Mal Moulée: A Novel

Aside from the sorrow he felt at the news of Mrs. Butler's illness, Percy read the telegram with an actual sense of relief. We all remember to have experienced the feeling at some time in our lives, when inclination warred with conscience, and Fate, constituting herself umpire, decided in favor of inclination.

"There is no escaping Destiny. After all, whatever the Power that rules this world, we are

he said, as he placed the letter he had written in his pocket, and scribbled a hasty reply to Dolores' telegram.

Arriving at Paris, he found Mrs. Butler in an extremely critical condition. She had been ill since the day following her arrival, and Dolores had scarcely slept or tasted food in her care and anxiety.

"Never since my uncle died," she said to Percy, "have I known such loneliness and dependence as I feel now. It seemed to me I must have some one near me, who would share my anxiety and personal interest in the patient. I hope you will forgive me for sending for you: but when I realized that she might die, I could not bear the suspense any longer alone."

Percy proved himself a hero in the emergency: he was brother, father, friend and messenger, all in one.

He performed all those innumerable outside duties necessitated by illness, and helped sustain Dolores' courage and strength, until at length the patient was pronounced on the highway to recovery.

Then there were long health-restoring drives, and pleasant afternoons when Percy read to the convalescent, while Dolores sat near with her sewing or drawing. But by and by there came a day when Percy realized that he must tear himself away, at once.

He had been reading aloud, and, among other things, he read a little poem entitled "The Farewell." It seemed particularly suited to his case.

He laid down the book. Mrs. Butler was asleep, lulled by his soothing voice. As he sat looking at Dolores, her beauty, her grace, her intellect, and all her countless charms awoke an irritated sense of injury in his heart.

What right had she to keep her attractions constantly before him, and yet deny him the right of possession? It was the cup of Tantalus. He rose suddenly.

"Dolores," he said, drawing a letter from his pocket, "I wrote this to you before I received your telegram calling me to you. I am going back to London day after to-morrow. I shall call to-morrow to say farewell. But I want you to read this letter, as it will explain to you my abrupt leave-taking better than I can explain it." And then he left her.

Dolores broke the seal, and began to read the letter, first with wondering curiosity, then with anger. Her eye flashed, her cheek flushed, her lip quivered.

"What right has he to address me—to think of me like this?" she cried bitterly. "I have never given him one liberty—" Then she paused, for over her swept the memory of that single moment on the ice-boat when her heart had rested against his—her head pillowed upon his shoulder. Even now, it thrilled her with an emotion as sweet as it was strange. Her anger gave place to a profound melancholy.

Dimly, and with a sensation approaching terror, she began to understand Percy's own feelings, and the danger of his position. She could not blame him—she could only blame herself.

"It is my own fault," she said to her aching heart. "I expected too much. There is no possibility of an enduring friendship between man and woman in this world. That, too, is as transient and unreliable as love. And yet—and yet—how can I give up my friend—how can I?" and, burying her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.

When Percy called the following day, Mrs. Butler was informed, for the first time, of his intended return to America the succeeding week.

"Then we must be ready to accompany you," she said. "I am convinced that I have only a short time to live. I want to die in my own land. Dolores, we can be ready—can we not—by the time Percy goes?"

"It is not necessary," Dolores replied, blushing painfully. "We could go the next week as well. We need not trouble Mr. Durand to act as our escort on this voyage, Mrs. Butler."

"Why, what in the world has come over you?" cried Mrs. Butler, staring with wondering eyes at Dolores. "You speak as if Percy were a stranger, instead of our almost brother and son. I am sure he will wait for us, if we cannot go next week. I have an unaccountable dread of making the voyage unattended. I shall feel far safer with our friend by my side; and, somehow, I am sure we shall need him."

So again Percy's earnest desire to fly from an embarrassing position was circumvented, and he was once more to be the companion of Dolores.

Mrs. Butler seemed to rally with a feverish excitement as they made their preparations for departure. Dolores watched her with anxious eyes.

"I fear you are not strong enough to take the sea-voyage at this time of year," she urged. "Will you not wait until later in the season, dear Mrs. Butler?"

But Mrs. Butler would not listen. "I can scarcely wait until next week;" she said, "I could not possibly delay my departure another month. It would make me ill, I know. Once on the ocean I shall grow stronger."

But instead she drooped, and failed; and on the fifth day of the stormy voyage, Percy and Dolores stood beside her shrouded form listening to the solemn service for the dead at sea.

They were standing on the deck, quite alone, the evening before they reached harbor....

Dolores drew a long shivering sigh. "Oh," she said, "I dread the sight of land! It seems to me, I am going into some arid desert, where I shall faint, and die, from very loneliness. I have lost my friend who was almost like an own mother to me. And now I am to lose you. Life is cruel to me. I think it is wicked for parents to bring children into this world of trouble and sorrow. Oh, why was I ever born to swell the tide of miserable suffering humanity?"

Percy laid his hand gently on her arm.

"You do not lose my friendship," he said. "Remember, I shall always be your loyal friend, ready to do you any favor. But the close companionship and intimate association of the last year becomes every day more impossible. You must realize it yourself."

"I do, I do," she said, and then she put her hands over her face, and her tears fell through the slender fingers.

"I wish I had been buried in the sea, too;" she sobbed. "I would not have been so much alone as I am upon this dreary earth, where every thing dear is taken from me."

He turned and took her hands down from her tear wet face, and drew them closely in his own.

His face was very pale. His voice trembled with the intensity of his emotions.

"Listen to me Dolores," he said, in a low, and almost stern tone. "I think we understand and respect each other's views perfectly. I think, if in a moment of profound sorrow like this, we disregarded the settled convictions of a life-time, that we should in calmer and brighter hours regret it. But I think also, that when two people have become so necessary to each other's lives as we have become,—when such perfect sympathy exists, as exists between us,—I think then, Dolores, that it is wicked to throw aside the happiness which might be theirs. George Eliot and Mr. Lewes did not throw it away; Shelley and Mary Godwin did not; Mary Wollstonecraft and Imlay did not. It is simply a question whether a woman cares more for the forms of Society, and the laws made by men, than she cares for the love and companionship of one man. I have found more happiness in this year of association with you, than I supposed it possible for life to afford me. You are to me an ideal comrade: I can picture years of such companionship; happy wanderings, sweet home-comings, quiet evenings, cosy suppers, and all with the perfect knowledge that it might cease at any time either or both wearied of it; all with the knowledge that the individual liberty of each was absolutely untrammeled; and that, when love ceased to exist—there were no bonds to fetter. It seems to me that happiness, as perfect as it ever exists in this world, might bless such an union of two lives. Dolores, will you accept the love and protection I offer you?"

Her hands had rested passive in his, while she listened. Her face was turned from him, her eyes gazing out over the expanse of sea. Not a sail was in sight. One solitary gull flapped lonesome wings above the inhospitable waves. It seemed to her that her life was like that gull's—the world stretched before her, like a great waste of water, shoreless and desolate. She thought of the monotonous years awaiting her, homeless and alone as she was; of the ghastly emptiness of every pleasure, if she no more saw his face, no more heard his voice. She shivered slightly, and his hands tightened their clasp upon her own. His touch thrilled her with a sweet inexplicable joy. She ceased to reason or think.

Turning her white, beautiful, strangely calm face up to his, she answered solemnly and distinctly:

"I will."

And just then a star shot down from heaven, and sank into the dark and troubled waters of the sea below.

CHAPTER XIV.

ONE MAN AND ONE WOMAN.

ITTING in her bijou apartments, which consisted of a handsome "Flat" in a quiet and respectable portion of New York, Dolores seemed lost in pleasant reverie, when her little French maid, Lorette, appeared before her.

"Everything is done but the dusting of this room, Madame," she said, in her native tongue. "Will Madame sit in the boudoir now—"

"No, Lorette, you can go," Dolores answered, speaking French with as fine an accent as the Parisian née. "I will finish dusting, and as I am to dine out with Monsieur to-day, you need not return before to-morrow."

Lorette, who came every morning to attend to the domestic duties of the little ménage, gladly took her congé, and Dolores flitted gayly about, dust-brush in hand, singing a merry snatch of opera, pausing at every sound, to listen for a familiar step, the perfect picture of a happy, expectant housewife making ready for the return of a loved one. Presently a quick footstep bounded up the stairs, and Dolores flew to the door before the latch-key could turn the lock, swung it wide open, and was closely clasped in the arms of Percy, who greeted her with a gay "Bon matin, chère amie! and how have you been all these days?" Then, noticing the dust-brush on the floor beside her: "Why! how is this? has Lorette failed to make her appearance, that my lady-love has to perform her duties?"

"Oh, no! I sent her away," smiled Dolores. "I knew we did not need her to-day—and" (shyly) "I did not want any third person to mar our greeting after your long absence."

"Long!" Percy repeated, laughing, as he threw himself into an easy chair, and drew her down on an ottoman at his side. "Long? three days, ma petite? I am often absent from you as long as that."

"You have never before been absent from the city so long as that, in this year of our new life," she said, as she caressed his hands, "without taking me with you, mon ami."

"Well, but I often stay away from this charming nest, that length of time, without seeing you!"

"So long as I know you are in the city I am not lonely. The air I breathe seems impregnated with your breath, and I am happy and contented to await your coming. If I walk down street, I feel a kindly interest in the throngs of people I meet, because perchance you may be among them. But when you are out of town the whole world seems depopulated. Yesterday I walked on Broadway a little while, but the people all looked like ghastly phantoms to me. Because you were not, I knew, among them, there seemed to be no life, no beauty in the moving shapes. I hurried home and hid myself in these rooms, so full of memories of you."

Sweet as were her words of love and devotion, they cast a faint shadow on her listener's face.

"I am afraid you allow yourself to be too melancholy during my absence!" he said. "It makes me sad to think of you so lonely, I like to think of you as happy and contented always."

"Oh, I am, I am!" she hastened to reply. "How could I help being happy in this ideal life of ours? We are so independent of the world, so in harmony with our own principles, so true to each other—Oh, Percy! I do not think two people could be happier then we are; do you? Are you not perfectly happy with me, dear?"

Just for one second Percy hesitated before he replied. Then he met the anxious look of inquiry in Dolores' eyes, and answered:

"Yes, perfectly: or rather, I am happier in my companionship with you than I have been in many years. I know my life is better, too, in many ways, and my thoughts fairer, than in my old restless days of adventure. Yet, of course, no lot is without its annoyances and troubles. Did you ever think how strange it is, that man expects a whole eternity of unalloyed bliss, from a Ruler who denies him a single month of it here?"

Dolores shook her golden head.

"I used to speculate a great deal about the next world," she said. "I read all kinds of books on the subject, and I grew very much confused. Finally, I rested back on the orthodox ideas, as quite as sensible as any. I am sure the world and human nature is inclined to evil. I think it is a misfortune to exist, and that we need a future life to repay us for all we endure here. And I am sure it will require a Mediator to ever reconcile the Creator to us or to give us eternal joy; but we can attain it if we seek the way."

"I do not believe that we can attain any joys we have not earned here," Percy replied. "I do not believe in sudden conversions, or death-bed repentance, or being cleansed by blood. That faith gives a man too much latitude altogether. Every violated principle, every indulged appetite, every selfish or mean act or thought, I think will count against us on the last day, no matter how we repent at death's door, or how we cry out to be saved. Salvation depends upon ourselves, and the use we make of our time on earth. We are shaping our spirits by our daily lives while in the body. Just as we have shaped them—beautiful or hideous, they will appear before God when our bodies fall away and leave them bare. We cannot in a moment's space, expect any power to remove the scars we have made by a life-time of wrongdoing. It would not be a just power if it did. Why should the man who has lived in sin all his life be cleansed by crying to Christ on his death-bed—and permitted to enter into just such joys as the good man has earned by a life of noble deeds? I do not believe in a creed like that."

Dolores put a soft hand over his mouth.

"Let us not talk religion," she said. "I fear you are a sad heretic. Yet I agree with you that every violated principle counts against us. But we need not fear death on that account, Percy. I am living up to my highest convictions of right: are not you?"

Again Percy hesitated. Then he laid his hand on her golden head, and looked gravely in her sweet eyes, as he answered:

"Sometimes, Dolores, I do not feel that I am. Sometimes the fears that you may one day repent our independent course of action, together with the fact that we are obliged to hide so much of our companionship from the world, weighs upon me like a burden."

She caught his hand and held it against her cheek.

"It must not, it must not!" she cried. "I shall never repent these perfect days with you—never. We have violated no principles. All laws are made by man, and every nation has its own peculiar ideas and rules upon this subject. I believe God blesses and approves of our companionship. You tell me that your life is better for it, and I know I am ten-fold more unselfish, and womanly, and sympathetic than ever before. Surely, we have been a benefit and strength to each other. As for secrecy, I am ready, and willing to meet the world at any time. Percy,—proudly, as George Eliot met it. I am not ashamed of my love for you, or my devotion to you. I have never asked for secrecy."

Percy flushed slightly.

"I know you have not," he answered. "But the world condemns, without trial, who ever dares defy its opinions. Were we to publicly declare our ideas, we should be subjected to a thousand annoyances which we escape now. Cranks and villains would make no distinction between our sweet comradeship and their own immoral lives, while Society would exile us wholly, and people in general would cry us down. For your sake, as well as for my own social and business interests, it seems wiser to keep our pleasant seclusion."

"Yet Society is full of disgraceful intrigue—the very best of it," cried Dolores, with scorn. "The very people who would condemn us for our ideas, are hiding shameful infidelities in their own lives."

"Some of them," Percy admitted, "not all. Many a man among my acquaintances, who would mark my name off his visiting list, if we were to make our beliefs public, is himself similarly situated, save that he is also deceiving a wife; while I wrong no third party. But in the eyes of men, you know, the sin consists in being found out."

"Thank heaven, I am not in the position of one of those deceived wives!" cried Dolores, fervently. "At the first moment you tire of me, or that your heart strays away from me, you are free to go, without hesitating, and without legal proceedings. I should not want you to remain after you ceased to love me. You know my maxim is, 'those who love are wed, and those who no longer love are no longer wed.'"

Dolores really believed what she said. It is so easy to be liberal and broad in our theories, before our weak, human hearts are put upon the rack.

Percy, who enjoyed the sensation of liberty which her words gave him, felt also moved by an affectionate admiration for the lovely speaker. He reached out his arms and drew her fair head against his heart.

"I shall never tire of you, my royal lady!" he said, kissing her brow and cheek. "You combine all the qualities necessary to keep me true. You are a bright mental companion, a beautiful picture to my eye, and a fond heart-friend. And then you never hamper my liberty, or fret me by asking where I have been, or whither I am going, or why I have not come home sooner, as so many wives do. I appreciate your delightful good sense, when I see how some of my friends are martyrs to the whims of exacting women."

"It seems to me," Dolores replied, "that a woman makes a great mistake, who expects a man to give up all his old friends, and pleasures, and devote every moment of his life to her: and to account to her for every hour passed out of her presence. It must be terribly galling to a man who has been accustomed to his liberty. I think men are like some spirited horses—the tighter you draw the rein, the more reckless their pace: while with an easy rein they jog along very sedately. But speaking of our happiness, dear, I read a little poem the other day in an old book, which reminded me of our love. May I read it to you?"

Percy looked at his watch:

"Yes, if it is not very long:" he said. "We must be off for our drive in half an hour."

Dolores ran and brought an old magazine from her ebony desk, and, resuming her place at Percy's knees, read the poem.

"The name of the author is not given," she said; "but it seemed to me whoever wrote it, had loved as we love, Percy—with every faculty of his being. It is called

"What a very queer idea!" commented Percy, with a slight frown, as Dolores finished reading the poem. "It has the merit of being original, at least, but I cannot say that I like it."

"Still it expresses a great deal: the person who composed it must have comprehended every phase of love. Do you not think so?"

"It is quite as likely that the author had never loved at all, save in imagination. And I do not like the idea of ever longing for my body after I once get through with its troublesome demands. It is too material."

Dolores looked wonderingly at Percy.

"What a strange man you are!" she said. "After all, I do not think I fully understand you. Sometimes you shock me with your lack of orthodoxy, and again I feel as if your spiritual nature was far beyond my own in its development. You are a paradox, mon ami. But there is the carriage, and I must put on my hat and gloves."

CHAPTER XV.

SUDDEN FLIGHT.

S Percy ran down the stairs to the street door one day, his mind was in a very contented state.

This unfettered life with a thoroughly congenial companion, who lived wholly for him, and yet laid not one restriction upon his liberty—what could be more delightful?

He had all the comforts and benefits of a home, with none of the care or monotony of domestic life.

"I am the most fortunate of men," he mused, as he stopped on the lower landing to light his cigar. "Among the thousands in this city who have their agreeable companions hidden away like choice gems from the eyes of the world, I doubt if there is another Dolores. So beautiful, so true, so sensible, and so perfectly satisfied with her situation. Surely I am an ungrateful dog to ever feel discontented and restless, as I do so often."

He opened the street door, and came face to face with Homer Orton.

They greeted each other cordially, and passed down the street together.

One of the first remarks the journalist made, put to flight all Percy's sense of happy security and seclusion, and rendered him miserable during the entire day.

"By the way," Homer said, "do you know if Miss King, at whose rooms we met in Paris, is in New York? I was almost positive I saw her on Broadway, recently."

Percy's heart fairly chilled with fear. Not for the world would he have Homer Orton know, that Dolores was living in the very block from which he had just emerged. For her sake, for both their sakes, this must not be.

"It does not seem possible, that it could have been Miss King:" he answered, evasively. "I gave her my address in Europe, and she promised faithfully to inform me at once, if she returned to America at any time, even for a brief visit."

"Well, I might have been mistaken," Homer continued, unsuspectingly. "But it certainly was a striking resemblance. What a beautiful creature she was! Too bad she was so carried away with her hobbies, though. I used to think you might be able to talk her out of them, if any one could, and overcome her objections to marriage."

"I am not a marrying man," Percy answered, coldly, "and I respected the lady's views too much to wish her to change them. Good morning."

He felt annoyed and irritated all day, at the recollection of his morning encounter with Homer Orton.

But his annoyance settled into absolute alarm, when, two days later, he met the journalist again, precisely at the same place.

"Are your rooms in this block?" asked Homer, in some surprise, as he greeted his friend. "If so, we are near neighbors. I am boarding in the block above."

"No I have been calling on a friend," Percy answered, boldly. "He is ill, and I drop in often to see him." And then he hastened to change the conversation.

He pondered on the situation all that day. Something evidently must be done. With the journalist so near, Dolores was liable to be seen by him any day, and then, who could say, that the story might not appear with large head lines in the morning papers. It would make an excellent sensation article. But even if the journalist should not make it public, the very fact that he knew of Dolores' presence in America would destroy all their comfort.

Before night, he resolved upon an expedient. Recently he had been making some investments in South America. He had intended to visit Valparaiso to look after his affairs, sometime in the future. Why not go at once, and take Dolores with him? She was the most charming of traveling companions, and the journey, which might occupy two or three months, if they chose to make it, would be one more delightful experience to add to their many adventures.

And the journalist would no doubt have changed his location ere their return. Newspaper men never remained long in one place, he knew.

Before another week had elapsed the two comrades set forth upon their journey.

It was nearly sunset. Two Americans, with native guides, who had been leisurely making the wonderful trip from Arequipa to Santiago, in Spanish saddles, were approaching a canyon, nine thousand feet above the sea level. All day their gentle mules had carefully picked their way on mere shelves of rock, twisting back and forth through fissures and crevices that presented a kaleidoscopic scene to their wondering eyes.

Suddenly emerging from the narrow mountain pass, a valley burst upon their view, like some beautifully-set stage scene when the curtain rises. The area of the valley was not more than three acres: but all around it were the giant steeples of Andean granite rising in tapering lines to the very clouds: every crevice, every seam, covered with a magnificent verdure of trailing vines, hundreds of feet in length, and heavy with delicate-leaved blossoms. At the base of these mountains the cactus grows to perfection; such gorgeousness of bloom bewilders the credulity of travelers. Ferns that are indescribable in their sensitiveness of texture, interlaced this marvelous floral display: and from various directions out from the fissured rocks, flashed and sparkled bright rivulets, as they leaped from point to point until lost in some underground cavern.

The guides swung the hammocks; the mules were unloaded and allowed the freedom of the plateau. Off under a young palm the kettles were swinging, while supper was prepared for the tired and hungry travelers.

As they arose from their repast of boiled yam, fried plantain, smoked fish, and cocoa milk, with dessert of mangoes and pines, Dolores noticed the guides busily setting fire to a quantity of shrubs they had gathered during the day. This shrub was heavily charged with capsicum qualities, and at once filled the air with a stifling cayenne odor.

"What in the world are those men doing?" asked Dolores, with her handkerchief to her mouth. "Do you suppose they are observing some religious rite?"

Percy laughed as he assisted Dolores into her hammock, and swung himself into his own close beside her.

"I fancy the ceremony you see will be of more practical benefit to us, than any religious rite;" he said. "The guides are burning the potéké—a native shrub, which brings sure deliverance from insects; lizards, gnats, bugs and reptiles of all descriptions take an unceremonious departure when that peppery perfume fills the air. We shall be insured of a good night's rest by that means."

"Yes, if we are not choked to death by the odor," Dolores mumbled from the folds of her handkerchief.

"Oh, Percy, look!"

Percy looked in the direction indicated by Dolores, and his eyes were greeted by a phenomenon seen only in the plateaus of the Andes. It was the duplicating lines of the departing sun, upon the castellated rocks, as they pierced between the apexes and the basin. They reached in like silver threads, then flushed to gold and amber, as they fell deeper and deeper into the valley and rested in a trinity of colors upon the wonderful foliage, or hung like rainbows above the glittering brooks.

Percy and Dolores gazed, silent and almost breathless, while the long lines of glory changed to softest amethyst and gray. The guides were sleeping soundly; the tired mules were knee-deep in wild clover; in among the leaves of the india-rubber trees, a bright-plumaged arajojo sang out his saucy Ta-ha-ha—Ta-ha-ha.

Dolores reached out her hand and clasped Percy's, in the fading glory of the wonderful sunset.

"Oh, love!" she sighed, "I wish God would let us die to-night, life is so perfect. And something tells me we are never to be so happy on earth again."

CHAPTER XVI.

A MAN AND TWO WOMEN.

OON after their return, Percy was called to Centerville, a large village a few hours' ride from New York. He had established a Mr. Griffith there in business, some months previous to his South American trip, and now their affairs needed overhauling and examining.

Being detained over Sunday, Percy strolled out for a walk after his late breakfast. Centerville was not well provided with schools or other public buildings; but like the majority of large villages, it boasted several imposing church edifices.

The day was warm, and crowned with an Indian summer haze. As he strolled by a costly stone temple of worship, out through the open windows floated a voice so pure, so beautiful, so magnetic, that he paused involuntarily to listen. It was a woman's voice, singing the old familiar hymn, but it held a new meaning for him as he listened:

Never in his life had Percy so realized his own finiteness, never had he so reverenced the Supreme Majesty of the Creator, as while he listened to that voice, singing the familiar words with indescribable pathos and passion.

Percy's fearless criticisms of creeds and dogmas had won for him, among people of illiberal thought, the undeserved reputation of an atheist.

The world is full of good-hearted, but short-sighted people, who brand any man as an infidel or lunatic, whose ideas of divine worship differ from their own.

Percy's whole nature was deeply reverential; but his conceptions of religion were too high and broad for the ordinary mind, accustomed to the well-worn ruts of thought to understand or even grasp. In his early boyhood, he had believed in every thing; church, woman, home, happiness. But one woman had wrecked him in mid-ocean; and he had thrown overboard all his old faiths in things human and divine, barely saving his life and reason.

Then, as time passed on, and his hurts healed, his inborn reverence for Something over and beyond himself returned. His belief in a future life was as fixed and firm as it was vague and undefined. But oftentimes he felt conscious of the near presence of his mother—the mother who had died when he was a youth and most needed her. And he knew that she lived, and loved him, and watched over him. It was her occasional presence, which convinced him, beyond the possibility of doubt, that death was only the gateway to a new life.

Always, when he was untrue to himself or his principles, her spirit fled away from him, and again she came so near, he could almost hear the rustle of her wings.

It was long months now, since she had come to him. Never in his dreams, never in his waking hours; and the sense of loneliness and longing was sometimes overwhelming.

But now, while he listened to that unseen singer's voice, his mother came back to him; there, in the golden haze of that Indian-summer morning, he felt as conscious of her near presence as if his eyes beheld her.

sang the voice, and it seemed to ring up to the very courts of heaven with a great cry of hunger and longing.

Never had Percy so felt the craving in his own soul for heavenly manna, and for something beyond and greater than himself on which to lean, as at this moment.

It seemed to him, that he could not rest until he had looked upon the face of the singer.

He entered the church, and sat down in an unoccupied pew near the door.

The singing had ceased, and from his position the choir was entirely hidden from view by a curtain.

Percy sat through the long and tedious sermon, and listened with impatience to the dreary, uncomforting discourse.

"No wonder," thought he, "that the singer put so much pleading into her cry for 'Bread of heaven,' if she derives her spiritual sustenance from the droppings of this sanctuary. The weary soul would faint by the wayside, who depended upon such food."

The sermon seemed interminable, but it ended at last, to the gratification of the tired congregation. Again Percy heard that voice of heavenly beauty, soaring up to the very Throne in song; but, strive as he might, he could catch no glimpse of the singer.

He left the church, soothed, uplifted, but disappointed.

As he sat in his room at the hotel, late in the afternoon, writing letters, Mr. Griffith called.

"I saw you at church this morning," he said, "and my wife sent me around to bring you home to tea. She thought it might be dull for you here at the hotel, and though we are plain folks, we shall be glad to have you come and take common fare with us."

"You are very kind," Percy answered, "but I ought to finish these letters"—

"Never mind the letters," insisted Mr. Griffith. "My wife will feel hurt if you don't come; and we can promise you some good music, at least. Maybe you noticed our soprano singer in the choir this morning. She boards with us, and we think she's about as good as any of your city singers. There is no service to-night at the church, and when there is not, she always sings for us at home. People fairly hang on the gates to listen. I hope you'll come."

"Thank you!" said Percy, with alacrity, rising and pushing aside his writing materials. "I will."

When he stood face to face with Helena Maxon—for it was our old friend, whom we greet again after more than five years—Percy felt a slight disappointment. It had seemed to him, that such a voice must belong to a creature as fair as the morning—an ethereal being, all gold and blue and white, like Aurora herself.

Instead, he saw a shapely form, inclined to be voluptuous in its curves, and a face absolutely without tints; a dusky head, and sombre eyes, and a skin like the brown side of a peach, and perfectly devoid of color, save in the full red lips of the rather large mouth.

"Her face is too round for beauty," he said, in his swift mental analysis, "and her mouth and nose are not classic. But what exquisite care she bestows upon her person; what perfectly-kept hands and teeth and hair! She radiates purity and cleanliness like a water-lily. And where did she learn her matchless charm and manner?"

As the conversation progressed, Percy's wonder grew. Miss Maxon's ready flow of words, her simple dignity and her animation, rendered her positively charming. He soon forgot her absence of tints; for as she talked, the light of her spirit seemed to shine through and brighten her face like sunlight shining through an autumn leaf. And the strange peculiarity of her eyes presently attracted him, and fascinated him with their mesmeric spell. So soon as Helena became interested in any subject on which she conversed, or in her music, or in the personality of her listeners, a delicate film, which had almost the appearance of smoke seen rising over the face of the heavens at night, completely enveloped her dark eyes. It seemed to shut out all material objects from her vision as if her soul drew a curtain before her sight, that it might better contemplate the wonders visible only to spiritual eyes. Yet through this curtain you felt conscious that her soul looked into yours.

It is a peculiarity seen only in the eyes of those possessed of clairvoyant powers; and it riveted Percy's gaze upon Helena's face, and fascinated him as no mere physical beauty had ever fascinated him.

By and by she sang, and again Percy felt himself lifted up into a new, rarified atmosphere, while he listened.

It was as if his soul projected itself out of his body, and floated up on the waves of her voice close to the spirit world.

Percy never knew quite how the conversation began: but after she had resumed her seat, he suddenly found himself telling her how peculiarly her singing had affected him.

"No doubt you will think me a sort of a lunatic!" he said. "But while you sang this morning, it seemed to me that my mother, who has been dead since my early manhood, came near to me. The impression lasted throughout the day: and it has brought me an inexpressible happiness."

A sudden light transfigured Helena's face, rendering it absolutely beautiful. She leaned slightly forward, with her hands clasped before her.

"Then you are susceptible to these impressions?" she said. "I am always pleased and interested in meeting any one who is. There are so few people in the world who realize how thin the veil is which divides us from our dear ones. Why, Mr. Durand, often when I am singing, I not only feel, I know that my father and my mother are close beside me, enveloping me with their love and sympathy. And then I sing, as I never sing at other times. The exhilaration of their presence fills me with a strength and ecstacy that is indescribable. I feel almost more than human."

She ceased speaking suddenly, and her face was luminous with a divine light. A subtle warmth and fragrance seemed to emanate from her; Percy felt thrilled and magnetized, with an influence as mysterious as it was powerful.

"Then your parents are not living?" he said, gently.

"Not here," she answered, with a sad smile. "They died in one year. My father was the victim of a violent fever which devastated our town: my mother grieved herself into the grave a few months later. It had been a perfect union; they were mental comrades, spiritual affinities, physical mates. They could not exist apart. It was better that she joined him so soon."

"It left you very much alone?" Percy spoke softly, scarcely knowing what to say in presence of such a bereavement.

"Yes, and no," she answered. "If I had believed they were lying in the earth waiting the Judgment Day, scores, thousands or millions of years hence, I should have been crazed with my desolation. But my faith was so comforting to me, however unorthodox, that I have found strength and happiness in it."

"Tell me what it is?" urged Percy, earnestly, almost eagerly. "These subjects interest and fascinate me. Long ago, my intellect rejected old dogmas. Yet I find it difficult to know what to believe. The worn out creeds insult my intelligence. The liberal teachers of the day shock me with their irreverence, and leave my soul hungry: and in Spiritualism I find so much trickery, fraud, and immorality, mixed up with a few mysterious and unsatisfactory truths, that I am again in despair."

"But you must not be in despair," Helena said, with one of her beautiful smiles. "You have not looked at Spiritualism from the right standpoint. So long as you seek its truths through professional mediums, you will be dissatisfied and confused."

"Then you think they are all humbugs?"

"Certainly not:" Helena replied, with emphasis. "There are people endowed with the gift of divination, beyond doubt. There are peculiarly organized beings who can read the future and the past—beings who see through and beyond this thin veil of mortality, into the spiritual realms which lie very close to us. But we must not look to those people for our enlightenment upon this subject. If we do, we soon lose our individuality; we grow dependent and unpractical and visionary. God placed us here to carve out our own destinies—to work and wait for events, not to tear aside the curtain and read the cypher which is understood by a few."

"But how, then, can I obtain the benefits you mention from this belief?" questioned Percy.

"You must look to the development of your own spiritual nature, and to the consequent crucifying of your baser self, in order to obtain the comfort and benefit of this belief. In this you will have the help of your departed friends."

"You think they retain their interest in and love for us, the same there as here?"

"Oh, yes, assuredly. Yet often our sorrows seem, to their enlarged vision, as the sorrows of children over broken toys seem to us; yet they strive to comfort us."

"If that is true," interposed Percy, "why was it, that after my mother died, and I used to lie awake at night, and plead with Heaven to let me feel her touch, or see her face, if only for a second, why did she not come to me?"

"Because," Helena answered gently, "there are restrictions upon their liberty, there are limits to their powers, even as there are to our own. They live higher, freer, more exalted lives, but they are not gods. I remember when I was first sent from home to boarding-school, how bitter was my homesickness and sorrow. I used to write tear-blotted letters to my mother, begging her to come to me. She did not come; other and more important duties detained her at home. She knew it was better for me to remain and overcome my loneliness. So your mother in the spirit world may have been detained by the wonderful tasks given her to do. Yet on other occasions she no doubt comes to you, as she came this morning. I think we can not expect frequent companionship from these pure spirits, however, unless we cultivate the better part of our natures. They will not linger near us if we are wholly earthly in our aims and ambitions, and immoral in our lives."

"I believe that—I am certain of it in my own experience," Percy said, in a low voice. "Whenever I violate a principle, my mother flies from me as in fear. She has been absent many months, Miss Maxon, until your voice wooed her back."

"Therein lies the great religious lesson in this belief;" continued Helena. "I find that even my petty tempers, my uncharitable feelings, or thoughtless criticisms of other people, frighten away this holy company. I have to set a constant watch upon my mind and heart, to let no evil or selfish thought enter, if I would retain their helpful and loving influences. It is no easy task, Mr. Durand. It is constant warfare, between the material and the spiritual nature. But the results are glorious. Often when I have put to rout evil feelings, and selfish thoughts, back to my soul, like a flock of white doves, the spirits of comforting friends fly, lifting me into an atmosphere so heavenly and beautiful, that I seem scarcely to belong to earth. Oh surely, God could not give better employment to his angels, than to let them sometimes comfort us, like this. Surely, there is nothing irreverent or wrong in this belief."

"No, it is the sweetest of all beliefs," Percy answered. "It robs death of all its horrors, and it is a belief which is gaining ground. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, indeed, with the more intellectual classes. There was a time, when it was considered an evidence of ignorance to profess any faith in spirit aid. Now it is considered an evidence of ignorance to declare positively that there is nothing in it. But sensible believers do not waste their time in seeking after crude miracles—miracles which can help no human soul, and only serve to confuse and puzzle the intellect. They turn their attention rather to the development of their own higher natures, which enables them to understand and enjoy these beautiful truths."

"Do you believe that the spirits of our dear ones ever reveal themselves to us?" asked Percy, growing more and more interested. "Have you ever been blessed by such a vision?"

"Never, though I have longed for it. Yet I believe others have been so blessed. You know the Bible overflows with such occurrences. We have, there, the inspired record of the re-appearance upon earth after death—of Samuel, Moses, Elijah, and Christ himself. If we believe the Bible, we must believe these things occurred. And I think God loves his people now as dearly as He loved them then. But I have no belief in, and no patience with, the miserable artifice and wicked pretense of the so-called materializing mediums. I do not believe the lovely spirit of my dear mother could be shown to me through any cabinet—like a jack-in-a-box. The idea that the spirits of the intellectual dead have nothing better to do than move furniture or rap on ceilings and floors, is disgusting and nonsensical in my view. I am a good deal of a Swedenborgian: I think with him, that the body—the eye—is merely a telescope, through which the soul gazes. What the soul sees, and how far it sees, depends upon many conditions, just as a clear or a murky atmosphere, and the mechanism of his instrument, influences the observations of the astronomer. When the soul, and the body, and the spiritual atmosphere are all in perfect condition, I believe we can see the spirit forms about us. You know St. Paul says: 'Run your race in patience, for you are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses.' But in our gross material lives, these conditions seldom occur. As for myself, I am satisfied with the comfort and strength I receive through unseen presences. I do not ask, or seek anything more."

A spiteful-voiced clock on the mantel counted off eleven strokes.

Percy arose in sudden confusion.

"How inexcusably late I have remained," he said, "how can I ever obtain pardon—"

"No excuse is necessary!" interposed Mrs. Griffith. "We all thank you for causing Miss Maxon to talk so freely. It is seldom she does, and we love to hear her conversation as well as her singing. Be sure and come again, Mr. Durand."

As he walked back to his hotel, in upon his strangely enlarged and enlightened vision, a sudden thought of Dolores darted. He stopped in the street and put his hand to his brow. "My God!" he cried, "how can I go back to her?"

CHAPTER XVII.

A MAN, A WOMAN, AND SPIRITS.

E did not go near her for three days. During all that time he was battling with his own soul.

So strange and powerful was the impression made by the conversation of Helena, that the whole current of his life seemed changed.

All his former independent course of action, which he had justified with a thousand arguments, all his selfish years of pleasure, all his Arcadian existence with Dolores, loomed up before him now as lawless and wicked.

"No wonder my mother's pure spirit fled from me to the most distant borders of the spirit world," he said. "How unworthy her sweet companionship I am—and yet I might become worthy."

But how could he go to Dolores, and tell her that their life together was a terrible mistake: that they must part at once, and forever?

And if he did not, how could he ever hope to attain that ideal of high, noble manhood, which would alone fit him for the companionship of his mother's spirit, here or hereafter?

He suffered the agonies of the damned, all those days. He shunned the streets for fear of meeting Dolores: the Club seemed hateful to him, and he remained shut in his own apartments, a prey to gloomy thoughts.

And then one of those curious caprices of Fate occurred, which again compelled him to stifle the voice of his conscience.

It often seems in this life, when a soul is floundering in a net-work of Sin's weaving, striving to extricate itself, that the Devil, like a great spider, comes along and spins new meshes about it.

A messenger brought Percy a note from Dolores one day. He opened it hastily and read: