‘And what says the divine Wallachia?’
’Poor Wally! She says nothing, but she
thinks that I am a castaway and a recreant. I
am a recreant, I know but yet I think that I was right.
I know I could not help myself.’
‘Of course you were right, my dear,’ said
the sage Nora. ’If you had the notion in
your head, it was wise to get rid of it; but I knew
how it would be when you spoke to him.’
‘You were not so weak when he came to you.’
’That was altogether another thing. It
was not arranged in heaven that I was to become his
captive.’
After that Wallachia Petrie never again tried her
influence on her former friend, but admitted to herself
that the evil was done, and that it could not be remedied.
According to her theory of life, Caroline Spalding
had been wrong, and weak—had shewn herself
to be comfort-loving and luxuriously-minded, had looked
to get her happiness from soft effeminate pleasures
rather than from rational work and the useful, independent
exercise of her own intelligence. In the privacy
of her little chamber Wallachia Petrie shed not absolute
tears but many tearful thoughts over her friend.
It was to her a thing very terrible that the chosen
one of her heart should prefer the career of an English
lord’s wife to that of an American citizeness,
with all manner of capability for female voting, female
speechmaking, female poetising, and, perhaps, female
political action before her. It was a thousand
pities! ‘You may take a horse to water,’
said Wallachia to herself, thinking of the ever-freshly
springing fountain of her own mind, at which Caroline
Spalding would always have been made welcome freely
to quench her thirst ‘but you cannot make him
drink if he be not athirst.’ In the future
she would have no friend. Never again would she
subject herself to the disgrace of such a failure.
But the sacrifice was to be made, and she knew that
it was bootless to waste her words further on Caroline
Spalding. She left Florence before the wedding,
and returned alone to the land of liberty. She
wrote a letter to Caroline explaining her conduct,
and Caroline Spalding shewed the letter to her husband
as one that was both loving and eloquent.
‘Very loving and eloquent,’ he said.
’But, nevertheless, one does think of sour grapes.’
‘There I am sure you wrong her,’ said
Caroline.
MRS FRENCH’S CARVING KNIFE
During these days there were terrible doings at Exeter.
Camilla had sworn that if Mr Gibson did not come to,
there should be a tragedy, and it appeared that she
was inclined to keep her word. Immediately after
the receipt of her letter from Mr Gibson she had had
an interview with that gentleman in his lodgings,
and had asked him his intentions. He had taken
measures to fortify himself against such an attack;
but, whatever those measures were, Camilla had broken
