Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1906-11-11

tached himself, and climbing to the summit
of a low. olive-crowned hill, had sat, tired,
silent and unutterably wretched. looking out
upon the arid land
But that excursion had been the prelude
to a new era. Visits to various antiquities
had succeeded each other with dull regu-
larity. broken by long, uneventful sojourns
in the green seclusion of the villa at Flor
ence. Then the first break had occurred in
the companionship of the trio. Nance had
been sent home to an English school.
Clodagh's acceptance of this fiat had been
curiously interesting-as had been her whole
attitude toward Milbanke and his wishes.
From the day on which she recognized that
the state Of matrimony was something ire
vocably serious she had taken upon herself
an-attitude Of reserved surrender that was
difficult to analyze-dif11cult even to super
ficially understand. BY strangely imma-
ture process of deduction she had satisfied
herself that marriage was state OF bond
age-more or less distasteful. as chance de-
creed A state in which. by fundamental
law Of nature submission and self-repres-
sion were the chief factors necessary upon
the woman's side.
AS sometimes happens when there Is a
great disparity in years, the welded state
had widened itself instead of lessening the
gulf between Milbanke and herself. 1t had
cast sudden, awkward restraint upon the
affection and respect that his actions had
kindled in her mind, while inspiring no new
or ardent feelings to take its place. Ride
ulously-and yet naturally-her husband had
become an infinitely more distant and unap-
proachable being than her fathers friend
had been. And to this new key she had,
perforce. attuned her existence.
With a greater number OF years-even
with little more worldly experience-she
might have made a vastly different business
Of her life; for, at the time of his marriage,
Milbanke had been lowering upon the bor-
derland Of that fatuous love in which an old
man can lose himself SO completely. IT,
in those first months, she had permitted any
of the ardor, any of the fascination Of her
nature to shine upon him, she might have
led him by a silken thread Ia whatever d.
rection she pleased. But three factors had
precluded this-her youth, her inexperience,
her entire ignorance OF artl.-ce In her
primary encounter with the realities Of life
she had lost her strongest weapon-her
of this she had, In the moment of first panic,
seized upon the nearest substitute, and had
wrapped herself in an armor Of cold, i'm
pregnable reserve.
And before this arrnor the weapons Of
Milbankes love had been turned aside.
There had been no scenes, no harassing dis
nlusionmenti but gradually, inevitably his
original attitude with regard to her-his
shy reticence, his uncertainty, as in the
had returned He had slowly but surely
Withdrawn into himself, turning with a
cropping, pathetic eagerness to the interests
that had previously usurped his thoughts.
With the nervous sensinveness that warred
continuously with his matter-of-fact pre-
cision. he became uncomfortably conscious
of occupying a false position, of having
made an indisputable-almost a ridicu-
lous-mistake; and he had taken blind
leap toward the quarter in which he be-
lieved compensation to lie. And Clodagh,
vaguely divining this-vaguely remorseful,
of what she scarcely knew-had held her
own enthusiasms more rigidly in check.
schooling herself into acquiescence with
every impersonal suggestion that he chose
to make.
From this had arisen the pursuit of the
antique in whatever corner of Europe-and
at whatever season Of the year-circum-
grimages had seemed unutterably weari-
some and unutterably foolish; but there is
q great capacity for silent endurance in the
Irish nature. Quick-hlooded though 1t may
be, it possesses that strong fatalistic instinct
that accepts without question the decree of
the gods The spirit of revolt Is not lack
ing in it: but 1t requires given atmosphere
"a given sequence OF events-to bring It
into activity. At two-and-twenty Clodagh
was weary Of her husband, Of herself OF
her life. But precisely as her father had
fretted out his existence In the quiet mo-
notony Of Orristown, she had accepted her
| fate without thought of question.
In the second year, when they had trav-
eled to England with Nance, Milbanke had
suggested visit to Ireland. but this pro-
posal she had declined. The days when
own country were past, and the idea Of re-
turn had lost it's SAVIOR.
As she sat now slipping her coffee, and
gazing abstractedly down to where TIE no,
sun glinted on the Arno, 1t seemed to her
that her life-the glorious. exuberant state
that she had been accustomed to call her
hfe-had drifted incredibly far away; that
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