a gossamer veil, so frail the breath of a thought would have broken it. There was no light but the light of the stars, filling the room with their delicate bloom, yet Roberta closed her eyes instinctively to gain the darkness which was not there. Fay reached out her hands entreatingly, and Roberta took her in her arms, and so for a time each listened to the beatings of the other's heart. "You do not need that I should tell you," whispered Fay, at length; "for, Roberta, it is the dream of the roses come true. Tell me that you under• stand me, or I shall fancy that it is all a dream." "My darling, I knew that the dream would come true, and I knew that it was for you," answered Roberta, also in a murmur, though her voice sounded to her own ears most harsh and unnatural. "Did you? Did you, really, Roberta?" cried Fay, wonderingly; "and I never even dreamed it could be possible. Now I am afraid to close my eyes lest I shall wake to find that I have dreamed." "But you hold the magic ring which makes the dream forever real," answered Roberta, holding up Fay's hand, on which a new and unusual ornament glittered. it could have in it the joy of other lives. I think I should have been content to have always lived so had you not come; and then-O, Roberta-it seems so dreadful to me now; a sort of sacrilege” Fay paused in her rapid speech, and buried her blushing face in Roberta's neck. "Do not torture yourself by telling me," said Roberta, in a smothered voice. "But I like better to tell you. After you came home I began to compare my. self with you, and, in spite of myself, a feeling of discontent grew within me. I know you will think me an ingrate, as I am, when my life has been so sheltered by love and through love; but it all seemed poor, mean, and worthless, in comparison with the jewel which should be offered to you. It seemed so natural for you two to love each other-as natural then as strange now. Do not speak"-as Roberta put up her hand entreatingly-"I must finish. As I could not help but love you, I tried to make myself believe that I should be quite satisfied to have it so: but I could not be, I was not. In spite of myself, in spite of my resolves, I would find myself watching you with envious eyes, and thinking that you, who were so beautiful and perfect, would find plenty to love you; while none but a perfect artist soul, such a one as Louis possesscould see through the bodily deform "Yes, yes I know; but you must let me tell you all. I should die otherwise, I think; and I have waited so long-ed, such a very long time, Roberta—and ity and love my artist nature." yet all is so strange. To think that to me the crown of life should come! I can not realize it now, and yet I think that I always loved Louis, even without knowing it, from the first moment of our meeting. I had longed so for a broth er, who should be stronger and braver than I was-forgive me, dearest, I had no sister then-and when I knew Louis, it seemed to me that he would be one. I had never thought of love and marriage. My life seemed so set apart by suffering that I never even dreamed that "I can not hear you talk so, Fay," Roberta interrupted passionately. "Then I will not. I know it seems strange to you, dear, as it does to me now; but think what it is to me to love grace and beauty with my whole soul, and as only an artist soul can love it, and all the time to know all outward expression of them both is denied to me. It was the first consciousness that dawned in my infant soul. In the eye of love I saw not only love, but pity; and I comforted myself by saying that I would be content to paint joy and beauty for others, since they were not mine. And so I was until lately. I was blinded into a false security. I even fancied that I could be happy in your love, until that dreadful night when I thought that Louis was dead. It seemed to me that I should die, too, if he were dead; that I should die if he did not love me as I him. I was so wretched that I had no pride; I did not care if all the world knew." "But that is past now. each other's hearts." "Yes; Louis is to speak to papa the first thing, though I know that he will not refuse me anything. Yet it can not but be a trial to him, for he has always thought of me as a child. He has said, so many times, that my suffering would always keep me for him. Do you think, Roberta, he will be very displeased ?" "No, Fay; if he had not had the greatest regard for Mr. Valois, rest assured he would not have allowed you to be so much together. But you must really stop talking now and go to bed, for the stars are stealing all the brightness out of your face. You will be sick in the morning, when of all times you most wish to be well." "I am happy, always happy. You must believe that, no matter what my music may say about me. And now, good-night; I must say it, for it will soon be good-morning." Soon, she said, but it was a long time before the stars paled and faded before the morning's light. Not as on those nights before did Roberta sit with a numb misery throbbing in heart and brain, nor as in the first ardor of her renunciation did she glory in every You know thought which could make her suffering more intense. The time was past when she could feel proud of her strength or glory in the wounds which she was inflicting upon herself; but alone, quite alone with herself, the last battle was fought. There should be no need to bid her interpret the dream of the roses. Even with Alice Lingarde's face, she had a heart which would choose to suffer rather than to inflict suffering. But when the chill damp of the morning settled down, her courage was not so great; a spasm of self-pity made her cry out in pain. It seemed intolerable to her the thought that she must suffer, more intolerable still the thought that any other might suspect that suffering, and when she looked in the glass she was startled at the reflection of haggard misery which stared at her from the smooth surface. A sudden longing came upon her to look at that other face, so like her own, yet now so unlike. In the dark room smothering with yesterday's heat and filled yet with a faintly perceptible odor of attar of roses, she felt dizzy and faint, and for a long time she had not strength to open the trunk. When she did, the face looked up at her as never before, the dark eyes dilating, and the smile unutterably sorrowful in its suggestion of sympathy. As Roberta looked her own face changed, the color shot back through the pallor, and quick as the flush the tears came to the eyes, which were full to bursting. She murmured words unin "I shall not wish to be, for I shall be. I think I shall never be ill any more; though I have always had that feeling for Louis, that I could endure to have him pity and help me, and I never could feel in that way to anyone else, not even to papa, who has so suffered for me." "Heaven grant that you may be happy," said Roberta, with such solemn earnestness that it frightened Fay. "I shall be happy, but I hope that I am not grown selfish," she said with a troubled voice. "Why should I not be happy? Are you not so, Roberta? for I could never be happy unless you were, too. Tell me is it only your music which is sad, or does that seem sad because you are so?" telligible to any other, scarce did she dare whisper them to herself, and when the storm of passion had spent itself, she felt something like happiness. She placed the picture back in its restingplace and went in her own room again. She dressed herself carefully, that not even her rumpled dress should betray her night of watchfulness, and with the fresh clothes she seemed somehow to put on fresh strength of endurance. A glance at the smiling happy faces in the breakfast-room showed her that all was well. Never had she seen her father in such a glow of friendly feeling. It even bubbled over to her, and Roberta felt that her pain was not without some amends when her father said to her kindly: "They have been telling me of the wonderful music which you gave them last night. I am glad that it is not lost with the sound. Some time I shall ask for the pleasure of hearing it." It was such an unusual thing for her father to speak directly to her, and, above all, to speak with interest of her music, that Roberta felt the ready tears springing to her eyes, but with a mighty effort she controlled herself, and answered that she should be most happy whenever he wished, only Mr. Llorente had the music and had taken it home with him. Later in the day, Roberta and Fay were sitting on the broad piazza, shaded now from the heat by the flowerless rose-bushes, while a wandering clematis which had straggled among the roses filled all the air with an indescribable sweetness. Both were silent from very fullness of speech. Fay had been telling of the interview with her father. "It was so strange, Roberta; you know how early papa rises, and I, too, was awake with almost the first ray of the morning, and, though I tried hard to be patient and quiet, I could not wait. At last I called Elsie with a soft voice, and, as soon as I was dressed, I went down to the library where I knew papa usually spent that hour reading, but he was not reading; Louis was with him— had but just finished telling him when I opened the door. Papa looked up at me with such a sad smile, and Louis cried eagerly, 'Speak for me, Fay. I can not make your father believe that I have not been dreaming.' And papa asked, 'Is it true, my little Fay? Do you need any other love than mine?' For a moment I could not speak; then I answered, 'It is true, papa; I do love Louis. How can I help doing so?' Papa looked so grave that I spoke quite firmly, and as if I did not care for any other love, but I was sorry when he said, 'Heaven knows, my child, I could not refuse you anything in my power to grant, but it is more necessary for you to be loved than to love.' And then he talked to Louis. I can not tell you what he said-I could not hear for weeping-and yet I was not sorrowful; but when Louis spoke I heard every word. He said he was not worthy, but that he cared for nothing in life so much as for the privilege of caring for me; that my suffering endeared me to him a thousand-fold, and much more that I can not repeat-and it is to be in October." "That is a very short time." "Two months; but you know I shall not be a bride like other brides, and Louis would not consent to wait until spring. To be sure, I have never been what they call in society, but then I never shall; and so it was decided for that month." While they were sitting there Louis joined them, saying in a playful manner, "Am I not to have one word of welcome from my sister?" Roberta had not seen him since breakfast, nor had she then spoken directly to him. Now she answered: "I am very glad for you and Fay. It is as it should be. If I have not spoken before it is because speech is most difficult when possessed his love. Yet with all that the heart feels most." "I wish that I dared ask you to speak to us with your heart in the way it loves to speak," said Fay, breaking the silence which had followed Roberta's last words. "Thanks"-as Roberta rose"but not unless you like to do so.” Fay was never happy, never utterly content, unless Roberta was with them. "I am so happy that I am afraid of being selfish, or perhaps it is selfishness which makes me wish to have you with me. I do not know why I am so sad when I do not look in your face. I feel somehow as if you were not happy, and I want you to be happy." "And so I am. The best happiness is mine in seeing the happiness of those I love." So Roberta spoke with her lips, but her heart was saying, while her eyes were fastened upon the picture of "Rebecca," hanging upon the wall: "Rowena must have been such as Fay divined her. It would have been intolerable agony for her, for them both, had she even imagined what Rebecca suffered." Roberta did like to play then better than anything else. In music she always lost herself, always found something higher. But upon this day she did not "dream," as she called it, with the pearly keys. Nor did she even play from memory any of the exquisite morceaux which were ever her own. But she chose from the music-stand one of Chopin's most difficult Polonaises, and played it over and over again before she seemed to be satisfied with her interpretation, and then another and another. Not until she was forced to stop from sheer weariness, not physical but mental, did she cease playing; then she stole softly out of the room, and neither knew when she had left them. But in the evening Fay said reproachfully: "You did not give us of your very did he intimate to her that knowledge; self, Roberta?" "No," answered Roberta, quietly; "for that would not have been worthy." "Say rather," said Louis, with an air of humility, "that you did not deem us worthy." Why it was Roberta could not have told, but certain it was that in the weeks which followed she never played without her notes, and only played from the wondrous pages of Chopin. Fay and Louis were constantly together: in the morning for long rides; in the afternoon in the coolest, shadiest spot in the garden to read; and in the evening on the piazza. It was wonderful how Fay gained in strength, as happiness dwelt with her, even while the August sun was staining with yellow the green of field and forest alike. Louis was most devoted, most attentive; a restless activity Llorente was the only one who was not deceived by Roberta's fictitious gaiety, and she felt, with writhings of selfcontempt that made her hate herself and long to die, that he knew and understood all, though never by word or look but he helped her, saved her from herself in a thousand ways, some of which she did not recognize until long after the memory of it had ceased to be pain. He was always there, but in that there was nothing remarkable, for he always had been. One morning he arrived just as they were getting ready to ride. Fay, as usual, had insisted on Roberta's going with them, and Roberta, though she dreaded these long rides more than anything else, had not refused. September had brought with it a dash of coolness in the morning air, which sent the blood in swift currents through the arteries; but Roberta, who was standing leaning against one of the pillars, looked more weary and wan than the sultry heat of August nights had ever left her. She was usually on her guard, but unconsciously her face now betrayed her. Llorente darted a keen glance at her, you know to others the graves were not, then said: "I have arrived just in time, Valois. I was going to ask the ladies to ride this morning, and if you like we will divide the pleasure. Leave Miss Roberta to me." must never be known," continued he, in the same tone of voice in which he had been speaking; so that Roberta, scarcely conscious of her own words, was still less conscious of his answer. It seemed to her that the full meaning of words never came to her now until she was alone. To this no objection could be made; indeed, no one thought of making any. After they had gone, Llorente stood for a moment waiting for Roberta to speak, but she seemed to have forgotten his presence. "You do not wish to ride?" he asked all the rest, it was strange how dependat last. Roberta started at the sound of his voice, and answered hurriedly: "O yes, I do. I will. I did not observe that you were waiting." But Llorente had thrown the reins to the boy who stood waiting, motioning to him to take the carriage away, and then seated himself on the steps lower down, where he would have to turn quite round in order to look in her face. He did this with intention, for he felt that Roberta was in one of those moods when restraint would be impossible; the tension of the days and nights past had been so great that now it would hardly support a feather's weight. He knew perfectly well that she would make the effort as much before him as before Louis and Fay. He commenced talking; for the life of her Roberta could not have told, while the words were yet ringing in her ears, what they were. She only knew that what he said required no answer, no effort from her. Gradually her mind caught faint threads of meaning. The story of some friend he was telling to her. He was saying, "When we wish the green sod to cover their graves we must leave them." As the glowing tints of September mellowed into the golden days of October, and every morning brought nearer that morning which should shine above ent Fay grew upon Roberta. Nothing could be done without her sanction. Sometimes at night, for that was the only time when she was alone, Roberta would lie awake and wonder with a dreary wonder how long it would last, how long before her heart would be quite broken, and then she would look forward to that day, hoping that then a change would come; or she would desperately resolve to go away, break away forever from this new life so full of pain, and go back again to the old, old life, where the more automatic, the more dead-alive one became the better. But with the blush of morning came other and better thoughts, and she scorned herself for the weakness which could not suffer without embittering another's joy. It was to be a quiet wedding, for Fay shrunk from any display, and Louis had no friends to invite. The morning came a June morning framed in October gold, with the hazy warmth of Indian summer floating in the air; and there was a bridal without tears as a sky without clouds. Fay looked like a fairy who had lost her way from fairy-land. They were only gone a week-Roberta steadfastly refused to accompany them, though Fay entreated her to do so-then they were back again, and life seemed the same as before. "That is what I would do!" As an involuntary plaint of pain the words were wrung from her, the first which she had spoken. "I was quite disgusted with myself, "He would, but could not, because for everywhere and at everything Fay VOL. 15.-22. |