A Mountain Woman | Page 9

offence at my foolish speech.
It was evident that the "mountain woman" had become the fashion. I
read reports in the papers about her unique receptions. I saw her name
printed conspicuously among the list of those who attended all sorts of
dinners and musicales and evenings among the set that affected
intellectual pursuits. She joined a number of women's clubs of an
exclusive kind.
"She is doing whatever her husband tells her to," said Jessica. "Why,
the other day I heard her ruining her voice on 'Siegfried'!"
But from day to day I noticed a difference in her. She developed a
terrible activity. She took personal charge of the affairs of her house;
she united with Leroy in keep- ing the house filled with guests; she got
on the board of a hospital for little children, and spent a part of every
day among the cots where the sufferers lay. Now and then when we
spent a quiet evening alone with her and Leroy, she sewed continually
on little white night-gowns for these poor babies. She used her carriage
to take the most ex- traordinary persons riding.
"In the cause of health," Leroy used to say, "I ought to have the
carriage fumi- gated after every ride Judith takes, for she is always
accompanied by some one who looks as if he or she should go into
quarantine."
One night, when he was chaffing her in this way, she flung her sewing
suddenly from her and sprang to her feet, as if she were going to give
way to a burst of girlish temper. Instead of that, a stream of tears
poured from her eyes, and she held out her trembling hands toward
Jessica.

"He does not know," she sobbed. "He cannot understand."
One memorable day Leroy hastened over to us while we were still at
breakfast to say that Judith was ill, -- strangely ill. All night long she
had been muttering to herself as if in a delirium. Yet she answered
lucidly all questions that were put to her.
"She begs for Miss Grant. She says over and over that she 'knows,'
whatever that may mean."
When Jessica came home she told me she did not know. She only felt
that a tumult of impatience was stirring in her friend.
"There is something majestic about her, -- something epic. I feel as if
she were mak- ing me live a part in some great drama, the end of which
I cannot tell. She is suffering, but I cannot tell why she suffers."
Weeks went on without an abatement in this strange illness. She did not
keep her bed. Indeed, she neglected few of her usual occupations. But
her hands were burning, and her eyes grew bright with that wild sort of
lustre one sees in the eyes of those who give themselves up to strange
drugs or manias. She grew whimsical, and formed capricious
friendships, only to drop them.
And then one day she closed her house to all acquaintances, and sat
alone continu- ally in her room, with her hands clasped in her lap, and
her eyes swimming with the emotions that never found their way to her
tongue.
Brainard came to the office to talk with me about her one day. "I am a
very miser- able man, Grant," he said. "I am afraid I have lost my wife's
regard. Oh, don't tell me it is partly my fault. I know it well enough.
And I know you haven't had a very good opinion of me lately. But I am
remorseful enough now, God knows. And I would give my life to see
her as she was when I found her first among the mountains. Why, she
used to climb them like a strong man, and she was forever shouting and
singing. And she had peopled every spot with strange modern
mythological creatures. Her father is an old dreamer, and she got the

trick from him. They had a little telescope on a great knoll in the centre
of the valley, just where it commanded a long path of stars, and they
used to spend nights out there when the frost literally fell in flakes.
When I think how hardy and gay she was, how full of courage and life,
and look at her now, so feverish and broken, I feel as if I should go mad.
You know I never meant to do her any harm. Tell me that much,
Grant."
"I think you were very egotistical for a while, Brainard, and that is a
fact. And you didn't appreciate how much her nature demanded. But I
do not think you are re- sponsible for your wife's present condition. If
there is any comfort in that statement, you are welcome to it."
"But you don't mean