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I RETURNED to my room past midnight, excited
and wakeful. Seeing a light through the crack of
Bolton's door, I went up and knocked and was bidden
to enter. I found him seated under his study-lamp,
looking over a portfolio of papers, some of which lay strewed
around him open. I observed at a glance that the hand-writing
was that of Caroline. He looked at me. Our eyes
met—a slight flush rose in his cheeks as he said:

“I have been looking over a collection of writings belonging
to your cousin, the fruits of the solitary years of her
secluded life.”

“And you find them—?”

“A literary treasure,” he said, with emphasis. “Yes,” he
added, “what there is here will, I think, give her reputation
and established position, and a command of prices which
will enable her to fullfil her long cherished intention of
studying in Paris. She will go out with Miss Ida Van
Arsdel, soon after you are gone. I can assure her the means,
and I have already procured her the situation of correspondent
to the Chronicle, with very liberal terms. So you
see her way is all plain.”

“But what shall we do with the Ladies' Cabinet?”

“O, we'll manage it among us. Caroline will write for it
occasionally.”

“Caroline!” There was a great deal in the manner in
which Bolton spoke that name. It was full of suppressed
feeling. Some can express as much intensity of devotion by
the mere utterance of a name, as others by the most ardent
protestations.

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I was in the mood that holds every young man on the eve
of a happy marriage. I could conceive of no bliss outside
of that; and there was in the sound of Bolton's voice, as he
spoke, a vibration of an intense pain which distressed me.

“Bolton,” I said, imploringly, “why will you sacrifice
yourself and her? She loves you—you love her. Why not
another marriage—another home?”

His face quivered a moment, and then settled firmly. He
smiled.

“Hal, my boy,” he said, “you naturally see nothing for
man and woman but marriage just now. But it is not every
man and woman who love each other who have the right to
marry. She does love me,” he added, with a deep, inward
breathing. “She is capable of all that magnanimity, all
that generous self-sacrifice that make women such angels
to us—”

“Then, oh! why not —?” began I, eagerly.

“Because I LOVE her dearly, devotedly, I will not accept
such a sacrifice. I will not risk her wrecking her life on
me. The pain she feels now in leaving me will soon die out
in the enthusiasm of a career. Yes, the day is now come,
thank God, when a woman as well as a man can have some
other career besides that of the heart. Let her study her
profession—expand her mind, broaden her powers—become
all that she can be. It will not impede her course to remember
that there is in the world one friend who will always
love her above all things; and the knowledge that she loves
me will save me—if I am salvable.”

“If—oh, Bolton, my brother! why do you say if?”

Because the danger is one I cannot comprehend and provide
for. It is like that of sudden insanity. The curse may
never return—pray God it may not—but if it should, at
least I shall wreck no other heart.”

“Bolton, can you say so if there is one that loves you?”

“Not as a wife would love. Her whole being and destiny
are not intertwined with mine, as marriage would unite
them. Besides, if there is somewhere hid away in my brain

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and blood the seed of this fatal mania, shall I risk transmitting
them to a helpless child? Shall I expose such a
woman to the danger of suffering over again, as a mother,
the anguish she must suffer as a wife?—the fears, the anxieties,
the disappointment, the wearing, wasting pain? As
God is my Judge, I will not make another woman suffer
what my mother has.”

In all my intercourse with Bolton, I never heard him speak
of his mother before, and he spoke now with intense vehemence;
his voice vibrated and quivered with emotion. In
a few moments, however, he resumed his habitual self-possession.

“No, Hal,” he said, cheerily; “build no air-castles for me.
I shall do well enough; you and yours will be enough to
occupy me. And now show me first what I am to do for you
while you are gone. Jim and I will trudge to all impossible
places, to look you up that little house with a good many
large rooms in it, that all young housekeepers are in search
of. I will cut out advertisements and look over nice places
and let you know the result; and I'll see to the proof-sheets
of your articles for the Milky Way, and write your contributions
to the Democracy. If you want to be our special correspondent
from the Garden of Eden, why you may send us
back letters on your trip. You can tell us if the `gold of
that land' is still `good,' and if there are there still `bdellium
and onyx stone,' as there were in the Bible days.”

“Thank you,” said I. “I shall send you letters, but hardly
of a kind to appear in the Democracy.”

“What with your engagements on that sheet, and
what I shall have ready to pile in on you by the time you
come back, you will have little time for philandering after
your return. So take it out now and get all the honey there
is in this next moon. For me, I have my domestic joys.
Finnette has presented me with a charming batch of kittens.
Look here.”

And sure enough, snugly ensconced in a large, well-padded
basket by the fire, lay madam asleep, with four downy little

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minikins snuggled to her. Bolton took the lamp and
kneeled down to show them, with the most absorbed intent.
Stumpy came and stood by the basket, wagging what was
left of his poor tail, and looking as if he had some earnest
responsibility in the case.

As to Finnette, she opened her yellow eyes, sleepily
stretched out her claws, purred and rolled over, as if in excess
of pride and joy.

“Who says there isn't happiness on earth?” said Bolton.
“A cat is a happiness-producing machine. Hal, I shall save
one of those kittens to set you up with. No family is complete
without a cat. I shall take one in training for you.
You should have a dog, too; but I can't spare Stumpy. I
don't believe there is anything like him in the world.”

“I verily believe you,” said I.

“Stumpy's beauty is so entirely moral that I fear it never
would be popularly appreciated; besides, poor brute, he is
quite capable of dying for love of me if I gave him up.
That's an accomplishment few men attain to. Well, Hal,
go to bed now, or you'll be too sleepy to behave respectably
to-morrow. God bless you!”

p467-454

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