Transcriber’s Note:

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

FAIR PLAY
A NOVEL

BY

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

AUTHOR OF

“Self-Raised,” “Ishmael,” “Retribution,” “The Bridal Eve,” “The Deserted Wife,” “Eudora,” “The Haunted Homestead,” “The Widow’s Son,” “Victor’s Triumph,” “The Wife’s Victory,” Etc.

CHICAGO

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY

PRINTERS AND BINDERS

407–429 DEARBORN STREET

CHICAGO

FAIR PLAY.

CHAPTER I.
THE FOUR BELLES OF BELLEMONT.

“God created woman, a living soul, worthy to stand in His presence and worship him! and if it were only from the reverence she owes him, she should never degrade herself to be any man’s slave! God endowed woman with individual life—with power, will and understanding, brain, heart and hands to do His work; and if it were only in gratitude to him, she should never commit the moral suicide of becoming the nonentity of which man’s law makes a wife!”

She was a splendid creature who uttered this heterodoxy, a magnificent and beautiful creature! She spoke fervently, earnestly, passionately, with blazing eyes, flushed cheeks and crimsoned lips that seemed to breathe the fire that burned in her enthusiastic soul.

She was the most brilliant of a group of four lovely young girls who were seated on the fresh grass, in a grove of magnolia trees on the south banks of the James.

Before them flowed the fair river, fringed with wooded shores and dotted with green isles, all sparkling in the early sunlight of a June morning.

Behind them, from amidst its ornamented grounds, arose the white walls of Bellemont College for young ladies.

The first day of June was the annual commencement of the college. And these four young girls, all dressed in purest white robes with rose-colored wreaths and sashes, had sauntered out together and grouped themselves under the magnolia trees to wait for the ringing of the bell which should call them to the exhibition room.

Four more beautiful young creatures than these could scarcely be found in the world. They were called the Four Belles of Bellemont. They would have been belles anywhere and borne off palms of beauty from all other competitors. Yet beautiful as each one was, the four were not rival belles; because, in fact, each one was of a totally different style from all the others. They might be said to represent the four orders of female beauty—the blue, gray, hazel and black-eyed woman.

So far were they from being rivals, that they were fast friends, banded in an alliance for offense and defense against the whole school, if not the whole world!

Britomarte Conyers, the man-hater, the woman’s champion, the marriage renouncer, first in beauty, grace and intellect, was, as I said, a magnificent creature—not in regard to size, for she was not so tall as the blue-eyed belle, nor so full-fleshed as the hazel-eyed one; but magnificent in the sense of conscious strength, ardor and energy with which she impressed all. She felt and made you feel, that if her earnest soul had been clothed with the form of a man, she would have been one to govern the minds of men and guide the fortunes of nations; or, woman as she was, if law and custom had allowed her freer action and a fairer field, she would have influenced the progress of humanity and filled a place in history.

Britomarte’s present position and prospects were not very brilliant. She was the orphan ward of a maiden aunt, who had sent her to this school to be educated as a governess; and a hard struggle with the world was all that she had to look forward to; but certainly, if ever a woman was formed to fight the battle of life without fear and without reproach, it was this brave, spirited, energetic young amazon.

In this quartette of fair girls the second in merit was certainly Erminie Rosenthal, the daughter of a Lutheran preacher. Erminie was above the medium height, with a well-developed, beautifully rounded, buxom form; splendidly moulded features, blooming complexion, softly shining, hazel eyes, and a shower of bright, auburn ringlets shading the sweetest face in the whole group.

The third in this bevy of beauties was Elfrida Fielding, the daughter of a thriving farmer. Elfie was small, slight, and elegant in figure, and dark in complexion, with a rich crimson flush upon cheeks and lips, and with black eyes, eyelashes and eyebrows, and jet black hair, cut short, parted on the left side, and worn in crisp curls like a boy’s. Elfie was the wild sprite, the mischievous monkey, the fast little girl of the party. She was lively, witty, impulsive, excitable, fickle, and had an especial affinity for—anything and everything in its turn, and an especial mission to engage in—anything and everything that turned up.

Fourth and last among the four belles of Bellemont, though certainly first in social position, was Alberta Goldsborough, the daughter of a wealthy merchant in Richmond, and the heiress in her own right of a rich plantation on the James. Alberta was tall, slender and dignified, with classic, marble-like features, dazzlingly fair complexion, light golden hair, and light blue eyes. She was a statuesque blond beauty.

The four belles, languidly reclining under the magnolia trees, had been discussing as schoolgirls always do when they get together out of the sight of their teachers—first the highly important subject of dress; Elfie exclaiming indignantly at the outrage of being obliged to wear rose-colored trimmings, when maize or cherry suited her brilliant brunette beauty so much better; and Alberta placidly adding that she herself would have preferred pale blue or mauve as more becoming to her blond complexion. Erminie made no objection to the uniform, which was perfectly adapted to her blooming loveliness; and Britomarte was too indifferent to the subject to join in the conversation. But when their talk turned upon matters of secondary importance, namely love and marriage, and they had talked a great deal of girlish nonsense thereupon, then Britomarte broke forth with the words that opened this story.

“Are you right, dear Britomarte?” questioned Erminie, lifting her soft, sunny, hazel eyes to the face of the speaker, with a loving, deprecating reverence, as though asking pardon for doubting that any word of her oracle could be less authoritative than those of Holy Writ. “Are you quite sure that you are perfectly right?”

“I am,” answered Britomarte, firmly.

“But is not man’s law of marriage founded upon God’s?” timidly persisted Erminie, laying her hands upon the lap of her idol.

“No! Those who say that it is, repeat a falsehood, invented by man and inspired by Satan! The law of marriage founded on the law of God, indeed! There is not a line or a word in the books of Moses or the gospels of Christ to justify the base assertion? Pray, were the glorious women of the Old Testament, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, Esther, Deborah, Judith, Jael—women who ruled with men—had talked with God and His angels—or were the divine women of the New Testament, Mary, Elizabeth, Anna—the mother of the Christ, the mother of the Baptist, the Prophetess of the Temple—were any of these, I say, the mere nonentities that man’s laws makes of married women? Never! And more I say! Any man who approves of the present laws of marriage that take away a married woman’s property and liberty, and even legal existence—any man, I say, who approves those laws is a despot and despoiler at heart, and would be a robber and murderer if the fear of prisons and scaffolds did not hold him in restraint! And any woman who disapproves these laws, yet dares not express her disapproval, is a slave and a coward who deserves her fate!”

“Britomarte, dear, how warm you are. Your cheeks are quite flushed. Take my fan and try not to get so excited,” said Alberta, coolly, presenting a pink and spangled toy to the ardent amazon.

“Hold your tongue! Thank you, I don’t want it,” answered Britomarte, waving away the proffered article.

“But, Britomarte, love,” murmured Erminie, leaning upon the champion’s lap, and lifting her soft hazel eyes to the champion’s proud face, with that appealing gaze with which the loving plead with the fiery, “Britomarte, darling, ‘Wives, obey your husbands’ are the words of Holy Writ!”

With an impatient gesture Britomarte pushed off her worshiper, exclaiming:

“Paul said that! He was a dry old lawyer, a bookworm and a bachelor! What did he know about it? And besides, if he had been like Jacob, a married man, with two wives, and two handmaids, and twelve children, I would not take the word of the old apostle any more than I would that of a modern preacher, unsupported by the law of Moses and the gospel of Christ! And man’s legislation upon marriage has been guided neither by law nor gospel!”

“Bosh!” exclaimed Elfie, whom neither pastors nor masters had been able to break of the use of slang, “let the poor wretches make all the laws in their own favor, if it amuses or helps to deceive them. They like it, and it don’t hurt us! We needn’t trouble our heads to keep their laws, you know! Let who will bother themselves about women’s rights, so we have our own way! And anything we can’t bluster or coax out of our natural enemy ain’t worth having! Why, law! girls, the creatures are easily enough managed when you once get used to them! Why, there are no less than three governors at Sunnyslopes—one pap and two uncles; but who do you think, now, rules the roost at Sunnyslopes?”

“You do, when you are at home,” suggested Britomarte.

“You better believe it, my dear! Why, law, girls, I can wind pap and uncles round my finger as easily as I can this blade of grass,” said Elfie, suiting the action to the word with a mischievous sparkle in her bright black eyes.

“Well, for my part,” said the fair Alberta, coolly playing with the gold chain upon her bosom, “whenever I shall be engaged to be married, it will, of course, be to the proper sort of person. And papa will see that proper settlements are drawn up between us, and that my own fortune is settled upon myself to spend as I please. In that way I shall secure all the rights I care about. I must have a splendid establishment, with costly furniture, and carriages, and horses, and servants, and dresses and jewelry, and unlimited pocket-money. And so that I have all that, my husband may do all the voting and make all the laws for both of us.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Britomarte, bitterly, “it is you and such as you, Alberta, that retard the progress of woman’s emancipation! If there were no willing slaves, there could be no successful tyrants! You are quite willing to sell your liberty for lucre—to become a slave, so that your chains and fetters be of gold!”

“Yes, these ornaments are rather like handcuffs, are they not?” said Alberta, slightly raising her eyebrows as she displayed the priceless diamond bracelets on her wrists. “But I do not see the justice of your words, Britomarte, since I certainly do not intend to sell my hand for money, but only to have my own inherited fortune settled upon myself.”

“For which simple price of justice you are willing to concede your most sacred civil and political rights!”

Alberta shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “I speak to you of pocket-money, and you answer me with politics. Bah! why should I care, so that I have a fortune to spend independent of my future husband? For just think what a trouble it would be to have to ask him for money every time I wanted to go shopping!”

“Oh! a horrid nuisance! I think I shall follow your example, Alba! I shall get pap to settle the niggers, and the money, and the old blind mare, and all the rest of the personal on me by myself, so that my natural enemy, whenever I shall fall into his hands, can’t take it from me. In return for which I will promise to keep in my sphere, and not run for constable nor Congress,” said Elfie.

“You are both right so far as you go,” said Britomarte, earnestly, “but you don’t go far enough. A girl with property is often married only for that property. And if her husband should be a prodigal and squander it, and bring her to want, or if he should be a miser and hoard it, and deprive her of the comforts of life, she has no redress. Therefore, it is well that a woman’s property should be settled upon herself, and that she should be independent of her husband, at least as far as money can make her so. What do you say, my dear?” she inquired, turning to Erminie.

Erminie hesitated, the bright bloom wavered on her cheeks, and then deepened into a vivid blush. She dropped her long-fringed eyelids over her soft eyes, and answered, gently:

“I am glad I am not rich; very glad that I have nothing at all of my own. Now I go to my dear father for everything I want, and it is sweet to receive it from his hands; for he never refuses me anything he can afford to give, and I never ask him for anything he cannot spare.”

And the Lutheran minister’s daughter paused thoughtfully, as if in some tender reminiscence of her absent parent.

“But we are not talking about papas—we are talking about hubs,” exclaimed Elfie, impatiently. “We are cussing and discussing the best means of offense and defense against our natural enemies, meaning our future hubs—poor wretches!”

“I know,” said Erminie, gravely.

Then, turning her soft eyes, that had strange mesmeric power in their steady tenderness, upon the face of Britomarte, she continued:

“And, as I am not rich, as I have nothing at all of my own, no one will ever marry me for anything else but affection. And, as I find it so sweet to depend on my dear father, who loves me, I shall find it very sweet also to depend on another who shall love me—ah! if only half as well as he does!”

“I hope you will remain with your father, my darling. Fathers may be trusted with their daughters—sometimes. The same cannot be said of lovers or husbands,” said Britomarte, earnestly, and laying her hand caressing upon the bright head that leaned against her bosom. “Yes, I hope you will never commit that spiritual suicide of which I spoke.”

Erminie gently lifted her head from her queen’s bosom—every motion of the fair girl was gentleness itself—again she hesitated, and the bloom wavered on her face and settled into an intense blush, as she softly said:

“I do not agree with you, dear Britomarte. I cannot. Nor do I like discussions on this subject. It seems sacrilegious to speak so irreverently of the holiest mysteries in nature, for such, indeed, I deem love and marriage; and it seems like unveiling the holy of holies in one’s own sacred bosom to give one’s thoughts and feelings about them. Still, when that, which to me is a divine truth, is assailed even by you, dear Britomarte, I must defend it, if necessary, by laying bare my own heart.”

“Defend it, then, my love. Come on! I shall mind your fencing about as much as I should the pecking of an excited turtle dove,” said the amazon, with an indulgent smile.

Yet again the bloom wavered and flickered on Erminie’s sensitive cheek as she murmured, softly:

“I have been thinking of all you have said this morning; I have been listening to my heart, and it has told me this: To lose self in the one great vital love a true wife finds in a true husband, is not moral suicide, as you say, but the passing into another life—a double life—deeper, sweeter, more intense, and more satisfying than any known alone. To be content to be guided by his wisdom, and upheld by his strength, and comforted by his love—to have no will but his will, which she makes her own—this is not to be a nonentity, or weak, or silly, or childish, but to be identical with the husband’s greater life—to be wise, strong, womanly. She passes into his life, becomes part and parcel of it. In losing herself she finds herself; in giving herself away she receives herself again—transfigured! Oh! Britomarte, I am not intellectual like you, but I do know, because my heart surely tells me, that the true wife and the true husband are one—one being on this earth, as they will be one angel in heaven,” said the gentle girl, forgetting her timidity in her enthusiasm.

“Bosh!” cried Elfrida Fielding, in disgust, tearing and throwing away the withes of grass she had been winding around her fingers, emblematically of her method of managing natural enemies.

“Bah!” yawned Alberta Goldsborough, shrugging her shoulders.

“Have you seen many such unions in your short life, Erminie?” gravely inquired Britomarte.

“No, I have not; but I know that all unions should be such! As for myself, I do not think I shall ever love; but I do know that I shall never marry unless I shall be sought by one whom I can love with all my heart, and soul, and spirit; whom I can honor almost as I honor my Creator; and I can obey in word and deed, with such perfect assent of my will and understanding, that to obey his will shall be to have my own way!—one who shall be to me the life of my life, the arbiter of my fate, almost my God! Yes, that is what I feel I want, and nothing else in the universe will satisfy me! That is what every true woman wants, and nothing else in the universe will satisfy her! Oh! Britomarte—you who are woman’s champion—you greatly bewray woman when you ascribe to the coercion of coarse human laws that divine self-abnegation and devotion which is the instinct and inspiration of her own heart!” exclaimed Erminie.

“The dove pecks sharply—her little beaks are keen,” said Britomarte, smiling. Then, speaking more gravely, she added: “Women might be such angels, my darling, if men were such gods; but you will find few women willing to be so devoted, and fewer men to deserve such devotion. Men do not believe in women’s voluntary self-abnegation, and hence they coerce them by what you call coarse human laws, by what I call unjust, despotic, egotistical laws. I return to my point, darling. I hope that you will never marry.”

“I do not think I ever shall, since it is not likely that I shall ever meet with any one such as I have described,” said Erminie.

“Oh, no, that you will not, my dear,” said Elfie; “but you will think you have met such a prodigy, and that will be all the same to you. You will some day run against some commonplace John Thompson or Tom Johnson whom you will take for a Crichton or a Bayard. You are booked for a grand passion, my dear. It is in your system and it must come out. It would kill you if it was to strike in. I pity you, poor child, for that thing don’t pay. I know all about it; I’ve been all along there!”

“You, Elfrida?” exclaimed Alberta, with unusual interest, for her.

“Yes, me, ‘Elfrida!’ You had better believe it!”

“Tell us all about it.”

“I am going to. Well, you see when pap first brought me to this school to finish my education, we stopped in the city a few days to fit me out and show me the sights. One night he took me to see an opera. Hush, girls! I never was inside of an opera house before in my life; and you better believe I was dazzled by the splendor and magnificence around me, and found quite enough to do to gape and stare at the gorgeous decorations of the house and the beautiful dresses of the ladies, until the curtain rose. Then, whip your horses! The opera was ‘Lucia di Lammermuir,’ and the part of Edgar Ravenswood was performed by Signor Adriano di Bercelloni.”

At the mention of that name Britomarte became attentive.

“Now, whether it was the jaunty bonnet, with the heron’s feather, or the crimson tartan plaid, or the black velvet tunic coat, or the white cross-gartered hose and buskins, or the music, or the man, or all together, I don’t know; but I fell over head and ears in love with Edgar Ravenswood. Heavens! how I adored him! Don’t frown, Britty, And, ah! how I hated Lucia, who had the divine happiness of being wooed in strains of heavenly music by Edgar Ravenswood! And, oh! how ardently I aspired to be a great prima donna, and play Lucia to that exalted being, Edgar. Alba, if you smile that way I’ll bite you.”

“How did it end?” inquired Erminie.

“I’m going to tell you, Minie. I went home with my head in a whirl; I had Bercelloni on the brain. Pap wanted me to come into the dining-room and take some supper. But faugh! After the divine life of music, buskins, love, heron’s feather, romance and Ravenswood, the mere idea of eating was revolting to the last degree! But I made pap promise to take me to the opera the next night. ‘Why, daught., you are music mad,’ he said. ‘I am very fond of music, pap,’ I answered. Law girls! he believed it was only the music! Our paps are very simple-minded people. Or else they have learned so much wisdom in their age that they have forgotten all they knew in their youth. Don’t you think so, Alba?”

“Yes, but never mind about the old gentleman. Tell us of the signior.”

“Well, instead of feasting on a vulgar supper, I went to bed to feast on memories of the divine life of the opera and on hopes of living it over again on the next evening. Ah! how I worshiped the Signior Bercelloni! Ah! how I detested the Signiora Colona! Ah! how I aspired to be a famous prima donna! I felt capable of dying for Bercelloni, of choking Colona, and of running away from pap to become a prima donna. I was in the last stage of illusion, hallucination, mania! Don’t glower at me so, Britty! or I can’t go on. Ah! if our paps did but know, it is not always safe to take every one of us to such places!”

“Indeed, it is not!” exclaimed Britomarte, so earnestly, so bitterly, so regretfully, with so dark a shadow overhanging her face, that little Elfie paused and gazed at her in dismay, faltering:

“Why, Britty, what is the matter? Surely, you never——”

“No, no,” said Britomarte, recovering herself with an effort, “I was never at an opera. Go on. How did it end?”

“How did it end? As a Fourth of July rocket ends, of course. It streamed up from the earth a blazing meteor, aspiring to the heavens! It fell down to the ground a blackened stick, to be trodden under foot!”

“Ah!” sighed Erminie, in a voice full of sympathy.

Elfie laughed, and went on:

“But to leave the hifaluting and come down to the common. It was very late when I got up next morning, and pap was as late as I was. And when we sat down to the breakfast table we found a party sitting opposite to us who were as late as we were. I didn’t look at them. I was still in a dream, living in memories of the past evening and hopes of the coming one. In so deep a dream, that I didn’t know whether I was breakfasting off an omelette or stewed kid gloves, until pap stooped and whispered to me: ‘Daught., there’s Signior Adriano di Bercelloni sitting opposite to us.’ I woke from my dream and raised my eyes to see. Was it Bercelloni? I looked and looked again before I could be sure. Yes, it was he! But oh! my countrymen, what a change was there! How like, yet how unlike my gorgeous hero of the evening before! His head was bald! his face was bloated! his form was round! Ugh! His eyes were red! his nose was blue; his teeth were yellow—ugh! ugh! He had a great plate of macaroni and garlic before him, and a great spoon in his hand, with which he shoveled the mess down his throat, as a collier shovels coal into a cellar—faugh! Whatever he had done to himself to make him look so differently on the stage, I don’t know. But the sight of him au natural made me sick and cured me.”

“And so that is the end of the story?” inquired Alberta.

“No, not quite. On one side of him sat a swarthy, scrawny signiora, who was the wife of his ‘buzzum’. And on the other sat an equally swarthy and scrawny signorina, who was the lovely pledge of their wedded affections. And that’s not all either, Alba. That evening pap said, ‘Well, daught., shall we go to the opera to see the Signior Bercelloni play Fra Diavolo?’ I answered, ‘Thank you, pap, I had rather not.’ And so we went to church instead to hear the celebrated Rev. Mr.—What’s-his-name? Law! you know who I mean.”

“Did you fall in love with him?” inquired Alberta.

“Not as I know of! He may have had ‘a very beautiful spirit,’ as some of his admirers say; but, if so, it was clothed with a very unattractive person. Next day pap brought me here to school, and I have been here ever since, except when I have gone home for the holidays. Now, sisteren, I have given in my experience at this love feast for the benefit of Sister Erminie Rosenthal; and I hope she will profit by it. And now, I think, that is all.”

Alberta and Erminie laughed, but Britomarte looked very grave as she said:

“No, Elfrida, that is not all. I have a sequel to your story, but I will not tell it to you now. I will tell you this, however: The old glutton who revolted your taste at the breakfast was Signior Adriano di Bercelloni, the elder, and the father of Signior Adriano di Bercelloni, the younger, whom you saw play Edgar Ravenswood.”

As Britomarte spoke, Elfie gazed at her with open eyes and mouth in silent amazement.

“They have the same name, and they bear a strong personal resemblance to each other, modified by the difference of age and temperament; but they never play the same parts. How could you imagine, my dear, that there could be any arts of the toilet, or effect of the stage, that could transfigure that coarse old creature into the hero of an opera?”

“I don’t know. I thought toilet arts, and stage effects, were almost miraculous. But what astounds me is the cunning of the gay old deceiver, my pap! Now, I wonder if he didn’t see my infatuation from the beginning! I wonder if he didn’t show me the old one, and let me deceive myself, on purpose?”

“Of course, he did,” opined Alberta.

“But how came you to know anything about them—so much about them, I may say, Britty, dear?” Elfie inquired.

“I said I had a sequel to your story; but I cannot tell it now,” replied Britomarte, very gravely. Then, after a thoughtful pause, she added: “I think it wrong—oh! very wrong—in parents and guardians to take young, inexperienced, impressible girls to such places. If they love music, let them have as many concerts as they please, but no operas, and no plays—except, perhaps, a few of Shakespeare’s best historical plays.”

“How old are you, Britomarte?” suddenly inquired Alberta.

Britomarte paused as though she could scarcely answer that question at a moment’s warning; and then she answered:

“I am eighteen. Why?”

“You talk as if you were eighty—that’s all.”

“I have had enough to age me,” said Britomarte, putting Erminie’s caressing arms from her neck, and rising, and walking away, as if to conceal, or overcome, some strong and deep emotion.

“Britomarte speaks bitterly,” said Elfie, in amazement.

“She has good reason to do so,” replied Alba, meaningly.

“What reason?” inquired Elfie and Erminie, in a breath.

“Law! don’t you know? Have you never heard?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t know whether I ought to tell it. It seems unfair to do so. It seems, indeed, like speaking ill of her family behind her back. She might not like it,” said Alberta, hesitating.

“Then, don’t do it,” urged Erminie.

“Do!” insisted Elfie.

“Well, you see, I never knew a word of it myself until last Easter holidays, when I was home on a visit, and heard it by the merest accident. For you know she never mentions a word about her family.”

“No, never; except sometimes to allude to the maiden aunt who pays her school bills. But do tell me! Is it anything bad?” eagerly inquired Elfie.

“Yes, very,” replied Alberta, with a shudder.

“And to think you should have known the secret ever since last Easter and kept it from us!” exclaimed Elfie, with a reproachful look.

“You see I kept it to myself for her sake,” explained Alberta, with an apologetic smile.

“Keep it so still, Alberta,” earnestly urged Erminie. “If you have become possessed of any secret that you think Britomarte would not like to have divulged, it would be disloyalty to your friend to divulge it.”

“Bosh! It is all among friends, so what’s the harm? Go on, Alberta. I am on thorns until I hear all about it. Was it a murder, or a forgery, or a bigamy, or an elopement, or an—or what was it?” eagerly questioned Elfie.

“It was neither of these. It was something far more—Where are you going, Erminie?” Alberta suddenly broke off in the middle of her sentence to ask of her fair companion, who had risen and was walking away.

“I am going out of hearing of a secret that my friend might not like me to know,” answered the true-hearted girl, leaving Alberta to tell Britomarte’s mystery to her only willing listener.

CHAPTER II.
THE MAN-HATER’S LOVER.

Erminie sauntered slowly down the winding footpath leading through the magnolia grove to the acacia avenue, on the banks of the river. She had not gone far when, a few paces in advance of her she saw Britomarte walking alone.

Not wishing to intrude on the amazon in her dark hour, Erminie was turning away, when Britomarte by some means became aware of her presence, and looked back with an expression of ineffable tenderness, and beckoned her to approach.

The gentle girl went to the brilliant amazon’s side, and was encircled by her arm.

“Thanks for letting me come, dear Britomarte,” she murmured, lifting her soft, hazel eyes to meet the gaze of the splendid dark-gray orbs that were shining down upon her.

“My bonny love, I never wish to avoid you. In my darkest hour you are ever welcome to me,” answered the man-hater, in the soft tone and with the sweet smile she ever used in addressing this best-beloved of her soul.

“Thank you! Thank you, dearest Britomarte!” Erminie exclaimed, kissing the hand of her friend. But, then growing grave, she added, “Oh, my dearest love, I am so sorry you are such an intense man-hater! Your wholesale hatred makes you so unjust! It is the one dark spot on the bright disc of your clear, warm, strong, sunlike nature! All men are not brutes, dearest Britomarte.”

“Then they are imbeciles! There is but one division.”

“What! Do you mean that all men are either brutes or idiots?”

“All!”

“Oh! Britomarte, how can you—can you—say so, dearest? You had a father!”

Dark as a thundercloud grew the beautiful face of the amazon; harsh, curt and strange were the words of her reply.

“Yes; I had a father with little claim upon my love, and less upon my honor. Never name him to me again.”

Erminie was appalled.

Britomarte stopped in her walk and sat down at the foot of a tree, as if overshadowed by some dark destiny.

Erminie sank down at her feet and laid her head on her lap.

Both were silent for a time, and the only sounds that broke the stillness were the whispering of the leaves above their heads, the hum of the insects around them, and the ripple of the river below.

Erminie began to sob softly, while Britomarte laid her hand gently on her pet’s head.

“Britomarte, dearest, I am sorry that I hurt you; I would not have done it for a kingdom, if I had known it.”

“I am sure you would not, darling!—sure you would not! Say no more about it, love; but tell me of your own father, who cannot come under my severe category because I do not know him; and tell me of that wonderful brother whom you idolize so much, and whom I have never seen.”

“My father and my brother,” murmured the minister’s daughter, as at the memory of cherished home affections—“my dear father and dear brother! Ah! Britomarte, if you had known them you would never have been a man-hater! When you do know them you will cease to be one!”

“Then a miracle will be performed,” said the beauty. “But tell me, are they coming to the commencement?”

“I am not sure. That is to say, I know that one of them will come to fetch me home, for my father wrote to say so; but I am not sure which. Perhaps both may come. I hope they may. I want my dear father to be present to-day. A triumph is no triumph to me unless he witnesses it; and oh! I am so impatient to see my dear brother. I have not seen him, you know, since he left us, five years ago, for Gottengen.”

“Your brother is studying for holy orders, I think you told me.”

“Oh, yes. He has a genuine call to the ministry of the gospel if ever any man had one in this world. He has sacrificed the most brilliant prospects of earthly success to obey that call.”

“How is that, my dear?”

“Oh, why you know he is my father’s only son, and except myself, his only child, for there are but two of us, my brother and myself. Justin is ten years older than I am, however, since I was but sixteen in May, and he will be twenty-six in August.”

“Yes; but about the sacrifice he made, my dear?”

“I am telling you. My dear brother and myself are the only children of the house of Rosenthal. My father’s family is not what is called a marrying family. Father has two bachelor brothers, who are the great woolen importers. Uncle Friedrich has the Berlin house and Uncle Wilhelm the New York house. They offered to take Justin into the business, and bring him up as their successor, but he felt this call to preach the gospel, and he declined their offer.”

“It was a great sacrifice,” said Britomarte.

“It was; but our dear father encouraged him to make it. Oh, there are very few like our father; and Justin is worthy to be his son! He has come home to stay now! And he is to be ordained this coming autumn! Oh, Britomarte, you must come and visit them, and go with me to see his ordination.”

“I shall be pleased to do so, my dear! Listen! Yes, the bell is ringing! We must go and take our places on the platform. I suppose many of the friends of the pupils have arrived. What a pity it is they cannot see their charges until after the ceremonies,” said Britomarte, rising to retrace her steps towards the college buildings.

“Yes; it is a pity; but I suppose their earlier meeting is prohibited to prevent confusion and delay. I saw Alba’s parents roll by in their open barouche as I came down here. And there are Elfie’s father and two uncles riding up on horseback. And my dear father and brother, or both, will be here presently. But, Britomarte, who is coming for you?”

“No one. No one ever does come, nor do I wish that any should. I am contented, darling.”

“You are self-reliant! But, dear Britomarte, I will be near you, so do remember that one will watch your ordeal with as much interest as father, mother, sister and brother, all combined, could do; and will mourn over your defeat, or rejoice over your victory, more than over her own.”

“I do believe it, my darling! And therefore I take pleasure in assuring you that you shall have cause only for rejoicing. I shall achieve a victory, Erminie.”

“Yes! I never doubted that! I was always sure of that. What is your theme, dear Britomarte? You will not object to tell me, now that the reading is so near.”

“My dearest, I should not have objected to tell you at any period, if you had asked me to do so. My theme is the ‘Civil and Political Rights of Woman.’”

“What a tremendous subject! Britomarte, dear, you will be sent to Coventry by all the professors.”

“Perhaps! But do you think I shall go there?” laughed the beauty.

By this time they were approaching the college through the roseries, as the terraces, adorned principally with these beautiful flowers, were called. On the upper terrace they made a turn to the left, to avoid the carriages that were continually rolling up to the front entrance, depositing their freights and rolling off again.

The two friends entered a side door, and found themselves in a large ante-room, in which were assembled all their schoolmates in the festive school uniform of pure white muslin dresses, pink ribbons and rose wreaths.

And among them walked Alba Goldsborough, the blond beauty and wealthy heiress, and Elfrida Fielding, the bright little brunette country girl. These two girls walked apart, with their arms around each other’s waists, conversing in confidential whispers.

“They are still talking of Britomarte!” said Erminie, indignantly, to herself, and as she looked at them her suspicion was confirmed; for as soon as they saw her with Britomarte they ceased to talk, and began to look embarrassed. But before the quartet of friends could meet, the great folding doors, separating the ante-room from the exhibition hall, were thrown open, and two of the teachers appeared to marshal the pupils to the scene of their approaching ordeal.

Promptly and quietly they fell into line and marched into the hall—a spacious room of the Corinthian order of architecture, fitted up as a temple of the muses—the nine muses being represented by nine statues supporting the arches separating the platform from the part of the hall occupied by the audience.

This platform was provided with rows of benches covered with crimson cloth, for the accommodation of the pupils.

Up the side stairs leading to this platform the line of pupils marched. They seated themselves on the benches in good order, and then surveyed the scene before them.

The hall was crowded with a large number of spectators, among which were to be seen distinguished learned professors, noted preachers and the heads of neighboring colleges. But the great mass of the audience consisted of the parents and guardians, friends and relatives of pupils and teachers.

Alberta Goldsborough, the wealthy heiress, recognized her stately papa and fashionable mamma, and saluted them with a cold, young-ladyish bow as she sank into her seat.

Elfrida descried, seated away back in an obscure corner, the three honest country gentlemen whom she saucily designated “one pap and two unks.” And she audaciously kissed her hand to them with a loud smack as she popped into her place.

Erminie discerned, near the middle of the crowd, her revered father and idolized brother, and exchanged with them a bow and smile of recognition and joy. But, oh, fate of Tantalus! though she had not seen her father for ten months, nor her brother for five years, she could not either approach or speak to them; she could not even turn to Britomarte and point them out; she could only bow and smile, for silence and decorum were rigidly enforced upon the pupils on the commencement day at Bellemont College.

Britomarte, with her sad eyes wandering over the assemblage, saw not one familiar face. But Britomarte was almost alone in the world.

The ceremonies of the day began.

Now, as there is nothing in this wearisome world half so wearisome to an uninterested spectator as a school exhibition or a college commencement, and as this anniversary at Bellemont partook of both characters, I will spare my readers the details of the proceedings and discuss the whole affair with as few words as possible.

Professors preached and pupils prosed on the platform; while the spectators fanned themselves vigorously, or yawned behind fans of every description, from the plain palmleaf to the scented sandalwood, in the hall.

Teachers and scholars were alike in the highest state of exultation and—the deepest degree of fatigue.

The audience politely pronounced the affair to be very interesting and—heartily wished it over.

In fact the exercises of the day were only redeemed from the most ordinary monotony by the reading of Britomarte Conyers’ theme—“The Civil and Political Rights of Women.”

At Bellemont College the themes were not read by the writers, because in that immaculate institution it was deemed unladylike for a young lady to stand upon a platform before a mixed audience and read her own composition aloud, and it was also thought that the embarrassment which a young writer would be likely to feel in such a position would seriously mar the delivery and detract from the effect of her theme. So it was arranged that all the themes should be read aloud by the professor of elocution to the institution, whose highly cultivated style would certainly improve the poorest composition, and do full justice to the richest. He “lent to the words of the poet the music of his voice.”

He read with great effect Britomarte Conyers’ essay on the “Civil and Political Rights of Women,” in which the author bravely asserted not only the rights of married women to the control of their own property and custody of their own children, but the rights of all women to a competition with men in all the paths of industry and a share with them in all the chances of success—in the mechanical arts, in learned professions, in commercial business, in municipal and national government, in the camp, the field, the ship; in the Senate, in the Cabinet, on the Bench, and in the Presidential chair. She supported her argument with the names and examples of the noteworthy women of all ages and countries—women, who, in despite of the obstacles of law, precedent and prejudice, had distinguished themselves in every field of enterprise ever illustrated by men. It was altogether a clear, warm, strong, brilliant article; and, like all works of genius, it received an almost equal share of enthusiastic praise and extravagant blame. It was excessively admired for the strength, beauty and ingenuity of its argument, and bitterly censured for the heterodoxy of its doctrines.

Among those who listened to the reading was Justin Rosenthal, the brother of Erminie, who, seated beside his father, gave the most earnest attention to the argument.

At its conclusion, he turned to the elder Rosenthal, and said:

“That is the most original, outspoken and morally courageous assertion of right against might that has been made since the immortal Declaration of Independence! And that it should have been written by a schoolgirl seems almost incredible. A rare, fine spirit—a pure, noble heart—a clear, strong intellect she has. I wonder who she is?”

“I do not know,” replied Dr. Rosenthal, for Erminie’s father was a D. D.—“I do not know; but I do know that her argument, though ingenious, is wrong from beginning to end.”

Later on was announced the name of the successful candidate for the medal to be awarded for the best English theme. The medal was awarded to Britomarte Conyers, for her essay on the “Civil and Political Rights of Woman.”

“Britomarte Conyers, then, is the author of that theme you admire so much, and is the young lady you are so curious to see. I congratulate you, Justin! Miss Conyers is your sister’s most intimate friend. You will have an opportunity not only of seeing her, but of forming her acquaintance under the most auspicious circumstances,” said Dr. Rosenthal.

“Nay,” smiled Justin, “I do not know that I care to follow up any such acquaintance with the young champion of womankind. I merely wish to see and judge her as a rather singular specimen of her sex.”

It was at the school ball of the evening that Justin Rosenthal was presented to Britomarte Conyers, whose personal beauty and grace made as deep an impression on his heart as her genius had made upon his mind. At the same time and place Colonel Eastworth, a distinguished son of South Carolina, was introduced to Erminie. And thus two of our young friends met the persons who were destined to exercise the most powerful influence over their future lives.

The next morning the school broke up for the midsummer holidays, and the pupils went their several ways. Elfrida Fielding went with her father and uncles to Sunnyslopes. Alberta Goldsborough accompanied her parents to the Rainbows, their waterside villa. And the Rosenthals, with Colonel Eastworth and Britomarte Conyers, embarked on the steamer bound for Washington.

CHAPTER III.
A MYSTERIOUS LETTER.

The barouche containing Dr. Rosenthal and his party reached the steamer in such good season that the two young ladies had time to go down into the cabin and choose their berths from among those left vacant, and to make all arrangements for their comfort during the voyage. They took two berths in a stateroom together, unpacked their traveling bags, laid their toilet articles in order upon the little shelf below the tiny looking-glass, and then returned to the deck.

They sat down on the side that still looked toward Bellemont College, whose white walls arose from amidst green foliage on the crest of a gentle hill at a short distance up the river. Half in joy at work accomplished and freedom gained, half in regret at leaving the school where they had been so happy for so many years, and teachers whom they had loved so well, the young friends gazed upon their late home.

The gentlemen of their party meanwhile walked up and down the deck, wondering when the steamer would start, and betraying all the impatience and restlessness of their restless and impatient sex, until, as they passed near the two young ladies, Justin Rosenthal left his companions, and, with a bow and a smile, as if asking permission, or apologizing for taking it for granted, seated himself beside Miss Conyers.

Britomarte would have given a year of her life to have repressed the blush that mantled over her cheek and brow as Justin took the seat beside her.

His first words were well chosen to set her at ease.

“The scenery of James River is quite new to me, Miss Conyers. We came down from Washington by railroad to Richmond, and thence by stagecoach to Bellemont. I look upon this fine river for the first time,” he said, not, as before, fixing his eyes upon her, but letting them rove over the bright waters of the James and the verdant hills beyond.

Britomarte only bowed in reply. She would have given another year of her life for the power of controlling the unusual tremor that seized her frame and made it dangerous to trust her voice for a steady answer in words.

Justin, still letting his eyes rove over the river, and rest here and there upon particular points of interest in the scenery, spoke of the beautiful effects of the shining light and shade as the clouds floated over the sun’s disk and their shadows passed over the hills.

And Britomarte merely answered “yes” or “no,” until, indignant at the influence that was growing upon her, she suddenly erected her haughtly little head with an impatient shake, and said:

That she could not appreciate the minutiae of river scenery; that only the ocean in its grandeur and might could awaken her admiration.

At this moment Dr. Rosenthal called to his son, and Justin, with a bow, left the side of Britomarte.

“Why, Britty, dearest! I always thought you loved river scenery,” said Erminie, when they were left alone together.

“So I do, as a general thing, but I don’t care about it to-day,” answered Miss Conyers.

“Well, Britty, dear, I never knew you to be capricious before.”

“Nature has given me no immunity from the common weaknesses of humankind.”

Erminie looked so hurt at the curtness of her friend’s words and manner, that Britomarte suddenly took her hand and tenderly caressed it.

Erminie, touched by this new proof of love, was encouraged to press Britomarte to go home with her to the parsonage.

Miss Conyers caressed her and thanked her, but reiterated her resolution to go to Witch Elms.

“Ah! don’t, ah! don’t—don’t go to that horrid place, dear Britomarte! You don’t know what it is! They say—that the place is haunted.”

“Of course, they say every isolated old country house is haunted.”

“But—forgive me once again, dear Britomarte—are you expected or desired there?”

“I do not know. My old aunt has never written to me. The half-yearly payments for the schooling, for which I am indebted to her, always have been forwarded by her agent in Washington. On each occasion I have written to her a letter of thanks, but I have never received an answer.”

Just then a boy rushed up with a letter for Britomarte.

She opened it wonderingly, and turned to the signature.

Her face was suddenly blanched to the hue of death, and she reeled, as though about to fall.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, what is it? Any bad news?” anxiously exclaimed Erminie.

But Miss Conyers raised her hand with a silencing gesture, and arose to go down below. She trembled so much as she moved, that Erminie started forward to attend her. But with a repelling motion the pallid girl stopped her friend, and hurried alone on her way.

All the morning the Thetis steamed down the river. At the dinner hour Erminie was very glad of the excuse to go down into the stateroom she occupied in common with Britomarte, to take off her bonnet and mantle, and brush her hair, to go to the public table.

She opened the door timidly.

Miss Conyers was lying on the upper berth, with the curtains drawn down before her.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, how are you? Can I do anything for you?” murmured Erminie, stealing to the berth and cautiously lifting a corner of the curtain.

“No! don’t speak to me! leave me!” was all that Miss Conyers replied, and in a voice so hoarse as to be nearly inaudible.

Pale with pity and with awe, Erminie dropped the curtain, and sank into the one chair their little den boasted.

She sat there quite still, and forgetting to prepare for dinner until the bell clanged out its invitation to the table and aroused her from her trance of trouble.

Then she hastily arose, threw off her bonnet, shook back her auburn ringlets, and hurried out to join her father and his friends, who were on their way to the dining-room.

Much concern was expressed by them that Miss Conyers was not able to come to dinner.

Once again in the course of that afternoon Erminie went to the stateroom to implore Britomarte to take some refreshment.

Then Miss Conyers suddenly drew the curtain back, and turned upon the intruder a face so pale and ghastly in its grief and horror that Erminie shrank back appalled.

“Don’t you see that it takes the whole power of my will to hold body and soul together until I get to New York?” she demanded, in a voice husky with suffering.

“To New York!” repeated the panic-stricken girl.

“Yes—I can do no more. I cannot eat, or drink, or talk—much. I can only manage to live until I get there. Leave me.”

“Oh! Heaven of heavens, what has happened to you, Britomarte!” exclaimed Erminie, as she turned, unwillingly, to leave the stateroom.

Miss Conyers did not divulge what had upset her, but pleaded headaches for absenting herself from the table. Erminie was unable to comfort her, nor was she taken into the confidence of the sullen and solitary mourner.

In due time the Thetis landed at her pier at Washington.

And the great bustle of arrival ensued.

“My dear Miss Conyers,” said Dr. Rosenthal, “I understand from my daughter that you have positively declined making us a visit; but now, at the last moment, let me prevail with you to make us all happy by consenting to go home with us at least for a day and night, if no longer, to rest before you go farther.”

“I thank you very much—more than I can express. But it is not in my power to accept your kind invitation. Urgent business compels me immediately to go to New York. I know that a train leaves in an hour from this. And I must drive to the station instantly.”

Miss Conyers embraced Erminie, who was bathed in tears, and then turned to shake hands with Mr. Justin Rosenthal.

But, raising his hat with a grave bow, Justin said:

“I will see you to the station. Eastworth and my father are a sufficient bodyguard to Erminie.”

And before the beautiful man-hater could object, he had taken her hand and was leading her from the boat.

He placed her in a carriage, entered and took a seat by her side, and gave the order to drive to the Baltimore railway station.

All this was done in spite of Britomarte’s tacit protest. He did not, however, obtrude his conversation upon her. The drive was finished in silence.

On their arrival at the station, he procured her ticket, checked her baggage, and then placed her in one of the most comfortable seats in the ladies’ car.

Even then he did not leave her, but remained stationed by her until the shrill, unearthly whistle of the engine warned him to leave.

Then, bending over her, he took her hand and whispered low:

“Miss Conyers, I never utter vain or hasty words. What I speak now, I speak earnestly from the depths of my heart. In me you have a friend through good report and evil report, through life and death, through time and eternity. I have never spoken these words to any human being before this; I never shall speak them to any other after this. Good-by; we shall meet again in a happier hour.”

CHAPTER IV.
THE WITCH OF WITCH ELMS.

After seeing Britomarte well on her way, Justin walked thoughtfully home to the parsonage.

Days passed; but no news came of Miss Conyers. Eastworth remained at the parsonage, wooing the minister’s daughter—never with compromising words, but with glances more eloquent and tones more expressive than words could ever be. For if his words were only, “The day is beautiful,” his tone said, “I love you!” his glance said, “For you are more beautiful than the summer’s day.” And Erminie! how entirely she believed in him; how devotedly she loved him; how disinterestedly she worshiped him.

“If I could in any way add to his fame, or honor, or happiness, how blessed I should be! And oh! if he should go away without ever telling me what I could do to please him, how wretched I should become! Ah! he may meet more beautiful, more accomplished and more distinguished women in the great world than ever I can hope to be; but he will never meet with one who could love him more than I do!”

Such reveries as these, scarcely taking the form of words, even in her thoughts, engaged the young girl constantly.

In the midst of this trouble came letters from the Goldsboroughs. One from Papa Goldsborough to Papa Rosenthal, inviting him, his family and his guest to come down to the Rainbows on a visit for the season; and another from Alberta to Erminie, urging her to use her influence with her father to induce him to accept the invitation and be at the Rainbows to spend the approaching Fourth of July.

No interference on the part of Erminie was needed. Dr. Rosenthal, with the concurrence of his son and his guest, wrote to Mrs. Goldsborough to say that he and his party would be at the Rainbows on the evening of the third proximo. And as this letter was dated on the thirtieth of June, there were but two days left to prepare for the journey.

As soon as this letter was written and posted and fairly on its way, Erminie went to look for her brother in the library, where, in study, he passed his mornings.

“Justin, do I interrupt you?” she inquired, in a deprecating tone, as she opened the door and found him at his books.

“No, my dear, you never do,” replied Justin, closing the volume in his hand and drawing forward a chair for his sister.

“Justin, I want you to do something for me this afternoon, please,” she said, as she seated herself.

“What is it, dear?”

“Oh, Justin, it is now four weeks since Britty went away, and we have heard nothing from her, and we do not know where to address her.”

“Well, my dear?”

“And to-morrow evening we start for the Rainbows, to be absent from the city for the whole remainder of the season.”

“Yes.”

“But, Justin, I cannot, indeed I cannot bear to go away without first trying to find out something about my dear Britomarte.”

“Well?”

“And so I wish you, if you please, to get a carriage and take me across Benning’s Bridge to Witch Elms, to ask about her.”

Justin could refuse his sister nothing, so the carriage was ordered and Witch Elms was reached after a tedious drive through a heavy rainstorm. The entrance was stoutly barred, but the travelers were at last admitted and shown into a wide parlor, the door being instantly shut and locked upon them.

Justin, amazed by this proceeding, began to search around for another exit.

The person who had admitted them had left them in total darkness, so it was no easy matter making one’s way about. At last Justin came to a flight of stairs leading upward, and bidding his sister take his arm, they ascended.

On reaching the upper hall, Justin whispered:

“Listen; do you hear anything?”

There was an unmistakable murmur proceeding from some dark room in their vicinity, and then an angry voice spoke aloud:

“Why the foul fiend, then, didn’t you take them in to see the old woman?”

The muttering voice made some reply, to which the loud voice responded:

“Bosh! What danger? That’s all over now. The verdict of the coroner’s inquest settled that. Suicide. Nothing more likely. After that there was nothing more to be said.”

A blaze of lightning that flashed through every chink and crevice of the shut-up old house, and a crash of thunder that overwhelmed all other sounds, stopped the talk of the unseen companions.

Then the muttering voice was heard again, saying something offensive to the interlocutor, though inaudible to the listeners, for the loud voice replied:

“Drinking; no, I have not been drinking! At least not more than is good for me! The moment any one takes a deep breath and shows a little fearlessness, you think they’ve been—drinking! Go and look after the people you have left in the hall so long, and take them up to see the old woman. That is, if she wants to see them. You must humor her; but as for the girl——”

Again the murmuring voice intervened, but the loud voice broke in:

“I tell you she must be got out of the way! Now go look after these visitors below.”

A sound of shuffling feet was heard, and Justin whispered to Erminie:

“Little sister, there’s something wrong here, but we must not seem to have been listening.” And, so saying, he hurried her down the stairs, as fast as the darkness would permit him to do with safety. Arrived at the foot, he waited some few minutes, and then he sang out as loud as he could:

“Hallo! waiter! porter! footman! major-domo! man of all work! whatever or whoever you are! where are you? Come, let us in; or let us out!”

“I am here, set fire to you! Couldn’t you be quiet for five minutes, while I was gone to tell the old lady?” answered a growling voice from the hall above. And at the same time a person, bearing a dim light, began to descend the stairs.

He was a man of about thirty years of age, of gigantic height; but with a small head, and closely-cut black hair, and a beardless, or else closely-shaven, dark-complexioned face; a man you would not like to meet on a lonely road on a dark night. He was dressed from head to foot in a closely-fitting suit of the dust-colored coarse cloth that has since become so well known as the uniform of the Confederate army.

“Couldn’t you be easy for five minutes, while I was gone?” he growled, as he reached the foot of the stairs.

“Your minutes are very long ones, friend!” laughed Justin.

“You want to see the old lady, you say?”

“I wish to see Miss Pole.”

“Come along, then,” said the man, stopping to snuff the candle with his fingers, and then leading the way upstairs.

Justin, still holding his sister closely under his arm, reascended the stairs.

By the light of the candle carried by the man before him, he saw that this part of the old house seemed entirely unfurnished. The floors were bare and rough, and broken here and there, and the walls were disfigured by torn paper and fallen plastering.

This hall of the third story was neatly papered and comfortably carpeted, and well lighted by a small, clear lamp hanging from the ceiling. A large window at the end of this hall was also curtained.

The smooth-chinned giant in the dust-colored clothes opened the nearest door to the right, and said:

“Go in there.”

With Erminie tucked under one arm, and his hat in his hand, Justin entered the room.

It was a neatly-furnished sitting-room, lighted, like the hall, by a small, clear lamp, hanging from the ceiling.

Under this lamp stood a large, round center-table, covered with flowered green cloth, and laden with books, bookmarks, hand-screens, smelling-bottles, a small open workbox, and, in short, all the paraphernalia of a lady’s table.