trouble, so much trouble that she had been quite reconciled to his marriage with any respectable girl.  The memory of a chorus girl with whom he had once entangled himself still gave her a shiver at the heart when she recalled it.  Money, always more money, had gone into that; and at last, just as she had grown hopeless of saving him, he had met this fine, sensible Gabriella, who looked so strong, so competent, and there had come an end to the disturbing stories which reached her at intervals.  Surely it was proof of her son’s inborn fineness that from the pink perfection of girlhood he should have chosen the capable Gabriella!  At first she had regretted his choice, hoping, as the worldly and the unworldly alike hope for their sons, that the object of George’s disinterested affection would prove to be wealthy.  Then at the sight of Gabriella she had surrendered completely.  The girl was fine all through, this she could see as soon as she looked at her.  She liked her noble though not beautiful face, with the broad clear forehead from which the soft dark hair was brushed back so simply, and, most of all, she liked the charm and sympathy in her voice.  George had chosen well, and if she could trust his choice, why could she not trust him to be true to it?

“I wonder if you would like to put on your hat and come with me?” she asked, obeying an impulse.  “I’m going to drive up to Patty’s with some curtains for her bedroom.”

“Oh, I’d love to,” replied Gabriella with eagerness, for she hated inaction, and it was impossible to spend a whole afternoon merely thinking about one’s happiness.  “It won’t take me a minute to get ready.”

While she put on her hat and coat, Mrs. Fowler watched her thoughtfully, saying once:  “It is quite cool, you’d better bring your furs, dear.”

When Gabriella answered frankly, “I haven’t any, I never had any furs in my life,” a tender expression crept into the rather hard blue eyes of her mother-in-law, and she said quickly:  “Well, I’ve a set of white fox that I am too old to wear, and you shall have it.”

“But what of Patty?” asked Gabriella, for she had grown up thinking of other people and she couldn’t break the habit of twenty years in a minute.

“Oh, Patty has all the furs she’ll need for years.  We spent every penny we had on Patty before she married,” answered Mrs. Fowler, but she was saying to herself:  “Yes, the girl is the right wife for him.  I am sure she is the right wife for him.”

The Park was brilliant with falling leaves, and as they drove beneath a perfect sky beside a lake which sparkled like sapphire, Gabriella, lifting her chin above the white furs, said rapturously, “Oh, I am so happy!  Life is so beautiful!”

A shadow stole into the eyes with which Mrs. Fowler was watching the passing carriages, and the fixed sweetness about her mouth melted into an expression of yearning.  Tears veiled the faces of the women who spoke to her in passing, for she was thinking of her first drive in the Park with her husband, and though her marriage had been a happy one, she felt a strange longing as if she wanted to weep.

“I never saw such wonderful horses,” said Gabriella.  “Cousin Jimmy would be wild about them;” and she added impetuously, “But the hats aren’t in the least like the one I am wearing.”  A misgiving seized her as she realized that her dresses, copied by Miss Polly with ardent fidelity from a Paris fashion book, were all hopelessly wrong.  She wondered if her green silk gown with the black velvet sleeves was different in style from the gowns the other women were wearing under their furs?  Had sleeves of a different colour from the bodice, which Miss Polly considered the last touch of elegance, really gone out of fashion?

The carriage passed out of the Park, and turning into one of the streets on the upper West Side stopped presently before a small dingy apartment house, where a dozen ragged children were playing leapfrog on the pavement.

“Patty has the top floor ­there’s a studio.”  Drawing her skirts away from the children, for her generation feared contact with the lower classes, Mrs. Fowler walked briskly to the low brown steps, on which an ash can stood waiting for removal.  Inside, where the hall smelled uninvitingly of stale cooking, they rang for the elevator under a dim yellow light which revealed a hundred secret lines in their faces.

“I can’t imagine how Patty puts up with the place,” remarked Patty’s mother dejectedly.  “You wouldn’t believe the trouble we went to to start her well.  She was the acknowledged beauty of her winter ­everybody was crazy about her looks ­and the very week before she ran off with Billy she had a proposal from the Duke of Toxbridge.  Of course, if I’d ever dreamed she had a fancy for Billy, I’d have kept him out of her sight instead of allowing him to paint her portrait whenever she had any time she could spare.  But who on earth would have suspected it?  Billy King, whom she had known all her life, as poor as a church mouse, and the kind of painter whose work will never ‘take’ if he lives to be a thousand!  His portraits may be good art ­I don’t pretend to know anything about that ­but I do know pictures of pretty women when I see them, and his women are frights, every last one of them.  If you’re thin, he paints your skeleton, and if you’re fat, he makes you as square as a house, and, thin or fat, he always gives you a blue and yellow complexion.  He wouldn’t even make Patty white, though I implored him to do it ­and he made her look exactly ten years older than her age.”

“I’ve never seen any portraits of living people ­only of ancestors,” said Gabriella, “and I am so much interested.”

“Well, you mustn’t judge them by Billy’s, my dear, even if he did get all those prizes in Paris.  But I always said the French were queer, and if they hadn’t been, they would never have raved so over the things Billy painted.  Now, Augustus Featherfield’s are really charming.  One can tell to look at his portraits that he paints only ladies, and he gives them all the most perfectly lovely hair, whether they have it or not.  Some day I’ll take you to his studio and let you see for yourself.”

The elevator descended, creaking beneath the weight of a negro youth who seemed half asleep, and a little later, creaking more loudly, it bore them slowly upward to the top of the house.

“I feel as if I were taking my life in my hands whenever I come here,” observed Mrs. Fowler, in the tone of dispassionate resignation with which she always discussed Patty and the surroundings amid which Patty lived.  Marching resolutely, though disapprovingly, down a long hall, she pressed a small bell at the side of a door, and stood, holding tightly to the bundle of curtains, while her expression of unnatural pleasantness grew almost painful in its determination.  Here, also, they waited some time, and when at last the door was opened by an agitated maid, without an apron, and they were led into a long, queerly furnished studio, with a balcony from which they had a distant cloudless view of the river, Gabriella felt for a minute that she must have fallen into a dream.  Long afterwards she learned that Billy’s studio was charming, with its blurred Italian tapestries, which had faded to an exquisite tone, with its broken torsos of old marble, warming to deep ivory in the sunlight, with its ecstatic haloed saints praying against dim Tuscan landscapes, with its odd and unexpected seats of carved stone on which the cushions made strange splotches and pools of colour.  At the time, seen through provincial eyes, it seemed merely “queer” to her; and queerer still appeared the undraped figures of women, all lean lines and violet shadows, which, unframed and unhung, filled the dusty corners.

“The river is lovely, but it is so far away,” she said, turning her abashed eyes from the nude figures, and thinking how terribly they would have shocked the innocence of Cousin Jimmy.

“I always look at the river when I come here,” responded Mrs. Fowler, and her tone implied that the river at least was perfectly proper.  “A month ago the colours were wonderful.”

In the drive, which they could see from a corner view, a few old men, forgotten by time, warmed themselves in the sunlight.  Far below, the river reflected the changeable blue of the sky, while the autumnal pageantry on the horizon was fading slowly, like a burned-out fire, to the colour of ashes.

“Mother, dear, I’m so glad,” said a gay voice in the doorway, and turning quickly, Gabriella stared with wide eyes at the vision of Patty ­of Patty in some soft tea-gown, which borrowed its tone from the old tapestries on the wall, with her honey-coloured hair hanging over her shoulders, and her eyes as fresh as blue flowers in the ivory pallor of her face.

“And this is Gabriella,” she added, holding out her arms.  “What a darling you are to come so soon, Gabriella.”

She was a tall girl, so tall that she stooped to kiss Gabriella, whose height measured exactly five feet and seven inches, and she was beautiful with the faultless beauty which is seen only once or twice in a generation, but which, seen once, is never forgotten.  For Patty’s beauty, as a poet once wrote of a dead woman, was the beauty of destiny, the beauty that changes history and turns men into angels or into beasts.  Though Gabriella had seen lovely skins on Southern women ­rose-leaf skins, magnolia skins, peach-blossom skins ­she had seen nothing that resembled the exquisite colour and texture of Patty’s face.

“The curtains were finished, so I brought them,” said Mrs. Fowler, pointing to the bundle.  “I wanted Gabriella to see the Park.  You are coming to-night without fail, aren’t you, Patty?”

“Without fail, even if we have to walk,” answered Patty.  “You can’t imagine how much it costs to get about when one lives so far uptown.  That’s one reason we are anxious to move.  Billy has been looking for a studio for weeks, and, do you know, he has really found one at last.  Harry Allen is moving out of the Rubens Building, and we are going to take his studio on the top floor.  We’re awfully lucky, too, to get it, for it is the first vacancy there for years.”

“But it’s over a stable, isn’t it?” asked Mrs. Fowler.  “How could you possibly live there?  And the East Side way down there is just as bad as up here”

“I believe there is a stable, but it won’t bother us ­we’re too high,” replied Patty.

“Well, we can’t stop; Gabriella hasn’t unpacked her trunks,” returned Mrs. Fowler; “but be sure to come early, Patty.  I want your father to see you.”

“I wish there wasn’t going to be anybody else.  I want to talk to my sister.  Isn’t it lovely to have a sister, and mamma was too selfish to give me one.  Do you call her ‘mamma,’ too, Gabriella?”

“Of course she calls me ‘mamma,’” answered Mrs. Fowler before Gabriella could speak, “and she is a much better daughter already than you ever were.”

“And a much better son, too, than George ever was?” asked Patty slyly.

“We aren’t talking about George.  George has settled down,” said Mrs. Fowler quickly, too quickly it occurred to Gabriella, who was eager to hear all that the daring Patty would say.  “Don’t you think those white furs look well on Gabriella?”

“She looks like the snow queen in them.  Does it matter what I wear to-night?  Who is coming?”

“Nobody you will care about ­only Judge and Mrs. Crowborough and Colonel Buffington.”

“That old bore of a colonel!  And why do you have to ask the judge again so soon?  He looks like a turkey gobbler, Gabriella, and he has so much money that it is impossible to judge him by the standards of other people, everybody says that ­even Billy.”

“Hush, Patty.  You mustn’t corrupt Gabriella.”

“If the judge doesn’t, I shan’t, mamma.”

“Well, your father has the greatest respect for him, and as for asking him often to dinner, it isn’t by any means so easy to get him as you think.  I don’t suppose there’s another man in New York who is invited out so often and goes out so little.”

“Papa is a sweet innocent,” observed Patty maliciously, “but if you can stand the judge, mamma, dear, I am sure I can, especially as I shan’t have to sit by him.  That honour will be reserved for poor Gabriella.  I wish you didn’t have to go, but you really must, I suppose?”

“Yes, we must go.  Come, Gabriella, or you won’t have time to get into your trunks before dinner.”

On the drive home Mrs. Fowler was grimly silent, while the sweetness about her mouth ebbed slowly away, leaving the faintest quiver of the muscles.  For the first time Gabriella saw George’s mother look as she must look in her sleep, when the artificial cheerfulness of her expression faded into the profound unconsciousness which drowns not only happiness, but the very pretence of happiness.  So here, also, was insincerity, here, also, was the striving, not for realities, but for appearances!  In a different form she saw her mother’s struggle again ­that struggle, without beginning and without end, which moved always in a circle and led nowhere.  Was there no sincerity, no reality even in love?  Was George, too, only a shadow?  And the visible sadness of the November afternoon, with its faint haze like the haze of a dream landscape, seemed a part of this invisible sadness which had sprung from nothing and which would change and pass away in a breath.  “If things would only last,” she thought, looking with wistful eyes on the gold and purple around her.  “If things would only last, how wonderful life would be!”

“To think that all Patty’s beauty should have been thrown away,” said Mrs. Fowler suddenly.

Though Gabriella had never seen Billy, she was inclined at the moment, in her mood of dissatisfaction with the universe, to sympathize with Mrs. Fowler’s view of the matter.  To her frugal mind, trained to economy of material, it seemed that Patty was altogether too much for a poor man ­even though he could paint her in lean lines and violet shadows.

Upstairs she found her trunks in her bedroom, and after she had unpacked her wedding-gown of white satin, removed the tissue paper stuffing from the sleeves, and shaken out the creases with gentle hands, she sat down and pondered deeply the problem of dressing for dinner.  By removing the lace yoke, she might make the gown sufficiently indecorous for the fashion of the period, and her only evening dress, the white muslin she had worn to dances in Richmond, she reflected gloomily, would appear absurd in New York.

“I wish I didn’t look such a fright,” she said aloud, as she ripped and sewed.  Then, in a flash, her mind wandered from herself, and she thought:  “I wonder why George didn’t tell his mother that we are going to take an apartment?  I wonder why he didn’t tell her that mother is coming in June?  When he comes I must ask him.”

Looking at the clock, she saw that it was after seven, and hurriedly taking the last few stitches, she laid the gown on the bed, bathed her face in cold water, and then, sitting down before her dressing-table, drew the pins from her hair.  In some obscure way she felt herself a different person from the bride who had watched George so ecstatically at the station that morning.  She could not tell how she had altered, and yet she felt perfectly conscious that an alteration had taken place in her soul ­that she was not the same Gabriella ­that life could never be again exactly as it had been before.  Nothing and yet everything seemed to have happened to her in a day.  Her face, gazing gravely back at her from the mirror, looked young and wistful, the face of one who, like a bird flying suddenly out of darkness against a lamp, is bewildered by the first shock of the light.

When her hair was arranged in the simple way she had always worn it, she slipped her dress over her bare shoulders, and fastened it slowly ­for Miss Polly had no patience with “back fastenings” ­while she told herself again that George would not be satisfied.  She knew that her gown was provincial, knew that she lacked the “dash” he admired in women; and from the first she had been mystified by a love which could, while still passionately desiring her, wish her different in so many ways.  “I’d like him to be proud of me, but I suppose he never will be,” she thought dejectedly, “and yet he fell in love with me just as I was, and he did not fall in love with any of the dashing women he knows,” she added quickly, consoled by the reflection.  “And of course in a few things I wish him different, too.  I wish he wasn’t so careless.  He is so careless that I shall have to be twice as careful, I shall have to look after him all the time.  Even to-night he has forgotten about the dinner, and he’ll be obliged to dress in a hurry, which he hates.”

Glancing at the clock again, she saw that it was a quarter of eight, and still George had not come.