text:
Conscience Money

T was a clear summer day—light blue a little breeze from the south-west, and the warm sun flooding down, shining on the peach trees and on the clothes-line in the back yard. A day that made Janet Seymour glad to be alive.

She had been up since daybreak, in and out of the house, busy with Henry's clothes, and now they hung on the line soaking up warmth from the sun and cleanliness from the fresh air.

A long row of coats and trousers and vests flapped in the little breeze from the south-west—empty semblances of Henry. She smoothed a creased leg and examined it sternly, and smoothed out what might have been an incipient moth trace, but proved to be only a bit of chalk dust. She brushed it with careful fingers.

The trousers were Henry's Sunday ones, and the dust came from the blackboard in the Sunday-school room. Henry was superintendent of St. Andrew's Sunday-school. had been superintendent for fifteen years—since two years before their marriage.

She rubbed the bit of dust thoughtfully and looked up at the sun—the line between her eyes came from the brightness of the sun and not from discontent or worry. She did not ask anything better of life than just this usual airing of Henry's clothes.

The row of garments stretched from her down the yard as far as the peach trees, and she went down the line slowly, shaking out the sleeves and pockets and and humming to herself a little new tune that the children were singing yesterday. It was not a Sunday tune and she had rebuked them as they sang at the top of their voices, but it had a catchy rhythm and melody, and she hummed it to herself as she went down the line.

Just as she reached the peach trees, she stopped—her fingers had encountered a little stiffness in the lining of Henry's coat, along the lower edge—his Sunday coat. She poked at it and loosened something, and pushed it up towards a hole in the bottom of the pocket.

The edge of a card appeared in the hole, and she drew it up with a little frown. she tucked it in her dress absently, her fingers examining the hole and pulling at a bit of thread that came away away rapidly. She dropped it with a click of annoyance—nothing but chain-stitch! Henry paid five pounds for the suit, and the ends of the seams not even fastened!

She moved on to the peach trees and sat down. The sun filtering through the trees made shadowy patterns on her lifted face ... the peaches were beginning to redden—they would be ripe in a little while. The soft furry sides gave her a feeling of sensuous content.... She would put up at least a dozen tins, and there would be plenty to give away. It was a part of Janet's pride that there was always plenty to give away.

Her eyes left the branches and rested contentedly on Henry's clothes swaying and shaking in the breeze. They were something more than mere empty semblances to her. She liked to watch them sway and fill in the breeze and flap, not only because they were getting a good airing, but because they were so like Henry! She saw Henry moving in them, working for her and the children, walking to and from the bank twice a day. He never spared himself. It was only where she was concerned that the best must be had—in the kitchen, outside help when she needed it, clothes better than she could afford. Henry would go without himself if necessary, but she must have the best.

But Henry was never shabby. She eyed the line approvingly. He always looked well. She did not see how he managed it, and she had given over trying to understand. But she glowed a little in the comfortable sense of Henry's thrift.... A new car stood in the barn. Henry bought it last week. He would have his licence to-morrow.

She got up and went over to the improvised garage and opened the door, The new car glimmered at her in the dusk. It was not a cheap thing. Henry had waited—he had walked twice a day so as to afford a decent one. She moved over to it and opened the door. She liked the smooth sense of weight the heavy door gave her, and the shining glass and upholstered softness.

After a minute she stepped up into it.... Something white on the rug caught her eye, and she bent and picked it up—a small card covered with figures in Henry's fine, close hand. She turned it over—it was the card from the lining of his coat—it must have fallen from her dress as she bent over in stepping up into the car.... She examined it idly and wondered whether he had missed it. Lucky she found it! There were dates by the figures, the last one yesterday.... She leaned back in the comfortable upholstered seat wondering a little what Henry had been doing with money yesterday—Sunday.... The springs and padded cushions gave her a sense of well-being, and slowly her eyes closed.

When she opened them she started and smiled. Henry stood holding the door, his foot on the running-board.

She rubbed her eyes.

He laughed and climbed in beside her.

“Caught in the act!”

“I went to sleep,” she admitted. She was half ashamed.

“Pretty nice place to sleep—pretty comfortable car!” He laughed again and put his arm along the back of the seat and drew her to him. She rested against him. She knew Henry was pleased. She wondered how long she had slept. She must go in and get luncheon.

“What time is it?”

“Early—I came home little after twelve.”

“I must get luncheon.”

He did not reply-—he was staring at something on her lap—he reached a stiff hand, his lips half set.

She looked down at the card and picked hi up.

“I found it in your coat.” She held it out.

He took it almost roughly. “It was not there this morning,” he said.

She looked out at the clothes flapping in the wind.

“Did you need it this morning?”

“I got along.” The tone was casual.

“It was in the lining, slipped down—your Sunday coat.” Her dark face was drowsy with sleep. She regarded him happily.

He bent and kissed the halt-parted lips. “Glad you found it, Janet! He put the card in his pocket. He was smiling now—wholly at ease. “Suppose I drive down and get the children—get bring them home?” stepped on to the running-board.

“You can't—without a licence!”

He laughed and patted his pocket.

“Did you get it: Her faced glowed.

“I got it!” He was proud and contented—master of her, and of the car, and of all the highways of the State of Ohio.

The rest of the day was filled with excitement—momentous trying out of the car—fear of Henry's driving and pride in it. He was a hero in the eyes of his family—no one ever drove a car before.

It was not till Janet was falling asleep that she recalled the card as it lay in her lap. She saw Henry's face looking down at it, and the last date beside the figures. It was stamped on her brain—the fifteenth. That was yesterday, she thought drowsily. What had Henry been doing with money yesterday—on Sunday? Oh, yes, of course! The question laughed itself away—the collections in the church and Sunday-school. No rest for him even on Sunday.... She must remember to mend the hole in his pocket. And she fell asleep.

And beside her Henry Seymour lay looking before him in the darkness. He knew he should not sleep for hours. He put out an arm and encircled the quiet shoulders. He wanted to feel her nearness.

There had been an awkward moment there in the garage. He drew a deep breath—she was not likely to guess! His arm on the shoulders tightened. No one could guess, and Janet would be the last. More likely Colonel Dole—or Tait! No; Dole was fool. But Ambrose Tait? There was a Sunday morning last summer when he had leaned forward peering at the money on the plate as if he could not believe his eyes. But Tait could not question the Teller of the City National Bank. In the darkness Henry's mouth set in a little grim line of satisfaction. He had not played the game for fifteen years for nothing—or to be caught now.

He lay with the grim look on his face. Let them get a better man—if they could! He knew, and they knew, what his name stood for. There would be a good many empty pews in St. Andrew's next Sunday morning if it were not for Henry Seymour, erect and unimpeachable, on the left of the middle aisle. The figures on the little card were only a percentage—on his name and time. The percentage would have to stop—ought to have stopped long ago. They had not needed it for years now—the little fiddling sums each week—only he'd got the habit! He smiled in the darkness. That was it—just a bad habit! Well, he'd get the habit of paying back, that was what he had kept the card for—it held a record of every cent he had “borrowed.” Fool not to have looked in the lining this morning when he searched hurriedly.

But she had not guessed. He drew the sleeping shoulder closer. His lips touched her hair. There was nothing in the world he would not do for Janet. He would sell his soul for her—he wondered how much his soul was worth! He was sleepy now, his mind at rest. He would he begin to pay back.

“Amen!” he said aloud. She stirred dreamily.

“What is it, Henry?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought I heard you speak.”

“No. You dreamed it, I guess.”

“Perhaps I did.” She smiled and slept again, her head on his shoulder.

T was when she was mending the hole in the pocket next day that she first knew—became sure. She stared at it unbelieving.

She could not have told how or when the suspicion touched her, it seemed to her she knew it all in a minute.

Perhaps in the hours of sleep while Henry Seymour was explaining so carefully to himself that it was only a percentage, perhaps then it filtered through to her.

But of this Janet had no glimpse, only the sudden, final pang when she knew.

There might have been a dozen suspicions ignored in the past ... she could not tell, she only felt as if the fatal card had burned a hole down through the lining of Henry's coat into her own soul.

She put her hands to her head, pushing back the hair, staring at something. She saw herself the first year they were married—she was wearing a new costume and a new hat—Easter morning. She stood by the vestry door waiting for Henry while he counted the money on the plate. He took up a handful and put in his pocket and turned. How he had laughed out suddenly—high and shrill—not a bit like Henry's laugh. But she had no suspicion, and no suspicion when he laid a crackling new bill on the plate and explained that he was making change. She shivered now, looking blankly at the coat in her lap. He had given her some change next morning to pay the laundress he insisted on her having. Of course, that was why he needed change—to leave for the laundress. He explained it casually when he handed her the money. He need not have explained.

She put the coat from her as if it scorched. Thief and hypocrite!

She could have loved a thief—a man who took his own where he found it and stood up to it. But superintendent of the Sunday-school, treasurer of the church.... She felt a little sick, and her hands were cold.

Her dark, smooth face as she sat staring before her had something countrified and humble in its dazed look. It had been considered a step up in the world for Henry Seymour when he married her—she knew that. But for herself she had never had any pride. Her pride was all in her husband, making his way unaided—pride in him and in the children who had such a father.

A dozen confirmations of her fear rushed in on her. How had she been so blind? She covered her eyes. The church would have to know—everybody would know. She shivered.

If she could earn money—save money—put it in the collection plate each Sunday! What could she save or earn? How much did the figures on the card come to? She tried to think, but her head ached. If she put money in the plate every Sunday Henry would be taking

She threw the thought from her and stood up. It sickened her—all those men in black coats and the women in Easter hats looking at the minister quiet and still in the stained glass light! Henry's face at the end of the pew reticent and grave.

A horn was sounding from the back of the house. She put her hands quickly to her ears. Then she took them down. She went to the screen door and looked out. The new car was coming out of the garage—Henry at the wheel, his face eager in his new toy.

She saw the bees circling about the peach trees. Henry was tooting the horn and smiling at her. She felt suddenly very lonely. How did people pray—not merely mumble, but pray—when they needed to?

She turned back into the room.

E called to her at the side door, then he honked and waited, and called again. He prolonged the call, making it pulse a little. He liked the sense of his new voice—his finger on a valve honking gently. A sense of extended power ran from the honk up into his arms and down into his legs. He could run and not be weary, walk and not faint—with a six-cylinder attachment! He smiled at the thought—the familiar words made a kind of chant in his mind. Run and not be weary, walk and not faint.

He leaned back in the car and honked gently and persistently. Power came to a man like that! Saving, and pinching, and hard work—watching it grow—the beginning of power. Men ceasing to ignore him, ceasing to snub him, deferring to him—afraid! His finger on the button sent out a shrill call. He opened its throat and called for Janet.

She came to the window and looked out through the curtain.

“Ready?” he called happily.

She shook her head. “I don't think I will go, Henry.”

“Not go!” He opened the door of the car and sprang out. His feet in their thin shoes struck the steps lightly as he came up. Her eyes followed them—every detail of his neat, trim figure.

She turned, shrinking a little, as he came in the door.

“What's up?” he demanded.

“I am busy—dozens of things to do!” She faltered at his look as if she were the guilty one,

“Leave them!” His tone was expansive and tender. He came over to her, but she drifted from the window, and the table came between. He halted.

“Come on!” he said coaxingly. “We'll just make it—pick up the children and go for a spin!”

But she shook her head. “I'd rather not, Harry. I'd really rather not.” She had not called him Harry for years, and a little look of pity touched the name, but he ignored it,

“What's the matter?” he asked. He studied her face.

“I have to mend your coat, for one thing.” She hurried on breathless. Why had she mentioned the coat? “And I went yesterday, you know, for a long drive—all the afternoon.”

“It takes away all my pleasure not to have you with me.”

“Yes, I know.” A little sigh escaped her.

“Please, Henry!” She spread out her hands.

“Oh, all right!” He turned away. He did not offer to come round the table to touch her, and a breath of relief crossed her face.

He looked back from the door.

“I'll get the children—take 'em a little way and then come back. It's no fun without you!”

She smiled wanly. She hoped the strained lines in her face did not show. She suspected she was grimacing, and she knew she was trembling all through. She heard him get in and slam the door—the rich, heavy slam of the well-built door—and she listened for the noiseless, smooth-rolling wheels as the car slid away. She sank to her knees by the table, crouching a little and holding on ... down the street she heard the faintly calling horn—the Sunday-school superintendent's new car signalling someone to get out of the way.

She brought the coat to the window and pulled up the lining of the pocket and threaded her needle. Her mouth was set in a stern line.

She was not clever—like some women. All she could think and feel was that would not touch the money—she would never touch it! But the children must have things. They must have clothes and schooling, such as other children had. Why did she mind so fiercely for the children?

They were his children.

The hands on the coat gripped it. He was as close to her as that! Her children shared the Seymour blood, and now they were sharing the blood-money! She laughed hysterically. She gathered up the coat in her hands. Was she going crazy? She went to her room and hung up the coat and washed her hands, rubbing them hard with soap and using the brush harshly on them. Suppose she took the children away? Would the law let her have the children? Was there any law about children and hypocrites? If you shrink from a man's soul more than his body—is there any law about that?

Her hands shook. She rinsed them carefully, and dried them and hung up the towel. She would have to tell. Everyone would know the taint in their blood.

She heard the children's voices in the yard. She went down hastily.

They came running in, breathless and excited.

“He wouldn't go but just a little way. He said it's no fun without you, mother. Come on, mother, go and get your hat and come on. Just a little way. Oh, please do!”

She quieted them and set them to helping her get supper.

How was she to face to-morrow, and the next day? She saw that the car would come between her and the children.

At supper she saw Henry watching her covertly, but she would not let him guess that she knew. She must not let him guess. That would bring him close to her in spirit—she would never let him come near again—she fought against it. She would not share his shame with him.

After supper, when the children had finished their lessons, she sent them to bed. She was very tired and longed to go herself, but after an instant's hesitation she went out and sat on the porch.

Henry had been drifting restlessly about the house. Now she heard the clink of tools in the garage. She watched a flashlight twinkle. He was doing something to the car.

He came in at last and washed his hands, and sat on the lower step, pushing back his hair.

“Warm work,” he said.

“Yes, there is always a good deal to do on a car, isn't there?” Her tone was cool and even.

“Quite a lot. To-morrow I've got the day off, and we're going by ourselves—just you and me, the two of us.”

“Oh, I can't!”

He turned a little on the step.

“Too busy, I suppose?” There was a hint of hardness in his voice—a note she had never heard in it before.

“It isn't just that. I find I don't care for the car—I don't enjoy it as I expected to.”

There was silence a minute.

“Then I shall sell it.”

“Very well, perhaps it would be best.”

He stared at her, up through the dusk towards her.

“You mean that?”

“If you do—yes.”

He was quiet a minute.

“You're afraid of my driving. You don't trust my driving, that's it!”

Her heart leaped. Here was the way opened to her.

“Perhaps it is that,” she said thoughtfully, “that I don't quite trust—your driving.”

After a moment he laughed contemptuously.

“Any grocer's boy can drive,” he said.

She did not reply. And they sat in silence. After a time he got up and went towards the garage. A moon shone just above the peach trees, and the yard glimmered faintly. The figure crossing the yard seemed to move unsteadily and the bent shoulders stooped and wavered. The door of the garage rolled together with a dull thud.

N his office at the bank Henry Seymour sat making listless marks on a piece of paper. They were not investments nor computations, just meaningless, idle marks while his brain wrestled.

He saw her there on the porch with the moon touching her faintly. What had brought that look to her face? She had never criticized him, even in little things. The hand making the listless marks trembled. She trusted him with everything, even to buying her clothes and selecting her hats. The thin mouth smiled. He saw Janet, and the waiting look turned to him in the milliner's shop, and the milliner's frank amusement.

That first time—that Easter hat. The marks went more slowly. He wanted her to have it, and he “borrowed” the money next day—Easter Sunday. He meant to put it back, but she needed things, and the children. And he “borrowed” again. He had done it with his eyes open. The bent shoulders shrugged a little. Other men borrowed—to go to college, to start business, to build a house. Well, he had borrowed money to make his wife happy and by God he'd done it—till this thing happened! What had happened—what was the matter? His lips contracted with thought.

He figured a minute on the pad.

He looked at it thoughtfully.

He would begin to pay next week. He must not put too much back at any one time—he must be careful.

He turned over various plans. A subscription to the Medical Mission—a good, big one that everyone would know about, talk about. His shoulders expanded subtly as he figured.

He shook his head. Janet would have to know about that, and he could never persuade her to endow a hospital when her own children might need a doctor. Janet was a fierce mother. His eyes smiled, then they remembered, and questioned. What was the trouble? He must find out—he would make her tell him. He was master yet. He had never failed to get his will. His shoulders straightened. He returned to his figures.

He dallied with the idea of putting in a stained-glass window—in memory of his mother. The look in his eyes narrowed. He saw his mother, a small, thin woman, weak and afraid; he heard her petty lies to the neighbours—white lies! He saw the light from the window falling on Janet's face, and on his own hair growing whiter with the years—a respectable old age in the pew in St. Andrew's Church.

His hand shook, and he tried to work it all over into stained-glass.

FTER a few days it came to be understood that the new car was not ready to use. It needed something done to it before he could take them out.

When they besought him to hurry he only nodded vaguely. The smug serenity of his face was broken up; he went about gazing furtively at Janet, and at the children, and at the directors of the bank.

The first time Janet found the puzzled, broken look fixed on her she turned away hastily.

One of the children developed a cough, and she moved to the child's room to take care of her.

He wondered whether Caroline's cough was really very bad. He wakened in the night once or twice and heard it, and heard Janet's soothing voice.

Yes, of course it was the cough—it was quite croupy. He went to sleep comforted. But in the morning he was not so sure.

Janet's glance never rested on him. She was busy with the children. And when he came from the bank she was sewing or reading. He was thirsty for one of the long, slow glances from her dark eyes, that had built up his life—the foundation stones on which his home rested—that trustful look in Janet's eyes. His own shifted in furtive distress.

He shivered in his loneliness and tried to draw nearer to her. There seemed to be a thin wall of ice that lay between them. He could see her through it and hear her voice, but he could not touch her.

And curiously not for a minute did he suspect that she had surprised his secret. He had been safe so long that he had lost all sense of fear towards it—he could not conceive of her knowing his secret.

On the following Sunday he slipped a generous contribution into the plate before he deposited it on the table in front of the altar. Then he turned with his slow, soft, discreet step to the pew on the left of the middle aisle.

Janet, sitting with downcast eyes, did not look up as he approached, and when he sat down he did not feel the little filaments of love and pride reach out and surround him.

He was very lonely as he bowed his head on the pew-rail in front and listened to the blessing invoked on the offering of the day.

The next week he managed to make a small return to the bank. He had kept the way open, and the discrepancy was not discovered. He would be able to pay back all his “loans” like this a little at a time. His investments had prospered beyond his most hopeful expectation, and he devoted himself with a kind of grim intensity to paying off. He ever developed a kind of zest in devising ways in which he might do right without being found out.

He thought with his little grim smile that paying took more skill sometimes than borrowing. His thin keen face grew watchful.

On the fourth Sunday when alone in the vestry he bent to the collection plate, stacking silver and copper in neat piles and smoothing crumpled notes, he received a shock.

Among the little scattered brown envelopes containing weekly offerings he opened one and took out the contents.

His near-sighted glasses bent closer.

A little label was folded round the notes and marked “Conscience Money.”

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead and replaced the handkerchief.

His fingers trembled.

They opened the notes slowly and counted them—five pounds, and in the bottom of the envelope three loose shillings.

He shook out the shillings and stacked them with the others and threw the envelope aside.

After a minute he picked it up and put it with the slip of paper in his pocket. His lips moistened themselves slowly.

A sudden glow of relief spread through him—he was not alone in the world. Someone else in the church was a sinner—like himself.

He sat staring at it; his head fell forward to the table where the money lay untouched. He drew a long breath. He had not guessed how lonely he had been.

His heart went out to this other man—groping. He gathered up the money and put it away, and took his hat from the table.

In the vestibule he met Colonel Dole and stopped to speak to him—his eyes did not shirk or shift away. It might be the colonel who was lonely—as lonely as he was. He went home with slow, thoughtful step.

Passing the Catholic church he looked up, then he hurried with swift feet. He had a sudden vision of himself entering the high door and passing into the incense-laden air, straight up to one of those narrow confessional boxes. There with his lips to the opening he would....

HE next Sunday he watched with quick veiled glance each envelope laid on the plate as he passed it into the pews and received it again in circumspect hands. He felt sure the money with the label would be paid in more than once; it would be easy to detect what hand dropped on the plate if he watched carefully.

Yes, it was there when with almost feverish hands, he opened the envelopes. The inscription lay before him:

“Conscience Money,” printed in small, neat letters.

He could not be sure. Where had it come from? Somewhere there on the middle aisle. That was the important part of the church. He ran them over in his mind. All the pillars were in the middle aisle.

He scanned the inscription and put it in his pocket with the other. It comforted him to feel it there. His loneliness hurt less. Whoever the man was who had put the money in the plate he was less lonely for the man.

His thought ran to other men who did wrong. He began to search out the words of Christ for them. There was the parable of the Prodigal Son. Why his father made a feast for him!

He rather liked the Prodigal Son. He read it over several times. He grew to watching men who came to the bank, and when old Simon Foster asked a loan of thirty days he granted it. He knew old Foster was not quite straight—he would have turned it down a month ago. Now he protected the bank, but he made the loan.

He had a sense that the furtive look left the man's eyes when he told him the bank would accept his note. His shoulders straightened a little. Henry Seymour, looking at him with half-hungry eyes, had a feeling of rejoicing. The fellow would make good! They would show Ambrose Tait with his cast-iron goodness a thing or two!

“Remember,” he said as the man was leaving the room, “we're taking a risk on you and stretching a point on that extra hundred.”

The man turned and looked at him.

“I shall make good,” he said. At the door he looked back. “You needn't be afraid,” he nodded.

And Henry Seymour sat looking at the closed door. There was a little tightening at his throat. He went into the vault and brought out a ledger and made a brief entry. Then he stepped out of range of the grilled window and made a transfer of notes to an envelope, and carried the envelope and ledger back to the vault. No one would ever trace it!

He came out with his head held high. It was his last payment. He would never be found out.

ND each Sunday he watched the plate for the tell-tale envelope. The first glimmer of the truth that flashed to him left him speechless.

All that week as she went about her duties, quiet and controlled, his eyes followed her. Janet was paying conscience money! The irony of it scorned him.

Then the next Sunday he knew to a certainty.

He sat a long time in the vestry, the money spread on the table before him. Through the window came the sound of a street car clanging by. What had Janet done?

“Conscience Money”—in secret!

He counted the notes slowly, his fingers trembling.

What had Janet needed money for—more money than he could give her? The question wrenched him with a pang. He had sold his soul—such as it was—and it was not enough.

But it must have been earlier—before they were married. He drew a breath. He saw her dark face and trustful eyes looking at him—Janet when he first knew her. His heart gathered her up and shielded her—she must never know he had guessed.

He put the “conscience money” back in the brown envelope and tucked it in his pocket, placing an equivalent in the plate.

As he walked home he blessed the good fortune that made him treasurer of the church funds. Suppose some other man were in his place? He saw again her gentleness, the dark eyes with their quiet look; he could not let her be lonely.

All that week he gave no thought to the money he had taken; his thought was centred on Janet, to make her less unhappy. He gave her a larger allowance, and she took it without comment.

The next Sunday the conscience envelope contained it all. He put it into the collection with grim look.

If it had eased the trouble in her face he would not have begrudged it, but she seemed only to withdraw more into herself, and he could not follow her.

Then suddenly the thought came to him. Suppose he told her—let her know that he understood? Told her everything. No, he could not do that. He saw her look of withdrawal change to loathing. Whatever Janet had done she had not stolen from the Lord—trust money! He could not bear that look of hers. But if it made her less lonely?

It was in the vestry the thought came to him. He had taken the money from the envelope and was counting it, and suddenly Janet's face came between him and the notes in his hand—to make her less lonely. He stopped counting.

He sat a long time looking at it. He saw his sin in Janet's eyes, as they would look when he told her. For the first time he knew it as sin—it grew a hideous thing in its smallness. He had betrayed his trust, and he must tell Janet. So sin was like this! And Janet suffered like this! She despised herself, and she was alone with herself, despising herself!

When he came in she looked up—the first time in weeks it seemed to him—only a flitting glance. But he saw deep into her eyes—the horror and suffering there—before he turned away. Every breath of his body belonged to her; they might break his bones and he would not cry out if it saved her a pang. He would give his naked soul for her.

After dinner he asked her timidly to go for a walk. She hesitated, and then got her hat. There was no excuse she could give, and it seemed a relief to get away from the house for a few hours. The house was so full of memories that had turned to bitterness. The hill-sides would be clean.

She came down looking almost care-free, and he glanced at her happily. The furtive look left his eyes, they were only alert to protect her. He took a book she carried in her hand.

“I thought we might like to read,” she said.

“Yes.” He understood. She was too burdened to talk; it would be easier to read. He longed to surround her and lift her—carry her spirit in his heart.

They passed out of a gate at the rear of the house. The closed door of the garage might have drawn their gaze as they passed, but they did not glance towards it, yet each knew that the other was thinking of the shining car shut away in the dimness.

“Want to go Willow-brook way?” he asked, as they passed into a vacant lot.

She assented, and they struck across another field that led to a lane, and came out by a brook edged with willows.

They climbed the slope from its bank and turned looking back to the town. The roof showed among the trees, and the church spire above them lifted a pointing finger. After a minute she turned away. The birds were migrating. A flock of warblers flitted in the willows.

He made a place for her to sit at the foot of a birch tree, and threw himself on the ground near her. She leaned back against the smooth trunk, her eyes closed and her hands listless in her lap.

Looking up under half-lifted lids he saw the worn face—its look of loneliness and gentle pain.

He reached his hand to the book and opened it. Presently he began to read.

It was a collection of essays on human behaviour and life. As he read on in his smooth, well-modulated voice the quiet about them deepened.

Suddenly he stopped and thrust the book from him.

“What does he know about life?” he said. “What do men like that know?”

Her eyes opened, startled.

“What is it, Harry?”

He touched the book. “How can he know what we need, or don't need, or what men will do—tor love? His voice sank. His eyes were on her hungrily.

She looked away hastily and shivered.

His eyes looked up to her face. “You can do anything you like with me, Janet,” he said low. “I belong to you body and soul. You know that.”

“Yes.” She stirred a little.

“We do not need to speak—tell each other anything. But I want to tell you something, because I just love you and want to.”

She caught her breath. She did not look at him.

“It's been a long time” His voice was low, but he spoke the words clearly. “I thought we needed money. I've been taking it right along—years.” He swallowed a little. “It isn't just the money. I've stolen it from the collection plate every Sunday for years.” There was a long silence. He did not dare look up at her face looking down at him. “I never meant you to know. But now I want you to know, I want to tell you everything.” He reached out and touched her hand.

“It isn't what we are or what we do, Janet. It is what we are determined to do, and what we will to be....” He waited a minute. A warbler flitted in the eaves and sang. “I don't want to excuse it. I've been thinking my way back, wondering how I came to it. It never seemed so very bad, what I've been doing—till just lately.” She did not turn her eyes, but her lip trembled. He looked at it and looked away quickly. “Don't you know—don't you know that I am all alone and I want to be close to you?” He put up his hand and she took them, dazed.

His face was on her lap, her hand touched his hair. She stroked it a minute. The bird singing in the willow stopped and then went on.

She listened to it, her eyes shining.

She felt his lips touch her hand. The lips that had confessed. She bent to him.

He looked up to her and smiled like a boy.

“You didn't need to say anything Janet, or tell me anything. Just keep on loving me—now you know.”

“But I knew before you told me,” she said low, “and I have been alone too,”

He drew her face down to his. “I've learned a lot of things I never knew!” He waited a minute and released her, looking before him.

“I want to tell the vestry, Janet.”

She sat looking before her, the radiance in her face was dimmed. She was seeing Henry Seymour. She drew a quick breath.

“Yes, we must tell them,” she said.

HE vestry sat waiting with expectant faces. Henry Seymour had asked them to come together at eight o'clock. He had something to bring before them.

They knew it would be worth while. Henry Seymour would not waste their time. It was a little odd, though, his summoning them for a special meeting.

They looked to the door. It opened quietly, and Janet Seymour came in. Her husband followed her and closed the door. As she came towards the table the men about it rose.

“My wife would like to be present at the meeting,” said Henry Seymour, coming forward. His face was quiet and grave.

They bowed, and someone placed a chair for her. She sat where the light fell on her face. It was turned to her husband.

He did not sit down, but stood waiting till the little bustle of their entrance subsided.

“I have a matter to bring before you that will tax your utmost charity and your wisdom,” he said slowly. The group stirred. Their faces became impenetrable.

There has been for years a great wrong going on, of which no one but myself has known.” He paused. Little drops stood on his forehead. He lifted his glance to the men about the table.

“Every Sunday for more than fifteen years money has been taken from the collection plate of St. Andrew's Church.”

A man looked up sharply. It was Ambrose Tait. He stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Colonel Dole's fine, shrewd face wore a little puzzled line between the eyes. It wrestled with this unbelievable statement of the treasurer of St. Andrew's.

How do you know?” he asked.

“I am the man.”

There was silence. The eyes of twelve men were fixed on the shining mahogany table. If they looked up they might meet the glance of Henry Seymour's wife.

They could not guess its shining radiance.

He looked at her with a little grave smile.

“The money will, of course, be refunded. I have already begun, and I have an exact accounting.” He drew a paper from his pocket and read from it the added amounts for the fifteen years. He laid the paper on the table.

“I shall leave this with you. The question of the money you do not need to deal with. The matter I bring before you is what must be done in addition—what in your judgment should be exacted of a man who has abused your trust and the trust of the church you represent.”

He waited. There was silence about the table.

“Perhaps you would like to appoint a committee to consider the matter,” he said, after a minute.

Ambrose Tait rose to his feet. “I think the vestry should have a few more facts,” he said drily. “Why you took the money and so on. There may be extenuating circumstances.” He glanced half apologetically at Janet Seymour, and sat down.

A breath went through the room.

Henry Seymour straightened his shoulders.

“There are no extenuating facts,” he said. “I took the money because I wanted to get on in the world, and to make my wife happy.”

A faint clear colour came to her cheeks. But her eyes were shining. One man after another looking up was startled at the light in them.

“She is proud of him!” they thought swiftly.

Colonel Dole cleared his throat softly. He looked up at Henry Seymour.

“What I am wondering, Henry, is why you're telling us now—after these fifteen years. You could have paid it back and nobody known.”

Henry Seymour dropped a look to him. He stood a moment. Then he lifted his head and began the recital of what he had done, and how he had tried to evade the issue.

The men about the table became conscious that he was laying bare his heart to them. He was speaking of things that men only think of at night in the darkness, and hope other men will not know.

Yet the recital was simple, almost matter-of-fact in detail.

A sense of freedom was in the room. The men seemed to breathe more easily. Janet Seymour, praying inaudibly, felt with a glow of pride that they had ceased to judge her husband. A look of humbleness had come to their listening faces. He was telling of his loneliness and of the understanding that comes to a man.

“I thought of a medical mission,” he said with a faint smile, “or giving a stained-glass window to the church.”

“That was before I understood what I had done,” he added simply. His voice dropped a note.

Someone got to his feet. It was Colonel Dole, his thin, fine face turned to them.

“I've known Henry, man and boy, for thirty years,” he said slowly. “But I feel as if I knew a new Henry to-night—there's a new man born. It's come to me while he's been talking that what we've come together for is not to judge the old Henry Seymour, but just to be here awhile with the new one. I'd like to do something that when we look at it will remind us how we've known him to-night. I don't know why Henry shouldn't give us a stained-glass window—a memorial window if you call it that. Those of us here round the table will know what it stands for, and the rest of the church will just see the beauty shining through.” He sat down.

There was a quick movement of men. Someone grasped Henry Seymour's hand. His wife watched their faces while they spoke with him. They did not judge him—these men. The vestry of Andrew's saw what she saw.

title: Conscience Money


text: Talk:Conscience Money

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Talk:Conscience Money


text:
The Young Wife (Mathers)

HERE goes the New Lady Teazle.”

“What beautiful young people they are,” said the woman. “They dazzle one's eyes.”

“Yes—youth to youth—age to age,” said the man. “Ah! these roomy years of youth—what a gorgeous, splendid garden. Neighbors in the country, weren't they? Seem to have got nearer in town. But, really—Falaise on that box-seat! There's no doubt that Percy has behaved badly. He should have wiped the slate clean before he married. It's not the behavior of a gentleman”

“Oh! I'm not sure it matters about his being a gentleman—but he must be a man. Who cares for conduct nowadays. I heard Upthorne say the other day that character was of importance only for men, (and more especially women) whose livelihood was dependent on it—and he had more than enough money for his needs. And to call her the New Lady Teazle is ridiculous. Where are Sir Benjamin Backbite and Mrs. Candour, and the rest of that witty, delightful crew? If Sheridan returned to earth he would not know the Josephs from the Charles Surfaces! All the zest of conversation is gone now that we are careful to shut our mouths about our neighbor's misconduct, so that they may ignore ours! In short, society is one huge sheep-pen, in which the blackest are reckoned the whitest, and get the most fun!”

“You exaggerate. Well, to my mind, Percy's a fool. Beauty is what a man can very well do without (or ignore) in his wife. But her ladyship is going the right way to make Percy genuinely in love with her! She shuts her eyes, takes her pleasures abroad; there's nothing binds a man so securely to his home as to meet his wife often in society, where she is as charming to him as to her other acquaintances.”

“Yes—there's a great deal in that. Anything that averts the awful duet (or duel) of everlasting propinquity must be salutary. It's a very great mistake for any woman to fix the idea of her unalterable virtue in her husband's mind. Men are gregarious; where one goes, others flock.”

“But how came Percy Winter in that galère? No man has been more pursued by women—or more dexterous in evading the matrimonial yoke—and then—Falaise!”

“Yes. When the aisle is free, suitors will block it, but when the object of pursuit is at the altar, has retired into the vestry with one woman, the crowd usually departs—mostly without breaking windows—and Falaise has broken none—on the contrary, she has taken the girl to her bosom, and is teaching her bridge!”

“How did it happen?”

“Idleness. Country. Falaise abroad. A lovely rustic, eager to see life. And Percy, if twenty years older, is very charming. 'Not too much of anything,'—said a profound epicure—'in food, or in love, or in any good thing of life'—well, Percy has followed that recipe—and is younger at heart than you, mon ami. And she's happy. Look at her bloom, hear her laugh! So long as a man tells a woman that he loves her for one hour out of the twenty-four, she supports with equanimity the thought that he is kissing another, or others, the remaining twenty-three. It is when he neglects that one hour, she finds she can't support his faults—it's his absence that brings them home to her!”

“Now—Barbara—”

“I suppose it's the light and shade of character that make a bad man so fascinating—and the one who is an irritant, and annoyance, acts as a mustard plaster—the merely good one is a soporific! And undoubtedly the reason why unsatisfactory men are so loved is that they don't demand so high a standard of conduct in women as the higher type does!”

“Then if that's the case, you ought to love me—but you don't.”

“No. I value your affection too much to run the risk of losing it. The point is—does Percy love her?”

“I should say not, or he would not allow her a Jack Patterson.”

“That's where he is so wise. A woman can always be trusted with a young man—he hasn't had time to grow thoroughly wicked! Here comes the coach. Falaise is growing stout. It's one long struggle with her between gluttony and her waist, and as there are a thousand ways of gratifying the palate, and only one waist, naturally her figure goes to the wall. When your hands feel a temptation to spray over your person, the game is up. Look at half the rich women driving about town—either they should build their barouches deeper, or make their figures shallower.”

“But they're very happy!”

“I'd rather be miserable. Bridge is Falaise's Anti-Fat, still it reduces her less than'

“Percy's balance at his bank.”

“But she's awfully fascinating—all 'frills, curls, kisses, smiles and tantrums'—the Josephine type of woman who has no intellectual pursuits whatever, but is so delightfully feminine and limited that all men love her dearly for her folly! That she doesn't really care for Percy—and I shrewdly suspect his wife does—is one more to Falaise.”

“I don't agree with you. 'If she be not fair for me'—lots of men feel like that—I know I do.”

“Do they? I was reading the other day the love letters of a certain Marquise to her husband during his fifteen years' captivity. The man was the lowest type of scoundrel—she an angel—and after he had heaped every outrage possible on her, and finally accused her of infidelity, she wrote: 'If you are capable of poniarding me under the present circumstances it would be a happiness to me not to exist longer.' Scrawled on the margin of this piteous letter by its unworthy recipient, we find the reflection: 'Quelle platitude, grand Dieu! Quelle platitude!' That is what every one of you men would say—if you dared.”

“She wrote too often—she bored him. You rarely write to me—and you never bore me!”

“I wish I could say the same for you. Well, I always thought Mohammed misunderstood the male human heart when he promised to the faithful throughout eternity a fresh houri every day. He should have said if they could catch them. Why has golf caught on? Because the ball has gone we know not where, and we mean to find it. We should never walk after it with such eagerness if we knew where it was—it is the doubt and the search that enthral us. How dull a black and white and gray crowd is! This season is like an Irish wake with the whisky left out.”

“Yes, but it saves the color-blind woman from making an exhibition of herself. The lunatics in that respect now walk clothed, and in their right minds.”

“But that does not make up for the dulness [sic]. We have no use even for our social Post Office—Mrs. Warren—to whom we used to go for the lost, stolen and strayed of society, sure at one time or another to be found in her drawing-room!”

“Ha, ha! Did you ever hear the story about the two men, apparently strangers to each other, who were about to fight a duel? One said, 'I am sure 1 have met you before.' 'To which the other replied, 'Then it must have been at Mrs. Warren's!'”

“That sounds like truth. Isn't that Mrs. White over there? How ill she looks! And she was so pretty and nice ... but since she became a Stock Exchange woman ... it's worse than bridge—all those girls just growing up, too, and White's a dear—and her financier such a brute—how could such men get into society if the women. didn't gamble, and on such a huge scale? It is possible to get out of one's dressmaker's clutches—even to be ruined decently, over bridge—but the Stock Exchange for a woman may mean the blackest of black dishonor.”

“Well—thank God, Barbara, you've kept clear of the whole plot.”

“Yes. But it has been dull.”

“And take my word for it, the others have their dull moments too. Else why do they invariably end up by becoming dévotee [sic]? Because they have lived, and didn't think much of it; it's those who haven't lived who credit vice with a joy it never possessed!”

“I wonder? But at least with every year my demands become less and my charity grows. What is it, this inner yielding of the spirit—is it age?—is it chilled blood?—is it the nearing of the end of the journey?—seeing what we could not at a distance? And death is only painful to those who are left behind.”

“You've got the blues. It's all this beastly weather.”

“Dick, don't you think life is like holding a stall at a bazaar, infinite worry and trouble—and the end? A few articles displayed for sale—and a grinning weary woman to sell them—and no buyers! Or like an elegant saloon to furnish and arrange—and we plan everything—and think how nice it looks—and a crowd comes in, and mixes it all up, and nothing is where we meant it to be—and oh! the breakages!”

“Lunch time,” said the man, jumping up. “Ah! here comes Lady Teazle. How warm and quick her smile is ... she likes you, and may want you for her friend yet....”

“And I won't fail her. It's the only thing we poor women can do, to help one another.”

“Good heavens, Livy! Has Tiffany's upset itself in here? Or have you turned the place into a mart for all the jewelers, silk manufacturers, curiosity dealers and milliners in town?”

“You dear boy,” cried Percy's young wife, rushing at him. “Come and look at some of the things Percy and I have been buying!”

“Your river forgot-me-nots matched your eyes far better,” grumbled Jack, scarcely glancing at the riviére of great turquoises and diamonds she held out towards him. “It's all like a dream, Jack,” she cried, joyously pushing the hair back from her forehead. “Two months ago, there was I dreading the butcher's bill, wearing a shabby old frock that I had made myself, not a soul to speak to”

“Except me.”

“Poor papa's tempers the only distraction”

“Which you could always get away from if you liked, and you had your garden:

“And you mean to say that you don't miss it?—that all these manufactured things make you happy!”

“They wouldn't”—and she blushed shyly—“but for Percy. Oh! Jack, isn't it curious how the people you are living with set the tune? You may be a genius or a hero, but if those at home don't think so, a blight settles on your self-respect, and you end by thinking the world must be wrong and they right! Even a sorry fellow, exalted by his home circle into a splendid creature, may come at last not only to think himself, but in a way be one. His wings may really grow, because he is so often assured that they are there, and Percy is so sweet to me that he actually makes me good! Much as I value all he gives me, I value him most of all!”

“Humph!”

“Jack, poverty and sordid worry turn you into a savage. Did you ever know any one so completely keep her virtues in the background as I did at home? If he had not come, I should have been a hard, bitter-tongued shrew before I was twenty!”

Jack groaned. How much longer a woman stayed in a fool's paradise than a man! Aloud he said, “Why weren't you on the box-seat of Percy's coach yesterday?”

“Jack! My husband and Falaise Conroy are such old friends, and people of that age have so much in common; not that I mean Percy old—I like a man to be old, but not a woman; and to tell you a secret I feel that she has a claim upon me—for I'm sure she wanted to marry Percy herself!”

“A pity she didn't.”

“Jack, you're cross. Look at this scarab, and that parasol handle. Life's lovely—just lovely! I've got everything I wanted—even to having an old friend like you about the place—for I confess that though I like the things and amusements, the people in town bore me. And they have such funny ways. At my afternoon reception last week a lady sent up word to me by one of the men that she had not time to come up stairs—she had only looked in for some tea!”

“Beautifully characteristic of the manners of the day. I don't wonder at people making friends of the lower orders—there's so much more heart in 'em. But, my dear girl,” he glanced around helplessly at the amazing litter of laces, fans, furs, bibelots, silks, jewels and a thousand other necessities of a woman of fashion—“for Heaven's sake don't be vulgar,” he added, and lifted an armful of costly finery from an easy chair, and sank down on it.

“Oh!” cried Livy in a rage, “if I was a poor country girl, I was rich in friends—richer far than in town—and, of course, I send presents to every one of them. Some are for myself. Jack,” she added in a gentler tone, and caught up a foam of cambric and held it to her cheek

“Perhaps I do know,” he said grimly. “Oh, yes, the screen is down at last, and the wives and the others face each other, and their weapons must be the same!”

“Poor boy! I always thought it so hard on you men that nowadays you wear no frills. For when you did, you were such pretty fellows! Jack, I'm growing very fond of bridge, and it's so fascinating. It's like whist, and do you remember how you laughed when I said it was the only game of cards I cared for, as I could talk all the time? What are you glowering about now?”

“Livy,” said Jack, sitting up with energy, “you are one of those rare people who undervalue their beauty to the extent of being vain, and what will Percy say if you lose your good looks? Just listen. This is what bridge will do for you. Bridge channels a woman's face, wilts her, scorches her, makes her unprincipled; willing to rob her own child to pay her debts of honor—honor! Bridge finds a woman, and leaves garbage. Even if Percy can afford to pay for two sets of gambling debts”

“Two!” cried Livy, “and pray who is the other?”

Hugh colored and cursed himself for a fool.

“Doesn't he play himself?”

“No. And he did not seem to wish Falaise to teach me either.”

“So she taught you? O-oh! Well, drop it, Livy, and while you're about it, drop her.”

Livy hesitated. “She is very kind—but somehow—don't you think every man Jack and woman Jill of us has his aura? And that a person may not even look at, or say one word to you, and yet you know he is all right, and another will single you out to be everything that's kind, yet you feel in your bones he is all wrong? It is the aura or spiritual atmosphere of the person, that can't lie, if only your perceptions are true enough to feel and know it.”

“And if they warn you against Mrs. Conroy so much the better,” said Jack, grimly. “Now Barbara Crichton is another pair of shoes—in the world, not of it—and you couldn't have a safer guide.”

“I like her; but she's so clever! Why should she notice a country girl like me? But I understand all she says. It bites. What the others say slithers off my mind. It sometimes strikes me that these society women don't want you to understand what they mean!”

“And if the men try to explain themselves they are impertinent. The only time they are genuine is after dinner,” said Jack. “Then their minds revert to the natural—to the true proportion of things, and they are oblivious of, or indifferent to, the false. And so the man speaks the truth. And Percy does'nt [sic] drink”

“Jack, you are hateful—and envious. Manners were in vogue when Percy was born, and he outshines all other men as easily as”

“These gauds outshine a simple country house, and an honest man's devotion. It's true I couldn't turn your morning-room into a heaped-up bazaar”

“Into which you shall come no more,” cried Livy warmly, “and where you have no business at this moment. It seems to me that all the lacqueys fall over each other in their haste to show you up.”

“Impudent varlets,” grumbled Jack.

“And it's quite extraordinary how you are always asked to the same houses for week-ends! You are going to the Annandale's on Friday?”

“Tea”

“And, of course, Falaise Conroy is going. Couldn't you take her off Percy's hands sometimes—and leave him to me?”

“No, I can't!”

“Poor thing—to be as old as that—quite forty—and she must have been so pretty once!”

“Percy seems to think her pretty now!”

“Ah!” cried Livy, eagerly, “that is because he is so kind hearted—he hates wounding any one's feelings.”

“It's to be hoped he'll never hurt yours.”

“Nor I his,” cried Livy, with spirit.

“Then perhaps some one else has a monopoly of making him miserable,” said Jack, disentangling his foot from a length of lace into which he had angrily thrust it. “Any way, I'd have paid you a better compliment than to look as he does.”

“But he is happy,” cried Livy, very pale, but with head in the air. “And surely I ought to know!”

“The holidays of miserable men are sadder than the burial days of kings,” said Jack concisely; “but I always said, and always shall maintain, that the richer the man, the more truly wretched he is. The rich have discovered thousands of fresh ways of making money, but have not yet learned the best mode of enjoying it. Now, it's the other way round with a woman. So long as she has carte-blanche to walk into any good shop in town and order every blessed thing she does, or does not want, she's happy.”

“I suppose you'll say next that I married Percy because he could give me all—this?” cried Livy indignantly; “I didn't know if he were rich or poor when I first saw him, yet I was ready to follow him round the world before I had known him a week. I sometimes wish—I wish—that he could lose all his money, that I might prove how much I love him!”

“Well,” said Jack grimly, and thinking of Falaise's huge gambling debts, “you may have your wish yet. Have you a goldsmith or dressmaker behind that screen by the door? I thought I saw it move.”

He sprang up, and as he reached it, the door on the other side softly closed.

“Eavesdroppers!” he said; “but there was nothing to hear, save that you loved your lord. And after all—after all”

“What?”

“It is sometimes safer for a woman to love her husband than for him to love her. What, Livy, tears? And for how many years have I tried to bring smiles to your face?... How do you do, Mr. Winter? No luncheon, thanks. I was on the point of leaving.”

“And how is the new Lady Teazle this morning?” inquired Mrs. Conroy.

“She is well,” said Winter, briefly; “young people are always well.”

“Percy, you were a fool to take a young wife. I always told you you could not afford it.”

“Not while you play bridge,” he said.

“It's the only thing that keeps me down,” she retorted.

“It wrinkles more than it reduces you,” he said, his cold eyes resting on the pretty, faded face—and thinking of a very different one, fresh as the morning.

“I, too, was young once,” said Falaise, who had at times an amazing lègéreté of mind that astonished her lovers.

“Girls are flowers of life,” he said, as if thinking aloud.

“And older, more experienced women are the fruit,” snapped Falaise. “You can't eat a flower.”

“It is possible to feast through the eyes,” said Winter, who was acknowledged to be a man of fastidious taste.

“A feast that others also can enjoy,” said Mrs. Conroy, significantly. “Jack Patterson, for example; why couldn't you let the child alone? You men are such brutes; the moment you see a young girl's lovely face, you want to own it; you wipe out her graces as with a sponge, for girlish beauty never comes back. And at your age—to be made ridiculous—by a black-haired, blue-eyed rustic!”

“You mistake—her surroundings only were rustic. She comes of the very best blood. You must have observed in her the clear address that distinguishes birth from plebeian origin, the rulers from the ruled. And in cataloguing her charms, you forget her skin—apple blossom against the sable of her hair and lashes.”

“Oh! she drinks no wine,” said Falaise, with a sneer; “pure vanity, 'to keep her color fine.'”

“Jack is a good lad,” said Winter. “But you have omitted my wife's greatest charm—her heart—the kindest heart in the whole world. She is a living contradiction to the axiom that there is only one thing a human being is safe never to repeat, something kind about somebody else. He will keep the secret virtuously—horses will not draw it from him, but the fleer, the jeer, the unkind word come trippingly nineteen to the dozen. Now did you ever hear my wife say a word of scandal about any one?”

“Oh! she'll mend of that. When she finds every tongue clacking about her—she'll clack too.”

“Then she will only have me to hear her. I am taking her in my yacht on a tour around the world—she has enjoyed the only tolerable month of the year—June—and, never having traveled, the idea delights her.”

“You are going away,” screamed Falaise, “after the infamous way you have treated me—leaving me to face all my debts and worries alone?”

“Falaise, I have given you enough money to keep a dozen families in luxury, and it has been as water spilled on the ground. I will not wrong my wife.”

“Say it out,” cried Falaise furiously, “that you love the fool, and want to be rid of me.”

“Yes, I love my wife. If her beauty caught, it is her mind and heart that fixed me unalterably”

“Suppose I tell her”

“Falaise! But you will have to prove it.”

“No, it is for you to disprove. And your visits here”

“Only at your urgent request, as to-day”

“Your putting me instead of your wife on the box seat of the coach”

“Olivia insisted on it—she thinks youth should give way to age”

“Age! I suffocate .... Percy, you shall smart for this.”

“So long as she doesn't, I'm happy. Come, Falaise, let us talk sense. You propose to give yourself away to my wife—incidentally to a world that prefers to pass by what it does not choose to see, and deeply resents the rude tocsin that summons it to look. Olivia will recover. Even in the country it sometimes happens that a man has an affaire before he marries—and she has not walked through life with those beautiful eyes of hers shut. Poverty teaches much.”

“TI will take her my bank book,” said Falaise, trembling with passion; “she shall see your checks”

“The privilege of an old friend,” said Percy airily, “to help a lady in her little gambles ... if that were to be relied on as incriminatory evidence, I fear half the men in society would be in the same boat.”

“But I shall have had my revenge,” cried Falaise, visibly staggered by his coolness.

“I never knew revenge pay a woman's debts yet,” he said.

“Patterson can't pay hers. But there is always one who kisses, and one who pays.”

“I mean to do both.”

“And you think I am going to sit quietly down, tormented by duns and sneering acquaintances, to whom I can't pay my gambling debts, while you—you—I, Falaise—a deserted woman! Don't you know that while it is your wife's misfortune if you leave her, it is your crime if you abandon me?”

“I was a free man before I married, Falaise, and you were a free woman. I have been true to my wife—I shall continue to be so. My mistake has been in remaining on friendly terms with you, and assisting you with money. But I did not wish to soil my wife's mind and up to now the world has been kind, and told her nothing!”

“I shall not be so complaisant,” said Falaise, tearing at the lace on her wrapper, with furious hands. “I will see her—I will tell her everything—and you may take her twice round the world before she will have forgotten it.”

“She will come to me, and I will tell her the truth.”

“Yes, but things will never be the same between you again. These young people have no mercy—and how will your cheques look, given to me since your marriage?”

“Come, let us drop heroics—tell me how much it will take to clear you? Give up bridge—and when we come back in a year's time, look my wife in the face, knowing that you have no more tried to injure her, than she has you.”

“She took you from me!” flashed out Falaise, but she was clearly thinking, and to some purpose.

“She knew nothing about you. Probably she would have shown me the door if she had. How much, Falaise?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“You must be mad ... you've had ten thousand in the last six months.”

“Nevertheless, I cannot do with less. Either your Olivia is, or is not, worth it.”

Percy got up, and took one or two turns round the room. He was a man of quick thought, and rapid decision.

“Yes,” he said, deliberately, “I think it is worth it—to get rid of a woman like you, and keep from your touch a woman like my wife.”

He sat down at a writing table, and drew out a cheque book.

“I see you came prepared,” she said, torn between rage and greed.

“Yes. I keep my alms for you, and my heart for Olivia,” he said, as he began to fill in the cheque. “I have post-dated it ten days,” he added. “By that time we shall be gone. If you attempt to get at my wife before we leave, I warn you that I shall stop the cheque.”

He took his hat, and went out without farewell. The cheque seemed to look her in the face like a bone flung to an outcast dog in the street.

For a moment a great horror seized her of this cursed gambling, which placed scores of well-born women like herself at the mercy of men, and that had at last even broken down Percy's exquisite courtesy toward women; she covered her face with her hands, and tears of shame rushed to her eyes.

At that moment a knock came at the boudoir door, and she sprang up, and passed quickly into her bedroom, that she might not be seen.

“I thought Mrs. Conroy was here,” she heard a footman say; then there was the rustle of a woman's dress, and she softly closed the door, and set about obliterating the traces of her tears.

Olivia, for it was she, moved feverishly about the room, obviously in a state of great excitement, presently stooping to pick up a glove that had fallen beside the writing-table—had she not herself chosen that, and its fellow, for Percy, the preceding day? As she laid it down on the writing-table, his bold handwriting arrested her attention, and almost unconsciously she read the cheque through. So he gave his wife jewels and laces, and to the woman he loved, twenty thousand dollars at a time ... Olivia had come here to demand the truth from Falaise ... to show her the shameful, anonymous letter received an hour ago and she found this ... she was answered already.... What need was there of a vulgar scene of upbraiding, of a hateful, degrading quarrel of two women over one man? She would go away, and leave them free. As to the letter, she had it by heart ... hurriedly she slipped it into a blank envelope, not pausing to address it, and with swift steps crossed the room, and passed out of it, just as the other door opened, and Mrs. Conroy came in, looking round in surprise at the empty room.

“What a fool I was to leave that cheque out,” she said to herself; and, ringing the bell sharply, she asked who it was that had been shown up, and had left almost immediately?

“Mrs. Winter.”

Falaise, left alone, trembled, and walked over to the writing-table, where lay Mr. Winter's glove, and beside it the cheque, and on the cheque an open envelope containing a letter.

“Marie, will you go down stairs, and ask Thomas to tell Mr. Winter that my head aches, and I do not require any luncheon? Also, that I am not to be disturbed. I will ring if I want anything.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Marie darkened the room, helped her mistress out of her gown, brought a white wrap, marveling at the trembling of the limbs it covered, then, having heaped the sofa with pillows and placed eau de Cologne on a little table close by, softly withdrew.

Livy sprang up, and locked the door after her, then the one leading to her husband's dressing-room, and stood listening for the knock that, almost immediately came.

“Olivia,” said her husband, but she made no answer.

He called her name again, asking to be let in, but at last he went away, and she blessed the good breeding that had never allowed him to intrude on her privacy, unless very sure of a welcome, and she had shown a like delicacy in her attitude toward him.

It had seemed a long minute of waiting to Percy before he went down to the dining-room, disturbed in mind at this new development that followed on a most harassing and annoying morning. Could it be that Olivia had heard anything? ... from some good-natured friend? ... or had that boy, Jack, who loved her, and hated him, blurted it out?

After making a pretence at luncheon, he went into the library, where he had left her writing notes when he went out that morning. Close to her chair, a crumpled envelope lay on the ground, and mechanically he picked it up, and saw it was addressed to his wife, and had “Private” written in one corner. The writing, obviously feigned, slanted backward, but struck him as familiar ... where had he seen it before?... He remembered now, it was that of a valet lately dismissed from his house for flagrant dishonesty, who had been with him some years ... he had refused the scamp a character, and this was evidently his dastardly revenge—an anonymous letter.

He sighed. How impossible it is to get away from our ill-doing, or to confine its effects to our own selves ... he must wait till she opened the door of her own accord ... poor Livy! but yesterday so happy in all her gay possessions ... and, better than that, she loved him more than all the gewgaws he had given her ... he had heard her say so when he entered behind the screen, and he had gone away lest she suspected him of eavesdropping ... it had been the happiest moment of his life ... and to-day, to-day ... he went toward the grand staircase, the servants were all below-stairs at dinner, only two aching hearts above—hers and his....

Suddenly he saw her descending toward him, saw her before she saw him, a figure strange and unfamiliar to that house, for she wore the gown in which he had seen her first, a flowered muslin, of which the roses had faded to pink with much washing, and on her head was the simplest straw hat to be found in her wardrobe. There was no rings on her hands, save a wedding one—gloves had not been thought of in her haste. As she set her foot on the last shallow stair, he stepped out from behind a statue, and faced her.

“Livy,” he said, “where are you going?”

She swerved away from him as if he had been pitch, and said

“That is my business.”

“No, it is mine.”

She was so tall that she almost stood level with him, and so beautiful that it seemed to him he had never really seen her before, so amazing were the blue of her eyes, the white of her skin, and the sable wings of her splendid hair.

“I am going to my father,” she said, and the look in her eyes hurt him. “There are worse things in life than to be poor and shabby. I only take away from your house the one fetter that I would gladly break if it would give me back my freedom; yours you never lost.”

“You shall go if you will,” he said, gravely, “but first you will hear what I have to say,” and he made a motion of his hand toward the library.

“What can you tell me!” she said, and her voice was like a moan. “I know—I know. And Jack knew too; everybody knew but me. But he wouldn't tell me; real love never harms what it loves, but I see now why he hated you.”

Her husband led her by a fold of her dress into the library and shut the door.

“What was in that letter?” he said, and she grew calmer; his agony of mind was so visible in voice and eye.

She told him, word for word—few words—coarse words—burnt in for all time on her mind.

“And you believed it?” he said; “you would not give me the benefit of a doubt?”

“I think the horror, the shock of it, drove me mad ... I went straight off to her ... and her boudoir was empty, but in it were your glove, and your cheque ... then I knew it was all true. Oh! we might have been so happy ... people talk about the waste of this and that—it's the waste of love that sickens one. Surely it is as bad to be a monopolist in love, as the man who sweeps thousands of struggling men and women workers into his net, and sweats them all! Many a man keeps baskets full of love beside him, full in his starving wife's sight, and parts with it piece by piece—to other women. I have seen it in the country ... it was my poor mother's lot ... but I never thought it would be mine! 'She doesn't please me.' says the man—'therefore let her go!' The marriage service is a page to be laughed over—and thrown aside”—and Livy laughed wildly.

“Listen,” said Winter, “I was Mrs. Conroy's lover, or banker—which you please—before my marriage. I have been her banker, but not her lover, since. I did not wish you to know the story—and this morning I bribed her with money to pay her gambling debts, that you never might know it.'”

“Then you ought to have married her—not me. Oh! I know there are unprincipled men in the world, but I didn't think nice men did these things—men like you.”

“But you believe me, Livy?”

“I don't know ... I said to Jack yesterday that life was lovely but now it's ... broken.”

She turned away, and the look in her eyes rived his heart. It is a horrible responsibility to take away a happy, trusting child, and leave a seared, enlightened woman in its place. “It's the waste,” she went on sadly, “love costs nothing—and it's the most beautiful thing in life”

“But I did love you, Livy,” he cried, “I do. I am not a young man—I know my own mind. I never asked, I have never wanted any woman in the world for my wife but you. When I saw you—so simple, so brave, so sincere—making the best of everything—uttering no complaint—not one word of malice—of envy for more fortunate women—O! had I known that such a child was growing up in the country to make my life's happiness, I would have behaved differently.”

“But, twenty thousand dollars!” she exclaimed. “Father and I lived all the year round on twelve hundred a year! And often I have been ashamed of my extravagance here!”

“You! you, poor little soul—nearly all you bought, you gave to others—while her mad folly”

“O!” cried Livy, “I didn't know there was a woman in the world worth twenty thousand dollars!”

“If I had a million, I would put it down gladly for you,” said Percy. “If I lost one”—he took her hand, and kissed it—“I know, from your own lips, that you would love me just the same!”

“When did you hear me say that?”

“Yesterday—I came in when you were talking to Patterson, and went out again—behind the screen.”

The girl trembled violently, and he drew her into his arms, and held her there.

“It's the easiest thing in the world to go beyond one's self—it's the coming back that is such awful agony,” she whispered.

A knock came at the door, and Percy put her in a deep arm-chair out of sight before he said, “Come in.”

When the man had gone, he broke the seal of the envelope, and over the top of the enclosure showed the cheque he had given to Falaise.

When Livy had read it, she sighed, then smiled, and put her arms round her husband's neck, and kissed him.

“Oh, these great ladies!” she said, then went up stairs to change her frock.

title: The Young Wife (Mathers)


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title: Talk:The Young Wife (Mathers)


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Page:Sacred Books of the East - Volume 15.djvu/133

1. Verily the dawn is the head of the horse which is fit for sacrifice, the sun its eye, the wind its breath, the mouth the Vaisvânara fire, the year the body of the sacrificial horse. Heaven is the back, the sky the belly, the earth the chest, the quarters the two sides, the intermediate quarters the ribs, the members the seasons, the joints the months and half-months, the feet days and nights, the bones the stars, the


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Author:Charles Louis Hett

Books

 * Rural Water Supply. E. and F.N. Spon, 1888
 * Turbine Manual and Millwright's Handbook, (? 1893)
 * A Dictionary of Bird Notes, to which is Appended a Glossary of Popular Local and Old-fashioned Synonyms of British Birds. Jacksons', 1898
 * A Glossary of Popular, Local, and Old-fashioned Names of British Birds. Henry Sotheran & Co., 1902

Articles etc.

 * The Hydraulic Ram February 1878. Scientific American 5:111(supp.)
 * [on Moorhens] (December 1897) Avicultural Magazine, iv p27.
 * Gold Toning with Sulphocyanide for Amateurs (6 January 1899) The British Journal of Photography p.11
 * Animal Photography. (June 1899) Irish Naturalist, p.231
 * Calls of Owls. (October 1899) Irish Naturalist, p.231
 * Norris, S. E., and Co. Table of actual Horse Power transmitted by Shafts and Leather Belts. Compiled by C. L. Hett. London, [18, ?]. Sheet. (19961)

title: Author:Charles Louis Hett


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Page:NBS Circular 553.djvu/49

{|class="__NBS553a" !Plochere !Ridgway !Other sources
 * Crab Pink||368 R 4-h
 * Rose Morn||296 Ro 1-h
 * Rose Pearl||384 R 6-h
 * Rose Shadow||383 R 6-g
 * Rose Pearl||384 R 6-h
 * Rose Shadow||383 R 6-g
 * Rose Shadow||383 R 6-g
 * Rose Shadow||383 R 6-g
 * Livid Pink XXVII||3′′f
 * Pale Brownish Vinaceous||XXXIX 5′′′f
 * Pale Brownish Vinaceous||XXXIX 5′′′f
 * Pale Brownish Vinaceous||XXXIX 5′′′f
 * Grayish Pink||RC
 * Griseo-Roseus||B
 * Pink|A
 * Subvinosus||B
 * }
 * Pink|A
 * Subvinosus||B
 * }
 * }

title: Page:NBS Circular 553.djvu/49


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Page:Characteristicks of men, manners, opinions, times Vol 2.djvu/81

RV 77 (Rh) have consider'd what is, and to whom the Character belongs. It remains to inquire, What Obligation there is to ; or what Reason to embrace it.

have found, that to deserve the name of good or virtuous, a Creature must have all his Inclinations and Affections, his Dispositions of Mind and Temper, sutable, and agreeing with the Good of his Kind, or of that System in which he is included, and of which he constitutes a. To stand thus well affected, and to have one's Affections right and intire, not only in respect of one's self, but of Society and the Publick: This is Rectitude, Integrity, or. And to be wanting in any of these, or to have Rh


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Page:Hudibras - Volume 2 (Butler, Nash, Bohn; 1859).djvu/314

Abracadabra, a charm, 223, n, 2.

Aches, 192, n. 3; 293 and n. 1; 344.

Achievements, military, 55, n. 1.

Achitophel, 345 and n. 2.

Action on the case, 134 and n. 2.

Adam, picture of, 11, n. 3; his first green breeches, 25 and n. 2; Eve carved from his side, 296 and n. 1.

Addison, his censure of Butler, preface, 23.

Administerings, 312 and n. 5.

AEneas, his descent into hell, 23, n. 1.

AEolus, an attendant on fame, 138, n. 5.

Affidavit-hand, 285 and n. 2.

Affidavit-makers, 337 and n. 4.

Agamemnon, dagger of, 19, n. 3.

Aganda, story of, 53, n. 2.

Agrippa, Henry Cornelius, renowned for solid lying, 25; particulars respecting, 25 and n. 5: his dog suspected to be a spirit, 238 and n. 1, 2.

Ajax, slays a flock of sheep, 54, n. 2; the shield of, 59, n. 2.

Albert, archduke of Austria, 91, n. 1.

Albertus Magnus, Bishop of Ratisbon, 152 and n. 3.

Alborach, the ass of Mahomet, 14, n. 1.

Alchymists, or hermetic philosophers, 2S0, n. 1, 3.

Alcoran, 371 and n. 2.

Alimony, 309 and n. 5; or death, 432 and n. 1.

Allay and Alloy, 346 and n. 7.

Alligators, hung up, 370 and n. 3.

Almanacks, licenser of, 218, n. 5.

Amazons, the, 298 and n. 1.

America, supposed to have been discovered by the Britons, 44, n. 2.

Ammianus Marcellinus, fact related by, 53, n. 1.

Anabaptists, or Dippers, 24, n. 2; insist on immersion in baptism, 90, n. 3; 103 and n. 2; enemies to learning, 131, n. 2.

Anagram, 296 and n. 2.

Anaxagoras, the Ionic philosopher, 242 and n. 3; 243, n. 1, 2; opinion of, 248, n. 2.

Animalia, 129 and n. 3.

Animals, slaughtered by priests, 126 and n. 1.

Anothergates adventure, 101 and n. 1.

Anthroposophus, nickname of Dr Vaughan, 26, n. 1.

Antinomian principle, 182, n. 4.

Ants' eggs, 97 and n. 2.

Antwerp Cathedral, 216 and n. 5.

Apollo, oracle of, 156 and n. 3; petitions to, 49 and n. 3.

Appropinque, 105 and n. 4.

Aprons, blue, 362 and n. 1.

Aqua-vitæ, 406 and n. 2.

Aquinas, Thomas, 10, n. 4.

Arctophylax, 51 and n. 1.

Argyle, Earl of, sneer at, 206 and n. 1.

Arms, the law of. 111, n. 2; 112, 113, 115 and n. 1.


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 while Buddhism is in many respects the doctrine of the Upanishads carried out to its last consequences, and, what is important, employed as the foundation of a new social system. In doctrine the highest goal of the Vedânta, the knowledge of the true Self, is no more than the Buddhist Samyaksambodhi; in practice the Sannyâsin is the Bhikshu, the friar, only emancipated alike from the tedious discipline of the Brâhmanic student, the duties of the Brâhmanic householder, and the yoke of useless penances imposed on the Brâhmanic dweller in the forest. The spiritual freedom of the Sannyâsin becomes in Buddhism the common property of the Saṅgha, the Fraternity, and that Fraternity is open alike to the young and the old, to the Brâhman and the Sudra, to the rich and the poor, to the wise and the foolish. In fact there is no break between the India of the Veda and the India of the Tripitaka, but there is an historical continuity between the two, and the connecting link between extremes that seem widely separated must be sought in the Upanishads.

F. MAX MÜLLER. , February, 1884.


text: Memoirs on the Coleoptera/Volume 1/New Species of the Staphylinid Tribe Myrmedoniini/Tribe Myrmidoniini/Group Athetæ/Atheta/Phasmota


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Page:Characteristicks of men, manners, opinions, times Vol 2.djvu/82

RV 78 (Rh) their Contrarys, is Depravity, Corruption, and.

has been already shewn, that in the Passions and Affections of particular Creatures, there is a constant relation to the Interest of a Species, or common Nature. This has been demonstrated in the case of natural Affection, parental Kindness, Zeal for Posterity, Concern for the Propagation and Nurture of the Young, Love of Fellowship and Company, Compassion, mutual Succour, and the rest of this kind. Nor will any-one deny that this Affection of a Creature towards the Good of the Species or common Nature, is as proper and natural to him, as it is to any Organ, Part or Member of an Animal-Body, or mere Vegetable, to work in its known Course, and regular way of Growth. Tis not more natural for the Stomach to digest, the Lungs to breathe, the Glands to separate Juices, or other Intrails to perform their several Offices; however they may by particular Impediments be sometimes disorder'd or obstructed in their Operations.

being allow'd therefore in a Creature such Affections as these towards the common Nature, or System of the Kind, together with those other which regard the private Nature, or Self-system; it will appear that in following the first


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Page:Horrid Mysteries Volume 3.djvu/42

 However, the Count's mind was far from being easy. It is almost impossible to brook such an incident with indifference with an irritability like his, which was unimpaired by misfortunes. Anger boiled in his heart, and he only wanted an opportunity of giving vent to it. A fire, whose nature I was no stranger to, flushed in his eye, and seemed to search an object. I ridiculed his agitation, and begged him to be easy: however, he replied; "Fye upon you, Carlos; how can you be so torpid?" "He then fixed his eyes upon a German officer, who played at some distance from us, and continued to smile at our disaster. "Don't you comprehend," he resumed, "that all this is pre-concerted?"

He was, perhaps, not much mistaken, if he suspected the German officer, who called himself Baron de H******, to have acted in this affair with some malicious heat, and with design. Yet he was not a man that could submit to be scoffed at

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 without chastising the offender. He knew the Baron already at Gibraltar, where he had fought with him against the Britons, and, by a strange accident, was his rival in the love of a Spanish lady. This had already incensed him against the Baron; and an affair of a later date, which I am going to relate, made him his implacable enemy.

The Count kept an actress of the royal opera, a charming girl, of uncommon wit, and a great knowledge of man; an excellent companion, but not very famous for her fidelity. Although he was not over fond of her, keeping her rather for fashion's sake than from inclination, yet he looked upon her favours as goods which he had bought, and which no one could intrude upon without violating his property. His vanity contributed to render his ambition still more tender with regard to that point; and there was a period when his mind was entirely occupied with plans of securing the fidelity of his Amasia

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 against all temptations which might be thrown into her way. But how was it possible he could have interrupted all the connections of a vain, voluptuous, and covetous girl, who had made it the study of her life to insnare men, and to jilt them, in her fetters? In short, he had sufficient reason for being jealous, and particularly of his sworn rival, Baron de H******.

An odd incident served to blow up that dormant fire into a blazing flame. He went one evening over the Pont Neuf to pay her a visit; and intending to surprise her unexpectedly, to be certain of her infidelity, he had put on a blue coat, and taken only one servant with him. On coming to the middle of the bridge, he was at once surrounded by a troop of intoxicated citizens, who had drowned their sorrows in large bumpers, and, by their inebrity, were led to commit a number of ridiculous frolicks. One of them having engaged to discover the profession of every

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Page:Sacred Books of the East - Volume 10.djvu/15

 TO

Dhammapada forms part of the Pali Buddhist canon, though its exact place varies according to different authorities, and we have not as yet a sufficient number of complete MSS. of the Tipitaka to help us to decide the question.

Those who divide that canon into three Pitakas or baskets, the Vinaya-pitaka, Sutta-pitaka, and Abhidham-ma-pitaka, assign the Dhammapada to the Sutta-pitaka. That Pitaka consists of five Nikâyas: the Dîgha-nikâya, the Magghima-nikâya, the Samyutta-nikâya, the Aṅguttara-nikâya, and the Khuddaka-nikâya. The fifth, or Khuddaka-nikâya, comprehends the following works: 1. Khuddaka-pâtha; 2. ; 3. Udâna; 4. Itivuttaka; 5. Suttanipâta; 6. Vimânavatthu; 7. Petavatthu; 8. Theragâthâ; 9. Therîgâthâ; 10. Gâtaka; 11. Niddesa; 12. Patisambhidâ; 13. Apadâna; 14. Buddhavamsa; 15. Kariyâ-pitaka.

According to another division, however, the whole Buddhist canon consists of five Nikâyas: the Dîgha-nikâya, the Magghima-nikâya, the Samyutta-nikâya, the Aṅguttara-nikâya, and the fifth, the Khuddaka-nikâya, which Khuddaka-nikâya is then made to comprehend the whole of the Vinaya (discipline) and Abhidhamma (metaphysics), together with the fifteen books beginning with the Khuddaka-pâtha.

The order of these fifteen books varies, and even, as it would seem, their number. The Dîghabhânaka school


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 passenger by his external appearance, they had placed themselves upon that spot to observe every one that went over the bridge, and the Count was unfortunately the first that happened to come into their way.

He that was to guess at the profession of the passengers, was extremely puzzled by the Count's appearance; a wager of some louis d'ors having been laid. He easily conceived, notwithstanding the disguise of my friend, by his gait and shape, that he was of a superior rank. He hesitated, therefore, some moments to pronounce his opinions; crossing his arms, and gaping at the Count. The latter being struck by the oddity of that scene, could not help smiling, which inspired the drunken inquisitor with additional courage. He turned, therefore, to his comrades, who were diverted by his perplexity, exclaiming, "I will be dd, if I don't guess that gentleman's profession: I lay you one louis d'or more that he is a cuckold."

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 The whole company broke out into a roaring laughter; and the decision of the wager depending on the confession of the other party, they pressed the poor Count, in their merry humour, to confess the fact. My friend being armed with no other weapon of defence, but a cane, was in danger of being torn to pieces. He defended himself as well as he could; but, without the assistance of some soldiers, who came to his relief, he would probably have been forced to make the ridiculous confession.

Thus he was seasonably extricated from the danger which had threatened him; but, far from taking the whole affair for what it really was, an accidental frolick, he imagined it to have been pre-concerted, to give him a hint of the infidelity of his mistress; he fancied, at least, the whole town was already informed of his cuckoldom. His blood began violently to ferment, he quickened his steps to the house of his mistress, and entered her

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.

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Page:Memoirs on the coleoptera (IA memoirsoncoleopt01case).pdf/63

Rh differing greatly from the usual conformation in not being free, separated from the rather small but anteriorly projecting metasternum, with its apex narrowly rounded, by a moderate undepressed interval, in which the longitudinal ridge is narrowly convex; hind tarsi slender, the basal joint much longer than the second. This will probably prove to be a true genus.

A very clearly defined species, to be readily known by its coloration, slender form, oval head and short elytra.

This species is allied to the preceding but differs in its larger prothorax, less abbreviated elytra and longer antennæ.

The following species is slightly aberrant in its shorter abdominal segments and minute size; but the head and tarsi are similar, the sterna, from what can be seen in the single type, homologous, and the antennæ of similar organization though shorter, with the second and third joints much more unequal:


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Page:Horrid Mysteries Volume 3.djvu/5

A STORY

BY P. WILL.

VOL. III.

PRINTED FOR WILLIAM LANE, AT THE

Minerva-Press,

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Rh thirty-two years to the preparation of an exhaustive commentary on the “Four Rows” of Jacob Asheri. This occupied him from 1522 to 1554. Karo was an enthusiast as well as a student, and the emotional side of the Kabbala had much fascination for him. He believed that he had a familiar, or Maggid, the personification of the Mishnah, who appeared to him in dreams, and held communion with him. He found a congenial home in Safed, where the mystics had their head-quarters in the sixteenth century. Karo's companion on his journey to Safed was Solomon Alkabets, author of the famous Sabbath hymn “Come, my Friend” (Lecha Dodi), with the refrain:

The Shulchan Aruch is arranged in four parts, called fancifully, “Path of Life” (Orach Chayim), “Teacher of Knowl-


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Rh altogether unauthentic have been vindicated by later research. Azariah di Rossi, on the other hand, is immortalized by his spirit rather than his actual contributions to historical literature. Ile came of an ancient family said to have been carried to Rome by Titus, and lived in Ferrara, where, in 1574, he produced his “Light of the Eyes.” This is divided into three parts, the first devoted to general history, the second to the Letter of Aristeas, the third to the solution of several historical problems, all of which had been neglected by Jews and Christians alike. Azariah di Rossi was the first critic to open up true lines of research into the Hellenistic literature of the Jews of Alexandria. With him the true historical spirit once more descended on the Jewish genius.

Steinschneider.―Jewish Literature, p. 75, seq., 250 seq.

A. Neubauer.―Introductions to Medical Jewish Chronicles, Vols. I and II (Oxford, 1882, etc.).


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Page:The Works of Abraham Cowley - volume 2 (ed. Aikin) (1806).djvu/58

42


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Page:Sacred Books of the East - Volume 15.djvu/16

 It is more difficult to determine which of the Upanishads were chosen by Saṅkara or deserving the honour of a special commentary. We possess his commentaries on the eleven Upanishads mentioned before, with the exception of the Kaushîtaki -upanishad. We likewise possess his commentary on the Mândûkya-upanishad, but we do not know for certain whether he left commentaries on any of the other Upanishads. Some more or less authoritative statements have been made that he wrote commentaries on some of the minor Upanishads, such as the Atharvasiras, Atharva-sikhâ, and the Nrisimhatâpanî. But as, besides Saṅkarâkârya, the disciple of Govinda, there is Saṅkarânanda, the disciple of Ânandâtman, another writer of commentaries on the Upanishads, it is possible that the two names may have been confounded by less careful copyists.

With regard to the Nrisimhatâpanî all uncertainty might seem to be removed, after Professor Râmamaya Tarkaratna has actually published its text with the commentary of Saṅkarâkârya in the Bibliotheca Indica, Calcutta, 1871. But some uncertainty still remains. While at the end of each Khanda of the Nrisimha-pûrvatâpanî we read that the Bhâshya was the work of the Paramahamsa-parivrâ-gakâkârya Srî-Saṅkara, the pupil of Govinda, we have no such information for the Nrisimha--uttaratâpanî, but are told on the contrary that the words Srî-Govindabhagavat &c. have been added at the end by the editor, because he thought fit to do so. This is, to say the least, very suspicious, and we must wait for further confirmation. There is another commentary on this Upanishad by Nârâyanabhatta, the son of Bhatta Ratnâkara, who is well known as the author of Dîpikâs on several Upanishads.


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Page:Memoirs on the coleoptera (IA memoirsoncoleopt01case).pdf/64

56 {|style="font-size:90%" cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0
 * Atheta (Crephalia) testata n. sp.—Subparallel, somewhat convex, shining, the punctures minute and rather sparse, moderately close though scarcely distinct on the elytra, the abdomen coarsely but feebly micro-reticulate, the vestiture fine, not very close; pale brownish-testaceous, the abdomen feebly clouded posteriorly, except at apex, the legs pale; head as long as wide, suboval, the tempora nearly one-half longer than the eyes and more inflated, the carinæ wholly obsolete except at base; antennæ pale testaceous, rather short and stout, gradually though moderately incrassate and compact distally, the outer joints strongly transverse, the last longer than the two preceding, the second and third moderately elongate, mutually similar in form, the latter much the shorter; prothorax only slightly transverse, large and convex, much wider than the head and as wide as the elytral base, somewhat widest before the middle but with the sides distinctly and almost evenly arcuate, the basal angles obtusely rounded, unimpressed; elytra short and transverse, the sides straight and diverging, the suture equal in length to the prothorax; abdomen wide, only slightly narrower than the elytra, parallel, the tergites subequal and short. Length 1.38 mm.; width 0.38 mm. Pennsylvania (Philadelphia).
 * }
 * }

This species is one of our smallest of the true Athetids; it is probably fungivorous in habits.

The form is here rather stout, the elytra greatly developed, the middle coxæ slightly separated, the mesosternal process extending to their middle, the tip very acute, subaciculate and separated from the transverse and feebly, medially and obtusely cuspid metasternum, by a very long sunken acute ridge. The hind tarsi are slender, with the first three joints decreasing rather rapidly in length, the first much longer than the second, and the apices of the elytra are not definitely sinuate laterally. Male sexual marks are very feeble.


text: Memoirs on the Coleoptera/Volume 1/New Species of the Staphylinid Tribe Myrmedoniini/Tribe Myrmidoniini/Group Athetæ/Atheta/Crephalia


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Page:Chapters on Jewish literature (IA chaptersonjewish00abra).pdf/228

224
 * Zunz.―Sufferings of the Jews in the Middle Ages (translated by A. Löwy, Miscellany of the Society of Hebrew Literature, Vol. I). See also J. Q. R., VIII, pp. 78, 426, 611.

 * Graetz.—III, p. 363 [373].

 * Graetz.—IV, pp. 366, 307, 391 [393].

 * Graetz.—IV, p. 406 [435].

 * Graetz—IV. p. 555 (590).
 * Chronicle of Joseph ben Joshua the Priest (English translation by Bialoblotzky. London, 1835-6).

 * Graetz.—IV, p. 200 [312].

 * Graetz.—IV, p. 638 [679].

 * Graetz.—IV, p. 609 [655].

 * Graetz.—IV, p. 614 [653].


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Page:Sacred Books of the East - Volume 15.djvu/55

 III, 5, etair abhibhtitA iti. IV, i, vidyati iti.

VI, 4, pra^avd iti ; bhfimydday& eko.

VI, 6, ddityd iti ; Ahavaniyi iti ; s6ry& iti ; ahank&rd

iti ; vy&n& iti. VI, 7, bhargS. iti.

VI, 7, sannivish/3. iti. VI, 23, devi onk&ro. VI, 30, pr&y&t$i iti. VI, 30, vinirgatS, iti.

II. Final e before initial vowels becomes &. For instance :

I, 4, dmyatd iti. II, 2, nishpadyatd iti.

III, 2, &padyat£ iti. Ill, 2, pushkar& iti.

IV, 1, vidyatd iti. VI, 10, bhunkt& iti. VI, 20, asnutk iti. VI, 30, ek& £hur.

Even pragrzhya e is changed to 4 in —

VI, 23, et& up&sita, i. e. ete uktalaksha«e brahma^f. In VI, 31, instead of te etasya, the commentator seems to have read te v& etasya.

III. Final as before k, u, and au becomes a, and is then contracted. For instance :

I, 4, vanaspatayodbhflta, instead of vanaspataya udbhfita. (Comm. Sandhij ^indaso va, uk&ro vdtra lupto drash/avyaA.)

II, 6, devaush/zyam, instead of deva aushwyam. (Comm. SandhLr khknddisaJi.)

VI, 24, atamdvish/am, instead of atama-dvish/am (Comm. SandhLr /£Mndasa#); cf. KMnd. Up. VI, 8, 3, ajan&yeti (Comm. visaiganiyalopa^).

IV. Final e before i becomes a, and is then contracted. For instance :

VI, 7, dtm& ^aniteti for ^anita iti. (Comm. finite,

VI, 28, ava/aiva for avata iva. (Comm. Sandhi- vrtddht ^dndase.)

V. Final au before initial vowels becomes 4. For in- stance:

II, 6, yena vi et& anug^Tiltd iti. VI, 22, as& abhidhy£t&. On abhibhftyamdnay iva, see p. 295, note 2. V, 2, asd dtmd (var. lect. as&v &tm&).

[15] d


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Page:Chapters on Jewish literature (IA chaptersonjewish00abra).pdf/239

Rh sponses” was at first simple, terse, and full of actuality. The most famous representatives of this form of literature after the Gaonim were both of the thirteenth century, Solomon, the son of Adereth, in Spain, and Meir of Rothenburg in Germany. Solomon, the son of Adereth, of Barcelona, was a man whose moral earnestness, mild yet firm disposition, profound erudition, and tolerant character, won for him a supreme place in Jewish life for half a century. Meir of Rothenburg was a poet and martyr as well as a profound scholar. He passed many years in prison rather than wield to the rapacious demands of the local government for a ransom, which Meir’s friends would willingly have paid. As a specimen of Meir’s poetry, the following verses are taken from a dirge composed by him in 1285, when copies of the Pentateuch were publicly committed to the flames. The “Law” is addressed in the second person: