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 Actuarial Mathematics for Life Contingent Risks

The substantially updated third edition of the popular Actuarial Mathematics

for Life Contingent Risks is suitable for advanced undergraduate and graduate
students of actuarial science, for trainee actuaries preparing for professional
actuarial examinations, and for life insurance practitioners who wish to
increase or update their technical knowledge. The authors provide intuitive
explanations alongside mathematical theory, equipping readers to understand
the material in sufficient depth to apply it in real world situations and to adapt
their results in a changing insurance environment. Topics include modern actu-
arial paradigms, such as multiple state models, cash flow projection methods
and option theory, all of which are required for managing the increasingly
complex range of contemporary long-term insurance products.
Numerous exam-style questions allow readers to prepare for traditional
professional actuarial exams, and extensive use of Excel ensures that readers
are ready for modern, Excel-based exams and for the actuarial work environ-
ment. The Solutions Manual (ISBN 9781108747615), available for separate
purchase, provides detailed solutions to the text’s exercises.

david c. m. dickson holds a PhD in Actuarial Science from Heriot-Watt

University and is a Fellow of the Institute and Faculty of Actuaries and the
Institute of Actuaries of Australia. David lectured for seven years at Heriot-
Watt University before moving to the University of Melbourne in 1993. In
2000 David was appointed to the Chair in Actuarial Studies in Melbourne. He
was Head of the Department of Economics from 2016 to 2018. He has twice
been awarded the HM Jackson Prize of the Institute of Actuaries of Australia,
most recently for his book Insurance Risk and Ruin.

mary r. hardy is Professor of Actuarial Science at the University of Waterloo.

She earned her PhD in Actuarial Science from Heriot-Watt University, where
she lectured for 11 years before moving to the University of Waterloo in
1997. She is a Fellow of the Institute and Faculty of Actuaries, and of the
Society of Actuaries. In 2007 she was awarded the Chartered Enterprise Risk
Analyst designation of the Society of Actuaries, through their thought-leader
recognition program. In 2013 she was awarded the Finlaison Medal of the
Institute and Faculty of Actuaries for services to the actuarial profession, in
research, teaching and governance.

howard r. waters is Professor Emeritus at the Department of Actuarial

Mathematics and Statistics at Heriot-Watt University. He holds a DPhil in
mathematics from Oxford University, and worked as a consulting actuary for
several years before joining Heriot-Watt University. He is a Fellow of the
Institute and Faculty of Actuaries. He was awarded the Finlaison medal of the
Institute of Actuaries in 2006 for services to actuarial research and education.
 I N T E R NAT I O NA L S E R I E S O N AC T UA R I A L S C I E N C E

Editorial Board
Christopher Daykin (Independent Consultant and Actuary)
Angus Macdonald (Heriot-Watt University)

The International Series on Actuarial Science, published by Cambridge

University Press in conjunction with the Institute and Faculty of Actuaries,
contains textbooks for students taking courses in or related to actuarial
science, as well as more advanced works designed for continuing professional
development or for describing and synthesizing research. The series is a
vehicle for publishing books that reflect changes and developments in the
curriculum, that encourage the introduction of courses on actuarial science in
universities, and that show how actuarial science can be used in all areas where
there is long-term financial risk.

A complete list of books in the series can be found at

www.cambridge.org/isas. Recent titles include the following:

Modelling Mortality with Actuarial Applications

Angus S. Macdonald, Stephen J. Richards & Iain D. Currie

Claims Reserving in General Insurance

David Hindley

Financial Enterprise Risk Management (2nd Edition)

Paul Sweeting

Insurance Risk and Ruin (2nd Edition)

David C.M. Dickson

Predictive Modeling Applications in Actuarial Science, Volume 2: Case Studies

in Insurance
Edited by Edward W. Frees, Richard A. Derrig & Glenn Meyers

Predictive Modeling Applications in Actuarial Science, Volume 1: Predictive

Modeling Techniques
Edited by Edward W. Frees, Richard A. Derrig & Glenn Meyers

Computation and Modelling in Insurance and Finance

Erik Bølviken
ACTUARIAL MATHEMATICS FOR
LIFE CONTINGENT RISKS
third edition

DAV I D C . M . D I C K S O N
University of Melbourne

M A RY R . H A R DY
University of Waterloo, Ontario

H OWA R D R . WAT E R S
Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh
 University Printing House, Cambridge CB2 8BS, United Kingdom
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Cambridge University Press is part of the University of Cambridge.

It furthers the University’s mission by disseminating knowledge in the pursuit of
education, learning, and research at the highest international levels of excellence.

www.cambridge.org
Information on this title: www.cambridge.org/9781108478083
DOI: 10.1017/9781108784184

c David C. M. Dickson, Mary R. Hardy and Howard R. Waters 2009, 2013, 2020
This publication is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception
and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements,
no reproduction of any part may take place without the written
permission of Cambridge University Press.
First published 2009
Second edition 2013
Third edition 2020
Printed in the United Kingdom by TJ International Ltd. Padstow Cornwall
A catalogue record for this publication is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dickson, D. C. M. (David C. M.), 1959- author. | Hardy, Mary, 1958-
author. | Waters, H. R. (Howard Richard), author.
Title: Actuarial mathematics for life contingent risks / David C. M.
Dickson, University of Melbourne, Mary R. Hardy, University of Waterloo,
Ontario, Howard R. Waters, Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
Description: Third edition. | Cambridge ; New York : Cambridge University
Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019042023 (print) | LCCN 2019042024 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781108478083 (hardback) | ISBN 9781108784184 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Insurance–Mathematics. | Risk (Insurance)–Mathematics.
Classification: LCC HG8781 .D528 2020 (print) | LCC HG8781 (ebook) |
DDC 368/.01–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019042023
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019042024
ISBN 978-1-108-47808-3 Hardback
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy
of URLs for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication
and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain,
accurate or appropriate.
To Carolann, Vivien and Phelim
 Contents

Preface to the third edition page xix

1 Introduction to life and long-term health insurance 1
1.1 Summary 1
1.2 Background 1
1.3 Traditional life insurance contracts 3
1.3.1 Introduction 3
1.3.2 Term insurance 4
1.3.3 Whole life insurance 5
1.3.4 Endowment insurance 9
1.3.5 Options and variations on traditional insurance 9
1.4 Modern insurance contracts 11
1.4.1 Why innovate? 11
1.4.2 Universal life insurance 12
1.4.3 Unitized with-profit 13
1.4.4 Equity-linked insurance 13
1.5 Marketing, pricing and issuing life insurance 14
1.5.1 Insurance distribution methods 14
1.5.2 Underwriting 15
1.5.3 Premiums 17
1.6 Life annuities 17
1.7 Long-term coverages in health insurance 19
1.7.1 Disability income insurance 19
1.7.2 Long-term care insurance 21
1.7.3 Critical illness insurance 23
1.7.4 Chronic illness insurance 24
1.8 Mutual and proprietary insurers 24
1.9 Other life contingent contracts 24

vii
viii Contents

1.9.1 Continuing care retirement communities 25

1.9.2 Structured settlements 26
1.10 Pensions 28
1.10.1 Defined Benefit pensions 28
1.10.2 Defined Contribution 29
1.11 Typical problems 30
1.12 Notes and further reading 31
1.13 Exercises 31
2 Survival models 34
2.1 Summary 34
2.2 The future lifetime random variable 34
2.3 The force of mortality 38
2.3.1 Mortality laws 41
2.4 Actuarial notation 44
2.5 Mean and standard deviation of Tx 47
2.6 Curtate future lifetime 51
2.6.1 Kx and ex 51
◦
2.6.2 Comparing ex and ex 52
2.7 Notes and further reading 53
2.8 Exercises 54
3 Life tables and selection 58
3.1 Summary 58
3.2 Life tables 58
3.3 Fractional age assumptions 60
3.3.1 Uniform distribution of deaths 61
3.3.2 Constant force of mortality 65
3.4 National life tables 67
3.5 Survival models for life insurance policyholders 70
3.6 Life insurance underwriting 71
3.7 Select and ultimate survival models 73
3.8 Notation and formulae for select survival models 75
3.9 Select life tables 76
3.10 Some comments on heterogeneity in mortality 83
3.11 Mortality improvement modelling 85
3.12 Mortality improvement scales 89
3.12.1 Single-factor mortality improvement scales 90
3.12.2 Two-factor mortality improvement scales 92
3.12.3 Cubic spline mortality improvement scales 94
3.13 Notes and further reading 98
3.14 Exercises 98
 Contents ix
4 Insurance benefits 104
4.1 Summary 104
4.2 Introduction 104
4.3 Assumptions 105
4.4 Valuation of insurance benefits 106
4.4.1 Whole life insurance: the continuous case, Āx 106
4.4.2 Whole life insurance: the annual case, Ax 109
4.4.3 Whole life insurance: the 1/mthly case, A(m)
x 110
4.4.4 Recursions 111
4.4.5 Term insurance 115
4.4.6 Pure endowment 117
4.4.7 Endowment insurance 118
4.4.8 Deferred insurance 121
4.5 Relating Āx , Ax and A(m)
x 123
4.5.1 Using the uniform distribution of deaths
assumption 123
4.5.2 Using the claims acceleration approach 125
4.6 Variable insurance benefits 126
4.7 Functions for select lives 131
4.8 Notes and further reading 131
4.9 Exercises 132
5 Annuities 141
5.1 Summary 141
5.2 Introduction 141
5.3 Review of annuities-certain 142
5.4 Annual life annuities 142
5.4.1 Whole life annuity-due 143
5.4.2 Term annuity-due 146
5.4.3 Immediate life annuities 148
5.5 Annuities payable continuously 149
5.6 Annuities payable 1/mthly 152
5.7 Comparison of annuities by payment frequency 155
5.8 Deferred annuities 157
5.9 Guaranteed annuities 159
5.10 Increasing annuities 161
5.10.1 Arithmetically increasing annuities 161
5.10.2 Geometrically increasing annuities 163
5.11 Evaluating annuity functions 164
5.11.1 Recursions 164
5.11.2 Applying the UDD assumption 165
5.11.3 Woolhouse’s formula 166
x Contents

5.12 Numerical illustrations 169

5.13 Functions for select lives 171
5.14 Notes and further reading 171
5.15 Exercises 172
6 Premium calculation 179
6.1 Summary 179
6.2 Preliminaries 179
6.2.1 Assumptions 181
6.3 The loss at issue random variable 181
6.4 The equivalence principle premium 182
6.4.1 Net premiums 182
6.4.2 Gross premiums 186
6.5 Profit 192
6.6 The portfolio percentile premium principle 199
6.7 Extra risks 203
6.7.1 Age rating 203
6.7.2 Constant addition to μx 203
6.7.3 Constant multiple of mortality rates 205
6.8 Notes and further reading 207
6.9 Exercises 207
7 Policy values 218
7.1 Summary 218
7.2 Policies with annual cash flows 219
7.2.1 The future loss random variable 219
7.2.2 Policy values for policies with annual cash flows 224
7.2.3 Recursive formulae for policy values 232
7.2.4 Analysis of surplus 238
7.2.5 Asset shares 242
7.3 Policy values for policies with cash flows at 1/mthly
intervals 245
7.3.1 Recursions with 1/mthly cash flows 246
7.3.2 Valuation between premium dates 247
7.4 Policy values with continuous cash flows 250
7.4.1 Thiele’s differential equation 250
7.4.2 Numerical solution of Thiele’s differential
equation 254
7.5 Policy alterations 256
7.6 Retrospective policy values 262
7.6.1 Prospective and retrospective valuation 262
 Contents xi

7.6.2 Defining the retrospective net premium policy

value 264
7.7 Negative policy values 267
7.8 Deferred acquisition expenses and modified net
premium reserves 267
7.8.1 Full Preliminary Term reserve 270
7.9 Other reserves 273
7.10 Notes and further reading 274
7.11 Exercises 274
8 Multiple state models 286
8.1 Summary 286
8.2 Examples of multiple state models 286
8.2.1 The alive–dead model 287
8.2.2 Term insurance with increased benefit on
accidental death 288
8.2.3 The permanent disability model 289
8.2.4 The sickness–death model 289
8.3 Assumptions and notation 290
8.4 Formulae for probabilities 295
8.4.1 Kolmogorov’s forward equations 300
8.5 Numerical evaluation of probabilities 301
8.6 State-dependent insurance and annuity functions 305
8.6.1 State-dependent annuities 308
8.7 Premiums 314
8.8 Policy values 315
8.8.1 Recursions for state-dependent policy values 317
8.8.2 General recursion for h-yearly cash flows 320
8.8.3 Thiele’s differential equation 322
8.9 Applications of multiple state models in long-term
health and disability insurance 326
8.9.1 Disability income insurance 326
8.9.2 Long-term care 330
8.9.3 Critical illness insurance 332
8.9.4 Continuing care retirement communities 335
8.9.5 Structured settlements 339
8.10 Markov multiple state models in discrete time 342
8.10.1 The Chapman–Kolmogorov equations 343
8.10.2 Transition matrices 344
8.11 Notes and further reading 346
8.12 Exercises 347
xii Contents

9 Multiple decrement models 359

9.1 Summary 359
9.2 Examples of multiple decrement models 359
9.3 Actuarial functions for multiple decrement models 360
9.4 Multiple decrement tables 364
9.4.1 Fractional age assumptions for decrements 366
9.5 Constructing a multiple decrement table 368
9.5.1 Deriving independent rates from dependent rates 368
9.5.2 Deriving dependent rates from independent rates 371
9.6 Comments on multiple decrement notation 373
9.7 Transitions at exact ages 374
9.8 Exercises 381
10 Joint life and last survivor benefits 388
10.1 Summary 388
10.2 Joint life and last survivor benefits 388
10.3 Joint life notation 389
10.4 Independent future lifetimes 393
10.5 A multiple state model for independent future lifetimes 400
10.6 A model with dependent future lifetimes 404
10.7 The common shock model 411
10.8 Notes and further reading 414
10.9 Exercises 414
11 Pension mathematics 423
11.1 Summary 423
11.2 Introduction 423
11.3 The salary scale function 424
11.4 Setting the contribution for a DC plan 428
11.5 The service table 432
11.6 Valuation of final salary plans 440
11.6.1 Accrued benefits 440
11.6.2 A general formula for the EPV of the projected
accrued age retirement pension 444
11.6.3 Withdrawal benefits 445
11.6.4 Valuing the current accrued benefit 448
11.7 Valuing career average earnings plans 449
11.8 Funding the benefits 451
11.9 Projected Unit Credit funding 453
11.9.1 The normal contribution formula using PUC
funding 457
11.10 Traditional Unit Credit funding 458
 Contents xiii

11.10.1 The normal contribution formula using TUC

funding 460
11.11 Comparing PUC and TUC funding methods 461
11.12 Retiree health benefits 462
11.12.1 Introduction 462
11.12.2 Valuing retiree health benefits 464
11.12.3 Funding retiree health benefits 467
11.13 Notes and further reading 471
11.14 Exercises 472
12 Yield curves and non-diversifiable risk 481
12.1 Summary 481
12.2 The yield curve 481
12.3 Valuation of insurances and life annuities 485
12.3.1 Replicating the cash flows of a traditional
non-participating product 487
12.4 Diversifiable and non-diversifiable risk 488
12.4.1 Diversifiable mortality risk 489
12.4.2 Non-diversifiable risk 491
12.5 Monte Carlo simulation 496
12.6 Notes and further reading 501
12.7 Exercises 502
13 Emerging costs for traditional life insurance 506
13.1 Summary 506
13.2 Introduction 506
13.3 Profit testing a term insurance policy 508
13.3.1 Time step 508
13.3.2 Profit test basis 508
13.3.3 Incorporating reserves 511
13.3.4 Profit signature 515
13.4 Profit testing principles 516
13.4.1 Assumptions 516
13.4.2 The profit vector 516
13.4.3 The profit signature 517
13.4.4 The net present value 517
13.4.5 Notes on the profit testing method 518
13.5 Profit measures 519
13.6 Using the profit test to calculate the premium 521
13.7 Using the profit test to calculate reserves 521
13.8 Profit testing for participating insurance 524
13.9 Profit testing for multiple state-dependent insurance 528
Other documents randomly have
different content
 VII
The man was buried with Christian service at Miss Beale’s
expense, and her serene face wore no shadow. The following day
she said to Patience: “I spent nearly all of the last two nights in
prayer, and I almost heard the Lord’s voice as He told me I did
right.”
“You ought to write a novel,” said Patience, drily, but the sarcasm
was lost. In a moment Patience forgot Miss Beale: the postman
handed her two letters, and she went up to her room to read them.
The first she opened was from Miss Tremont.

Peele Manor, Friday.

Oh my dear darling little girl, how I wish, how I wish I were with
you and my work once more. I ought to be happy because they are all
so kind, but I’m not. I feel as if I were throwing away one of the few
precious weeks I have left to give to the Lord (arrange for a prayer
meeting on Wednesday, the day of my return, and we’ll have a regular
feast of manna). Do you miss me? I think of you every moment. You
should have seen dear Cousin Honora’s face when I came down to
dinner in the black satin. She didn’t say anything, she just looked at the
bow, and I felt sorry for her. But I know I am right. Hal giggled and
winked at me. (I do love Hal!) Honora Mairs said so sweetly after
Cousin Honora had left the room: “Dear Cousin Harriet, I think you are
so brave and consistent to wear the little white bow of your cause. It is
so like you.” Was not that sweet of her? Beverly has very heavy
eyebrows, and he raised them at my ribbon, and turned away his head
as if it hurt his eyes. He is a very elegant young gentleman, and his
mother says he is a great stickler for form, whatever that may mean.
(They speak a different language here anyway. I don’t understand half
what they say. Hal talks slang all the time.) I don’t like Beverly as much
as I did, although he’s quite the handsomest young man I ever saw and
very polite; but he smokes cigarettes all the time and big black cigars.
When I told him that five hundred million dollars were spent annually
on tobacco, he got up and went off in a huff. May is just a talkative
child—I never heard any one talk so much in my life,—and about
nothing but gowns and young men and balls and the opera. Beverly
talks about horses all the time, and Hal thinks a great deal of society,
although she listens to me very sweetly when I talk to her about my
work. Yesterday she said: “Why, Cousin Harriet, you’re a regular steam
engine. It must be jolly good fun to carry a lot of sinners to heaven on
an express train.” I told her it was a freight train, and it certainly is, as
you know, Patience dear. She replied: “Well, if you get there all the
same, a century more or less doesn’t make any difference. You must be
right in it with the Lord.” That was the only time I’d heard the dear
Lord’s name mentioned since I arrived, so I didn’t scold her. But
Patience, dear, I hope you’ll never use slang. I’ve talked to Hal about
you, and she says she’s coming to see you.
Honora doesn’t use slang. She is very stately and dignified, and
Cousin Honora (it’s very awkward when you’re writing for two people to
have the same name, isn’t it?) holds her up as a model for the girls. Hal
and she fight. I can’t call it anything else, although Honora doesn’t lose
her temper and Hal does. Hal said to me (of Honora) yesterday (I use
her own words, although they’re awful; but if I didn’t I couldn’t give
you the same idea of her): “She’s a d—— hypocrite: and she wants to
marry Beverly, but she won’t,—not if I have to turn matchmaker and
marry him to a variety actress. She makes me wild. I wish she’d elope
with the priest, but she’s too confoundedly clever.” Isn’t it dreadful—
Honora is a Catholic. She became converted last year. Perhaps that’s
the reason I can’t like her. But even the Catholic religion teaches
charity, for she said to me this morning: “Poor Hal is really a good-
hearted child, but she’s worldly and just a little superficial.”
They haven’t any company this week—how kind of Cousin Honora to
ask me when they are alone! I wish you were here to enjoy the library.
It is a great big room overlooking the river, and the walls are covered
with books—three or four generations of them. Mr. Peele is intellectual,
and so is Honora; but the others don’t read much, except Hal, who
reads dreadful-looking yellow paper books written in the French
language which she says are “corkers,” whatever that may mean. I do
wish the dear child would read her Bible. I asked her if I gave her a
copy if she’d promise me to read a little every day, and she said she
would, as some of the stories were as good as a French novel. So I
shall buy her one.
We sit in the library every evening. In the morning we sit in the Tea
House on the slope and Honora embroiders Catholic Church things,
Cousin Honora knits (she says it’s all the fashion), May talks, and Hal
reads her yellow books and tells May to “let up.” I sew for my poor, and
they don’t seem to mind that as much as the white ribbon. They say
that they always sew for the poor in Lent. Hal says it is the “swagger
thing.” In the afternoon we drive, and I do think it such a waste of time
to be going, going nowhere for two hours.
 Well, Patience, I shall be with you on Wednesday, praise the Lord.
Come to the train and meet me, and be sure to write me about
everything. How is Polly Jones, and old Mrs. Murphy, and Belinda
Greggs? Have you read to Maria Twist, and taken the broth to old Jonas
Hobb? Give my love to dear sister Beale, and tell her I pray for her.
With a kiss from your old auntie, God bless you,
Harriet Tremont.

“Dear old soul,” thought Patience. “I think I know them better

than she does, already. She is worth the whole selfish crowd; but I
should like to know Hal. Beverly must be a chump.”
 VIII
The other letter was from Rosita. Patience had not heard from
her for a long while. Three months previously, Mr. Foord had written
of Mrs. Thrailkill’s death, and mentioned that Rosita had gone to
Sacramento to visit Miss Galpin—now Mrs. Trent—until her uncle,
who had returned to Kentucky, should send for her.

Oh, Patita! Patita! [the letter began], what do you think? I am on

the stage. I had been crazy to go on ever since that night. A theatrical
man was in Monterey just before mamma’s death, and he told me they
were always wanting pretty corus girls at the Tivoli; so after the funeral
I told everybody I was going to stay with Miss Galpin until Uncle Jim
sent for me—I hated to lie, but I had to—and I went up to San
Francisco and went right to the Tivoli. He took me because he said I
was pretty and had a fresh voice. I had to ware tights. You should have
seen me. At first I felt all the time like stooping over to cover up my
legs with my arms. But after a while I got used to it, and one night we
had to dance, and everybody said I was the most graceful. The
manager said I was a born dancer and actress. The other day what do
you think happened? A New York manager was here and heard me
sing,—I had a little part by that time,—and he told me that if I took
lessons I could be a prima donna in comic opera. He said I not only was
going to have a lovely voice, but that I had a new style (Spanish) and
would take in New York. He offered to send me to Paris for a year and
then bring me out in New York if I’d give him my word—I’m too young
to sign a contract—that I wouldn’t go with any other manager. At first
my manager, who is a good old sole (I didn’t tell you that I live with
him and his wife, and that their awful good to me and stand the fellers
off), wouldn’t have it; but after a while he gave in—said I’d have to go
the pace sooner or later (whatever that means), and I might as well go
it in first class style. His wife, the good old sole, cried. She said I was
the first corus girl she’d ever taken an interest in, but somehow it would
be on her conscience if I went wrong. But I’m not going wrong. I don’t
care a bit for men. There was a bald-headed old fool who used to come
and sit in the front row every night and throw kisses to me, and one
night he threw me a bouquet with a bracelet in it. I wore the bracelet,
for it was a beauty with a big diamond in it; but I never looked at him
or answered any of his notes, and Mr. Bell—the manager—wrote him
he’d punch his head if he came near the stage door. No, all I want is to
act, act, act, and sing, sing, sing, and dance, dance, dance, and have
beautiful cloths and jewels and a carriage and two horses. Mr. Soper
has told me ten times since I’ve met him that “virtue in an actress
pays,” and he’s going to send a horrid old woman with me to Paris, as if
I’d bother with the fools anyhow. I’m sure I can’t see what Mrs. Bell
cries about if I’m going to be famous and make a lot of money.
Anyhow, I’m going. I do so want to see you, Patita dear. Maybe you can
come up to the steamer and see me off. I wonder if you have changed.
I’m not so very tall; but they all say my figure is good. Mr. Soper says it
will be divine in a year or two, but that I may be a cow at thirty, so I’d
better not lose any time. Good-bye. Good-bye. I want to give you a
hundred kisses. How different our lives are! Isn’t yours dreadfully stupid
with that old temprance work? And just think it was you who taught me
to act first! Mr. Soper says I must cultivate the Spanish racket for all it’s
worth, and that he expects me to be more Spanish in New York than I
was in Monterey. He is going to get an opera written for me with the
part of a Spanish girl in it so I can wear the costume. He says if I study
and do everything he tells me I’ll make a furore. Hasta luego—Patita
mia.
Rosita Elvira Francesca Thrailkill.

P. S.—I’m to have a Spanish stage name, “La Rosita,” I guess. Mr.

Soper says that Thrailkill is an “anti-climax,” and would never “go
down.”
 IX
Patience read this letter with some alarm. All that she had heard
and read of the stage made her apprehensive. She feared that
Rosita would become fast, would drink and smoke, and not maintain
a proper reserve with men. Then the natural independence of her
character asserted itself, and she felt pride in Rosita’s courage and
promptness of action. She even envied her a little: her life would be
so full of variety.
“And after all it’s fate,” she thought philosophically. “She was cut
out for the stage if ever a girl was. You might as well try to keep a
bird from using its wings, or Miss Beale and auntie from being
Temperance. I wonder what my fate is. It’s not the stage, but it’s not
this, neither—not much. Shouldn’t wonder if I made a break for Mr.
Field some day. But I couldn’t leave auntie. She’s the kind that gets
a hold on you.”
She did her duty by Hog Heights during Miss Tremont’s brief
holiday, but did it as concisely as was practicable. She found it
impossible to sympathise with people that were content to let others
support them, giving nothing in return. Her strong independent
nature despised voluntary weakness. It was her private opinion that
these useless creatures with only the animal instinct to live, and not
an ounce of grey matter in their skulls, encumbered the earth, and
should be quietly chloroformed.
Despite her love for Miss Tremont, she breathed more freely in
her absence. She was surfeited with religion, and at times possessed
with a very flood of revolt and the desire to let it loose upon every
church worker in Mariaville. But affection and gratitude restrained
her.
 X
Miss Tremont returned on Wednesday morning. She stepped off
the train with a bag under one arm, a bundle under the other, and
both arms full of flowers.
“Oh, you darling, you darling!” she cried as she fell upon
Patience. “How it does my heart good to see you! These are for you.
Hal picked them, and sent her love. Aren’t they sweet?”
“Lovely,” said Patience, crushing the flowers as she hugged and
kissed Miss Tremont. “Here, give me the bag.”
Miss Tremont would go to Temperance Hall first, then to call
upon Miss Beale, but was finally guided to her home. The trunk had
preceded them. Patience unpacked the despised gowns, while
listening to a passionate dissertation upon the heavy trial they had
been to their owner.
“I think you had a good time all the same,” she said. “You look as
if you’d had, at any rate. You’ve not looked so well since I came.
That sort of thing agrees with you better than tramping over Hog
Heights—”
“It does not!” cried Miss Tremont. “And I am so glad to get back
to my work and my little girl.”
“And the Lord,” supplemented Patience.
“Oh, He was with me even there. Only He didn’t feel so near.”
She sighed reminiscently. “But I’ve brought pictures of the children
to show you. Let us go down to the parlour where it’s cooler, and
then we’ll stand them in a row on the mantel. They’re the first
pictures I’ve had of them in years.” She caught a package from the
tray of her trunk, in her usual abrupt fashion, and hurried
downstairs, Patience at her heels.
Miss Tremont seated herself in her favourite upright chair, put on
her spectacles, and opened the package. “This is Hal,” she said,
handing one of the photographs to Patience. “I must show you her
first, for she’s my pet.”
 Patience examined the photograph eagerly. It was a half length
of a girl with a straight tilted nose, a small mouth with a downward
droop at the corners, large rather prominent eyes, and sleek hair
which was in keeping with her generally well-groomed appearance.
She wore a tailor frock. Her slender erect figure was beautifully
poised. In one hand she carried a lorgnette. She was not pretty, but
her expression was frank and graceful, and she had much
distinction.
“I like her. Any one could see she was a swell. What colour hair
has she?”
“Oh, a kind of brown. Her eyes are a sort of grey. Here is May.
She always has her photographs coloured.”
“Oh, she’s a beauty!” The girl even in photograph showed an
exquisite bit of flesh and blood. The large blue eyes were young and
appealing under soft fall of lash. The mouth was small and red, the
nose small and straight. Chestnut hair curled about the small head
and oval face. The skin was like tinted jade. It was the face of the
American aftermath. She wore a ball gown revealing a slender girlish
neck and a throat of tender curves.
“She is a real beauty,” said Miss Tremont. “Poor Hal says, ‘she
can’t wear her neck because she hasn’t got any.’ Did you ever hear
such an expression?”
“Hal looks as if she had a good figure.”
Miss Tremont shook her head. “I don’t approve of all Hal does—
she pads. She doesn’t seem to care much who knows it, for when
the weather’s very warm she takes them out, right before your eyes,
so it isn’t so bad as if she were deceitful about it. Here is Beverly.”
Patience looked long at the young man’s face. This face too was
oval, with a high intellectual forehead, broad black brows, and very
regular features. The mouth appeared to pout beneath the drooping
moustache. The expression of the eyes was very sweet. It was a
strong handsome face, high-bred like the others, but with a certain
nobility lacking in the women.
“He is said to be the handsomest young man in Westchester
County, and he’s quite dark,” said Miss Tremont. “What do you think
of him?”
 “He is rather handsome. Where is Honora?”
“She never has pictures taken. But, dear me, I must go out and
see Ellen.”
Patience disposed the photographs on the mantel, then, leaning
on her elbows, gazed upon Beverly Peele. The Composite, Byron, the
Stranger, rattled their bones unheard. She concluded that no knight
of olden time could ever have been so wholly satisfactory as this
young man. Romance, who had been boxed about the ears, and
sent to sleep, crept to her old throne with a sly and meaning smile.
Patience began at once to imagine her meeting with Beverly Peele.
She would be in a runaway carriage, and he would rescue her. She
would be skating and fall in a hole, and he would pull her out. He
would be riding to hounds in his beautiful pink coat (which was red)
and run over her.
She pictured his face with a variety of expressions. She was sure
that he had the courage of a lion and the tenderness of some
women. Unquestionably he had read his ancestors’ entire library
—“with that forehead,”—and he probably had the high and mighty
air of her favourite heroes of fiction. In one of her letters Miss
Tremont had remarked that he loved children and animals; therefore
he had a beautiful character and a kind heart. And she was glad to
have heard that he also had a temper: it saved him from being a
prig. Altogether, Patience, with the wisdom of sixteen and three
quarters, was quite convinced that she had found her ideal, and
overlooked its extreme unlikeness to the Composite, which was the
only ideal she had ever created. A woman’s ideal is the man she is in
love with for the time being.
She went up to her room, and for the first time in her life
critically examined herself in the mirror. With May Peele and one or
two beauties of the High School in mind, she decided with a sigh
that she was no beauty.
“But who knows,” she thought with true insight, “what I’d be with
clothes? Who could be pretty in a calico dress? My nose is as straight
as May’s, anyhow, and my upper lip as short. But to be a real beauty
you’ve got to have blue eyes and golden or chestnut hair and a little
mouth, or else black eyes and hair like Rosita’s. My eyes are only
grey, and my hair’s the colour of ashes, as Rosita once remarked.
There’s no getting over that, although it certainly has grown a lot
since I came here.”
Then she remembered that Rosita had once decorated her with
red ribbons and assured her that they were becoming. She ran down
to the best spare room, and, divesting a tidy of its scarlet bows,
pinned them upon herself before the mirror, which she discovered
was more becoming than her own. The brilliant colour was
undoubtedly improving—“And, my goodness!” she exclaimed
suddenly, “I do believe I haven’t got a freckle left. It must be the
climate.”
“What on earth are you doing?” said an abrupt voice from the
doorway.
Patience started guiltily, and restored the bows to the tidy.
“Oh, you see,” she stammered, “May is so pretty I wanted to see
if I could be a little less homely.” Patience was truthful by nature, but
the woman does not live that will not lie under purely feminine
provocation. Otherwise she would not be worthy to bear the
hallowed name of woman.
“Nonsense,” said Miss Tremont, crossly, “I thought you were
above that kind of foolishness. You, must remember that you are as
the Lord made you, and be thankful that you were not born a negro
or a Chinaman.”
“Oh, I am,” said Patience.
 XI
Thereafter, Patience roamed the woods munching chestnuts and
dreaming of Beverly Peele. Hugo and Balzac and Goethe were
neglected. Her brain wove thrilling romances of its own, especially in
the night to the sound of rain. She never emerged from the woods
without a shortening of the breath; but even Hal did not pay the
promised call; nor did Beverly dash through the streets in a pink
coat, a charger clasped between his knees.
“Well, it’s fun to be in love, anyhow,” she thought. “I’ll meet him
some time, I know.”
Much to her regret she was not permitted to go to New York to
see Rosita off. Miss Tremont had a morbid horror of the stage, and
after Patience’s exhibition of vanity was convinced that “actress
creatures” would exert a pernicious influence.
And, shortly after, Patience received news which made her forget
Rosita and even Beverly Peele for a while. Mr. Foord was dead.
Patience had hoarded his twenty dollar gold piece because he had
given it to her. She bought a black hat and frock with it, and felt as
sad as she could at that age of shifting impressions. A later mail
brought word that he had left her John Sparhawk’s library, which
could stay in the Custom House until she was able to send for it, and
a few hundred dollars which would remain in a savings bank until
she was eighteen. He had nothing else to leave except his books,
which went to found a town library. All but those few hundreds had
been sunken in an annuity. Miss Tremont was quite content to be
overlooked in the girl’s favour.
By the time Patience was ready to return to Beverly Peele the
new term opened, and the uncompromising methods of the High
School left no time for romance. Once more her ambition to excel
became paramount, and she studied night and day. She had no
temptation to dissipate, for she was not popular with the young
people of Mariaville. The Y’s disapproved of her because she would
not don the white ribbon; and the church girls, generally, felt that
except when perfunctorily assisting Miss Tremont she held herself
aloof, even at the frequent sociables. And they were scandalised
because she did not join the church, nor the King’s Daughters, nor
the Christian Endeavor.
The High School scholars liked her because she was “square,”
and cordially admired her cleverness; but there were no recesses in
the ordinary sense, and after school Miss Tremont claimed her. Even
the boys “had no show,” as they phrased it. Occasionally they lent
her a hand on the ice; but like all Californians, she bitterly felt the
cold of her second winter, and in her few leisure hours preferred the
fire.
Sometimes she looked at Beverly Peele’s picture with a sigh and
some resentment. “But never mind,” she would think philosophically,
“I can fall in love with him over again next summer.” When vacation
came she did in a measure take up the broken threads of her
romance, but they had somewhat rotted from disuse.
Rosita wrote every few weeks, reporting hard work and
unbounded hope. “The dueña,” as she called her companion, “was
an old devil,” and never let her go out alone, nor receive a man; but
she “didn’t care,” she had no time for nonsense, anyhow. She was
learning her part in the Spanish opera, which had been written for
her, and it was “lovely.”
“It must be a delightful sensation to have your future assured at
seventeen,” thought Patience. “Mine is as problematical as the
outcome of the Temperance cause. I have had one unexpected
change, and may have more. If it were not for Rosita’s letters I
should almost forget those sixteen years in California. I certainly am
not the same person. I haven’t lost my temper for a year and a half,
and I don’t seem to be disturbed any more by vague yearnings. Life
is too practical, I suppose.”
Miss Tremont did not visit the Gardiner Peeles this summer: they
spent the season in travel. Late in the fall Rosita returned to
America. She wrote the day before she sailed. That was the last
letter Patience received from her. Later she sent a large envelope full
of clippings descriptive of her triumphal début; thereafter nothing
whatever. Patience, supposing herself forgotten, anathematised her
old friend wrathfully, but pride forbade her to write and demand an
explanation.
She noticed with spasms of terror that Miss Tremont was failing.
The rush and worry of a lifetime had worn the blood white, and the
nerve-force down like an old wharf pile. But Miss Tremont would not
admit that she had lost an ounce of strength. She arose at the same
hour and toiled until late. When Patience begged her to take care of
herself, she became almost querulous, and all Patience could do was
to anticipate her in every possible way. But when school reopened
she had little time for anything but study. She was to finish in June,
and the last year’s course was very difficult.
She graduated with flying colours, and Miss Tremont was so
proud and excited that she took a day’s vacation. A week later
Patience hinted that she thought she should be earning her own
living; but Miss Tremont would not even discuss the subject. She fell
into a rage every time it was broached, and Patience, who would
have rebelled, had Miss Tremont been younger and stronger,
submitted: she knew it would not be for long.
 XII
Patience was languid all summer, and lay about in the woods,
when she could, reading little and thinking much. Her school books
put away forever, she felt for the first time that she was a woman,
but did not take as much interest in herself as she had thought she
should. She speculated a good deal upon her future career as a
newspaper woman, and expended two cents every morning upon
the New York “Day.” But she forgot to study it in the new interest it
created: she had just the order of mind to succumb to the
fascination of the newspaper, and she read the “Day’s” report of
current history with a keener pleasure than even the great records
of the past had induced. She longed for a companion with whom to
talk over the significant tendencies of the age, and gazed upon
Beverly Peele’s dome-like brow with a sigh.
Once, in the Sunday issue, she came upon a column and a half
devoted to Rosita, “The Sweetheart of the Public,” “The Princess
Royal of Opera Bouffe.” The description of the young prima donna’s
home life, personal characteristics, and footlight triumphs, was
further embellished by a painfully décolleté portrait, a lace night
gown, a pair of wonderfully embroidered stockings, and a rosary.
Patience read the article twice, wondering why fame realised
looked so different from the abstract quality of her imagination.
“Somehow it seems a sort of tin halo,” she thought. Then her
thoughts drifted back to Monterey, and recalled it with startling
vividness. “Still even if I haven’t forgotten it, it is like the memory of
another life. Its only lasting effect has been to make me hate what is
coarse and sinful; and dear auntie, even if she hasn’t converted me,
has developed all my good.
“I wonder if Rosita has been in love, and if that is the reason she
has forgotten me. But she hasn’t married, so perhaps it’s only
adulation that has driven everything else out of her head.” And then
with her eyes on the river, which under the heavy sky looked like a
stream of wrinkling lead from which a coating of silver had worn off
in places, she fell to dreaming of Beverly Peele and an ideal
existence in which they travelled and read and assured each other of
respectful and rarefied affection.
Early in the winter the influenza descended upon America. Mr.
Peele, his wife wrote, was one of the first victims, and the entire
family took him to Florida. One night, a month later, Miss Tremont
returned from Hog Heights and staggered through her door.
“Oh,” she moaned, as Patience rushed forward and caught her in
her arms, “I feel so strangely. I have pains all over me, and the
queerest feeling in my knees.”
“It’s the grippe,” said Patience, who had read its history in the
“Day.” She put Miss Tremont to bed, and sent for the doctor. The old
lady was too weak to protest, and swallowed the medicines
submissively. She recovered in due course, and one day slipped out
and plodded through the snow to Hog Heights. She was brought
home unconscious, and that night was gasping with pneumonia.
There was no lack of nurses. Miss Beale and Mrs. Watt, who had
helped to care for her during the less serious attack, returned at
once, and many others called at intervals during the day and night.
Patience sat constantly by the bed, staring at the face so soon to
be covered from all sight. She wanted to cry and scream, but could
not. Her heart was like lead in her breast.
At one o’clock on the second night, she and Miss Beale were
alone in the sick room. Mrs. Watt was walking softly up and down
the hall without.
Miss Tremont was breathing irregularly, and Patience bent over
her with white face. Miss Beale began to sob.
“Is it not terrible, terrible,” she ejaculated, “that she should die
like this, she whose deathbed should have been so beautiful,—
unconscious, drugged—morphine, which is as accursed as whisky—”
“I am glad of it. It would be more horrible to see her suffer.”
“I don’t want to see her suffer—dear, dear Miss Tremont. But she
should have died in the full knowledge that she was going to God.
Oh! Oh!” she burst out afresh. “How I envy her! It’s my only, only
sin, but I can’t help envying those who are going to heaven. I can’t
wait. I do so want to see the beautiful green pastures and the still
waters—and oh, how I want to talk with Abraham, Isaac, and
Jacob!”
Patience flung her head into her lap and burst into a fit of
laughter.
 XIII
An hour later she went downstairs and turned up all the lights.
Mrs. Watt had gone to the next house to telephone for the
undertakers. When she returned she went upstairs to Miss Beale.
Patience could hear the two women praying. That was the only
sound in the terrible stillness. She paced up and down, wringing her
hands and gasping occasionally. Her sense of desolation was
appalling, although as yet she but half realised her bereavement.
Suddenly she heard the sound of runners on the crisp snow.
They stopped before the gate. She ran shuddering to the window.
The moon flooded the white earth. Two tall black shadows came
down the path. They trod as if on velvet. Even on the steps and
porch they made no sound. They knocked as death may knock on a
human soul, lightly, meaningly. Patience dragged herself to the door
and opened it. The long narrow black men entered and bent their
heads solemnly. Patience raised her shaking hand, and pointed to
the floor above. The men of death bowed again, and stole upward
like black ghosts. In a few moments they stole down again and out
and away. Patience rushed frantically through the rooms to the
kitchen, where she fell upon Ellen, dozing by the fire, and screamed
and laughed until the terrified woman flung a pitcher of water on
her, then carried her upstairs and put her to bed.
 XIV
A week later Patience wandered restlessly about the lonely
house. The hundreds of people that had thronged it had gone at
last, even Miss Beale and Mrs. Watt.
She had cried until she had no tears left, and rebelled until
reason would hear no more. Her nerves felt blunt and worn down.
Yesterday Miss Tremont’s lawyer had told her that after a few
unimportant bequests she was to have the income of the dead
woman’s small estate until she married, after which she would have
nothing and the Temperance cause all. She was therefore exempt
from the pettiest and severest of life’s trials. Miss Tremont had also
left a letter, begging her to devote herself to a life of charity and
reform. But Patience had at last revolted. She realised how empty
had been her part, how torrential the impulsion of Miss Tremont.
The great world outside of Mariaville pressed upon her
imagination, gigantic, rainbow-hued, alluring. It beckoned with a
thousand fingers, and all her complex being responded. She longed
for a talent with which to add to its beauty, and thought no ill of it.
She had sat up half the night thinking, and this morning she felt
doubly restless and lonely. She wanted to go away at once, but as
yet she had made no plans; and plans were necessary. She was too
tired to go to Mr. Field and apply for work; and she knew that her
delicate appearance would not commend itself to his approval. She
went to the mirror in the best spare bedroom and regarded herself
anxiously. Her black-robed figure seemed very tall and thin, her face
white and sharp.
“Even red bows—” she began; then her memory tossed up
Rosita. “Oh,” she thought, “if I could only see her,—see some one I
care a little for. I believe I’ll go—there may have been some reason
—her letters may have miscarried—I must see somebody.”
She ran upstairs, put on her outing things, and walked rapidly to
the station. The sharp air electrified her blood. The world was full of
youth and hope once more. She forgot her bereavement for the
hour. She hoped Rosita would ask her to visit her: the popular young
prima donna must have drawn many brilliant people about her.
When she reached New York she inquired her way to “Soper’s
Opera House,” obtained Rosita’s address, and took the elevated train
up town. She found the great apartment house with little difficulty,
and was enraptured with its marble floors and pillars, its liveried
servants and luxurious elevator.
“I certainly had rich ancestors,” she thought, “and I am sure they
were swells. I have a natural affinity for all this sort of thing.”
She was landed at the very top of the house. The elevator boy
directed her attention to a button, then slid down and out of sight,
leaving Patience with the delightful sensation of having stepped
upon a new stratum, high and away from the vast terrestrial cellar.
A trim French maid opened the door. She stared at Patience, and
looked disinclined to admit her. But Patience pushed the door back
with determined hand.
“I wish to see La Rosita,” she said in French.
“But madame is not receiving to-day.”
“She will see me, I am sure. Tell her that Miss Sparhawk is here.”
The woman admitted her reluctantly, and left her standing in an
anteroom, passing between heavy portières. Patience followed, and
entered a large drawing-room furnished with amber satin and
ebony: a magnificent room, heavy with the perfume of great baskets
of flowers, and filled with costly articles of decoration. The carpet
was of amber velvet. Not a sound of street penetrated the heavy
satin curtains.
An indefinable sensation stole over Patience’s mind, a ghost
whose lineaments were blurred, yet familiar. She felt an impulse to
turn and run, then twitched her shoulders impatiently, and
approaching other portières, parted them and glanced into the room
beyond.
It was evidently a boudoir, a fragrant fairy-like thing of rose and
lace.
In a deep chair, clad in a robe de chambre of rose-coloured silk,
flowing open over a lace smock and petticoat, lay Rosita. Her dense
black hair was twisted carelessly on top of her head and confined
with a jewelled dagger. One tiny foot, shod in a high-heeled slipper
of rose-coloured silk, was conspicuous on a low pouf. The flush of
youth was in her cheek, its scarlet in her mouth. The large white lids
lay heavily on the languorous eyes. In one hand she held a pink
cigarette in a jewelled holder. She spoke in a low tantalising voice to
a man who sat before her, leaning eagerly forward.
The maid had evidently not succeeded in gaining her attention.
Patience, conquering another impulse to run, pushed the hangings
aside and entered. Rosita sprang to her feet, the blood flashing to
her hair; but her eyes expanded with pleasure.
“Patita! Patita!” she stammered, then caught Patience in her
arms. As both girls looked as if about to weep, the man hurriedly
departed.
The girls hugged each other as of old; then Rosita divested
Patience of her wraps and told the astonished maid to take them out
of sight.
“Now that you are here, you shall stay,” she said, “stay a long,
long while. Have you had luncheon?”
“No—but I’m not—yes, I am, though, come to think of it. Get me
something to eat. Rosita, how good it is to see you again! Why, why
didn’t you write to me?”
“O—h; I will tell you, perhaps; but you must have luncheon first.
I take a late breakfast, just after rising, so it will be a few minutes
before yours is ready.” She rang a bell and gave an order to the
maid, then pushed Patience into the deepest and softest chair in the
room.
“Now,” she said, smiling affectionately, “lie back and be
comfortable; you look tired. Oh, Patita, I am so glad to see you. Isn’t
it like old times?”
With a grace which long practice had made a fine art, she sank
upon one end of a divan, and back among a mass of cushions. Her
white arms lay along the pillows in such careless wise as to best
exhibit their perfection; her head dropped backward slightly,
revealing the round throat. The attitude was so natural as to suggest
that she had ceased to pose.
 Patience stared at her, wondering if it could be the same Rosita.
All the freshness of youth was in that beautiful face and round
voluptuous form, but she looked years and years and years older
than the Rosita of Monterey. Patience suddenly felt young and
foolish and green. The world that had been so great and wonderful
to her imagination seemed to have shrunken to a ball, to be tossed
from one to the other of those white idle hands.
“What has changed you so?” she asked abruptly.
Rosita gave the low delicious laugh of which Patience had read in
the New York “Day.” She relit her cigarette and blew a soft cloud.
“I will tell you after luncheon. You are the only person I would
never fib to. I believe those grey eyes of yours are the only honest
eyes in the world. Why are you in black?”
Patience told her, and was drawn on to speak of herself and her
life. Rosita shuddered once or twice, an adorable little French
shudder, and cast upward her glittering hands, whose nails Patience
admired even more than their jewels.
“Dios de mi alma!” she cried finally. “What an existence!—I
cannot call it life. I should have jumped into the river. That life would
drive me mad, and I do not believe that it suits you either.”
She spoke with a Spanish accent, and with the affected precision
of a foreigner that has carefully learned the English language. Her
monotony of inflection was more effective than animation.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Patience, “and I have no intention of
pursuing it. I’m going to be a newspaper woman.”
Rosita gave forth a sound that from any other throat would have
been a shriek.
“A newspaper woman! And then you will come and interview me.
How droll! I shall have to become eccentric, so that I can furnish you
with ‘stories,’ as they call them. I have been pumped dry. When the
newspaper women have run out of everything else they come to me,
and they love me because I am good-natured, and turn my things
upside down for them. I never refuse to see them, so they have
never written anything horrid about me. Oh, I can tell you I have
learned a great many lessons since I left Monterey. But here is your
luncheon. While you are eating it I will do something for you that I
have never done for any one else off the stage: I will sing to you.”
The maid placed a silver tray on a little table, and while Patience
ate of creamed oysters and broiled partridge, Rosita sang as the
larks of paradise may sing when angels awake with the dawn. Once
Patience glanced hastily upward, half expecting to see the notes
falling in a golden shower. When she expressed her admiration,
Rosita’s red lips smiled slowly away from the white sharp little teeth.
“Do you like it, Patita mia?” she asked with bewitching
graciousness. “Yes, I can sing. I have the world at my feet.”
She resumed her languid attitude on the divan. “Bueno,” she
said, “now I am going to tell you all about it. People are always a
little heavy after eating; I waited on purpose. But you must promise
not to move until I get through. Will you?”
“Yes,” said Patience, uncomfortably. “I hope it is nothing very
dreadful.”
“That all depends upon the way you look at things. It will seem
odd to tell it to you. You used to be the one to do what you felt like
and tell other people that if they did not like it they could do the
other thing; but I suppose you are W. C. T. U’d.”
“No, I’m not. Go on.”
“Well, I will.” She paused and laughed lightly. “Funny world. We
do not usually tell this sort of story to a woman, but you and I are
different. Bueno.
“I went to Paris and studied hard. Yes, I am lazy yet, but I had
made up my mind to be a great, great, great success. I had what in
insane people is called the fixed idea, and the American in me
conquered the Spanish. Everybody praised my voice. No one said it
was the greatest voice in the world, nor even better than two or
three others over there; but I had no discouragement. I attracted a
great deal of attention from men, but the dueña never let them get
a word with me, and I did not care. I used to wonder at the stories
told about some of the other girls, and did not half understand. Two
sold themselves; but why? with a fortune in one’s throat. Others fell
in love, and talked about the temperament of the artist, but I could
not understand that nonsense either.
 “Bueno, at the end of the time Soper came over and bought me
eight trunks full of the most beautiful clothes you ever saw,—mostly
for the stage, but lots for the house and street. He said I was a first-
class investment, and worth the outlay. When he heard me sing he
shook all over. I ought to tell you that I had been kept on short
allowance, and had had very dowdy clothes, which broke my heart.
“Bueno, we came home. On the steamer, Soper treated me like a
father, but never let me talk to a man. Either he or the dueña was at
my heels all the time. He is a coarse-looking man, but I really liked
him because he had been so good to me, and there was something
very attractive about him. When we reached New York the dueña
left us. She said she was going straight to Philadelphia to her home.
Soper and I got in another cab and drove to an apartment on
Broadway. I did not know until the next day that it was his
apartment. That was in the evening. The next morning, while I was
at a late breakfast, he sent me a note, saying that he would call in
an hour and have a business talk with me. I was practising my
scales when he came in, and he clapped his hands and offered me a
chair. He drew one up for himself, and then said in a perfectly
business-like voice:—
“‘When I ran across you I knew that you only needed training to
become a queen of opera bouffe, and to make a fortune for some
one besides yourself. I also saw that you were going to become a
beautiful woman. I made up my mind that I would own both the
woman and the artist. Don’t look like a little tigress—still, I’m glad
you can look that way,—you may be able to do Carmen yet. Don’t
misunderstand me. I am not a villain, merely a practical man with an
eye to beauty. I have no idea of letting you get under the influence
of any other man,—not even if you weren’t so pretty. Let me console
you by telling you that for the sort of woman you are there is no
escape. You were made to drive men mad, and for the comic opera
stage. That sort of combination might as well get down to business
as early in the game as possible: it saves time.
“‘Had I never discovered you, you would have drifted from
company to company, gone the pace with nothing to show for it, and
worn out your youth at one-night stands. I saved you from a terrible
fate. You know the rest. You know what you owe me. You have
developed even beyond my hopes, but—mark you this—I have not
advertised you in any way. You are as unknown as on the day you
left California. If you mount the high horse and say: ”Sir, you are a
villain. Go to, go to!“ I shall merely turn you loose without your
trunks. You may imagine that with your voice and beauty you could
get an engagement anywhere. So you could—without advertising,
without an opera, and without a theatre of your own. Every existing
troupe has its own prima donna; you would have to take a second or
third rate part,—and unquestionably in a travelling troupe. There is
no place for you in New York but the one I propose to create. Lillian
Russell practically owns the Casino, and will, unless all signs fail, for
many years. She would not tolerate you on the same stage five
minutes; neither would any prima donna who had any influence with
her manager,—and they mostly have. Your career would be exactly
what it would have been if I had not met you,—full of hardships and
change and racing about the country; arriving at six in the evening,
singing at eight, leave the next morning at four, get what sleep you
could on the train. That’s about the size of it. You’d be painting
inside of a year, if not wearing plumpers. And what you’re mad at
now, you’d be looking upon as a matter of course then, and grateful
for the admiration.
“‘Moreover, no success is worth a tinker’s dam that ain’t made in
New York,—I think I wrote you that on an average of once a month.
If you show that you have horse sense, and will sign a contract with
me for five years, I’ll make you the rage in New York inside of two
months. Now it is success or failure: you can take your choice. I’ll be
here to-morrow at ten.’ And he was gone before I could speak.
“Bueno, after I had gotten over being fearfully mad I sat down
and thought it all over. I knew that all he said was true. I had heard
too much in Paris. He had kept writing me that virtue paid in an
actress to keep me straight, but I had heard the opposite about nine
hundred times. Bueno, I was in a trap. I had made up my mind to
succeed. I had even worked for it,—and you know how much that
meant with me. I made up my mind that succeed I would, no matter
what the price. It is one of two things in this world,—success or
failure,—and if you fail nobody cares a hang about your virtue.
“You know I never was sentimental nor romantic. Soper had
made a plain business proposition in a practical way that I liked. If
he had gone on like a stage lover it would have been much harder.
And after all I would be no worse than a society girl who sells herself
to a rich husband. So, after turning it over for twenty-four hours—or
all the time I was awake—I concluded not to be a fool, but La
Rosita, Queen of Opera Bouffe. When he called I merely shrugged
my shoulders and said ‘Bueno.’ He laughed, and said I would
certainly succeed in this world; that the beautiful woman with the
cool calculating brain always got there. So—here I am. What do you
think of it?”
During this recital her voice had not for one instant broken nor
hardened. She told her story in the soft sweet languid voice of
Spain; she might have been relating an idyl of which she was the
Juliet and Soper the Romeo.
Patience stared at her with wide eyes and dry lips.
“And you have never regretted it?” she asked; “you don’t care?”
Rosita raised her beautiful brows. “Regret? Well, no, I should say
not. Have I not realised my dreams and ambition? Am I not rich and
famous and happy instead of a scrambling nobody? Regret?—No—
rather. What is more, I know how to save. A good many of us have
learned that lesson. When I have lost voice and youth I shall be rich,
—rich. We do not end in a garret, like in the old days. And I do not
drink, and I rest a great deal—it will be a long time before I go off.
Besides, there are the beauty doctors—Oh, no, I am not regretting.
And Soper is getting tired of me, I am happy to say.”
Patience rose and went into the room where the maid had
carried her hat and jacket. It was a bedroom, a white nest of lace
and velvet. When she returned she said: “I should like to go home
and think it over. I feel queer and stunned. You have taken me so
completely by surprise that I can hardly think.”
Rosita coloured angrily.
“You are shocked, I suppose,” she said with a sneer. “I should
think—” She paused abruptly. She was still an amiable little soul.
 Patience understood perfectly, and turned a shade paler. “I told
you that I did not understand how I felt. In fact, I hardly ever know
just how I feel about anything. I suppose it is because I have the
sort of mind that is made to analyse, and I haven’t had experience
enough to know how. And I never judge any one. Why should I?
Why should we judge anybody? We are not all made alike. I couldn’t
do what you have done, but that is no reason why I should condemn
you. That would be absurd. If any one else had told me this story I
should only have been interested—I am so curious about everything.
But you see you are the only girl friend I ever had, and that is what
makes me feel so strangely. Good-bye;” and she hurriedly left the
room.
 XV
When she reached home she forgot her horror of death
chambers, and went to Miss Tremont’s room and flung herself on the
bed. She did not cry—her tears had all been spent; but she felt
something of the profound misery of the last year in Monterey.
During the intervening years she had seen little of the cloven hoof of
human nature; the occasional sin over on Hog Heights hardly
counted; creatures of the lower conditions had no high lights to
make the shadows startling. But to-day the horror of old experiences
rushed over her; she was filled with a profound loathing of life, of
human nature.
So far, of love, in its higher sense—if it possessed such a part—
she had seen nothing; of sensuality, too much. True, she had spent
two weeks with Miss Galpin, during that estimable young woman’s
engagement; but Miss Galpin took love as a sort of front-parlour,
evening-dress affair, and Patience had not deigned to be interested.
She had speculated somewhat over Miss Tremont’s early romance,
but could only conclude that it was one of those undeveloped little
histories that so many old maids cherish.
She recalled all the love stories she had read. Even the masters
were insipid when they attempted to portray spiritual love. It was
only when they got down to the congenial substratum of passion
that they wrote of love with colour and fire. Was she to believe that
it did not exist,—this union of soul and mind? Her dreams receded,
and refused to cohere. She wondered, with natural egoism, if any
girl of her age had ever received so many shocks. She was on the
threshold of life, with a mass of gross material out of which to shape
her mental attitude to existing things. True, she had met only
women of relative sinlessness during these last years, but their
purity was uninteresting because it was that of people mentally
limited, and possessed of the fad of the unintellectual. Moreover,
they had their erotism, the oddest, most unreal, and harmless
erotism the world has known in the last two thousand years; and
after all quite incidental: her keen eyes had long since observed that
the old maids were far more religious than the married women, that
the girls cooled perceptibly to the great abstraction as soon as a
concrete candidate was approved.
She longed passionately for Miss Tremont. All her old restlessness
and doubt had returned with the flight of that ardent absorbing
personality. She wished that she could have been remodelled; for,
after all, the dear old lady, whatever her delusions, had been happy.
But she was still Patience Sparhawk; she could only be thankful that
Miss Tremont had cemented her hatred of evil.
She rose abruptly, worn out by conjectures and analysis that led
nowhere, and went out into the woods.
“Oh,” she said, lifting her arms, “this at least is beautiful.”
The ground was hard and white and sparkling. The trees were
crystal, down to the tiniest twig. They glittered iridescently under the
level rays of the sun descending upon the Palisades on the far side
of the Hudson. The river was grey under great floating blocks of ice.
Groves of slender trees in the hollows of the Palisades looked like
fine bunches of feathers. On the long slopes the white snow lay
deep; above, the dark steeps were merely powdered, here and
there; on the high crest the woods looked black.
She walked rapidly up and down, calmed, as of old, by the
beauty of nature, but dreading the morrow and the recurring to-
morrows. Suddenly through those glittering aisles pealed the rich
sonorous music of the organ. The keys were under the hands of a
master, and the great notes throbbed and swelled and rolled through
the winter stillness in the divine harmonies of “The Messiah.”
Patience stood still, shaking a little. On a hill above the wood a large
house had been built recently; the organ must be there.
The diamond radiance of the woods was living melody. The very
trees looked to bow their crystal heads. The great waves of harmony
seemed rolling down from an infinite height, down from some
cathedral of light and stars.
The ugly impressions of the day vanished. The sweet intangible
longing she had been used to know in Carmel tower flashed back to
her. What was it? She recalled the words of the Stranger. It was long
since she had thought of him. She closed her eyes and stood with
him in the tower. His voice was as distinct as the notes of the organ.
She felt again the tumult of her young half-comprehending mind.
Was not life all a matter of ideals? Were not the bad and the good
happy only if consistent to a fixed idea? Did she make of herself
such a woman as the Stranger had evoked out of the great mass of
small feminity, could she not be supremely happy with such a man?
Where was he? Was he married? He seemed so close—it was
incredible that he existed for another woman. Who more surely than
she could realise the purest ideal of her imaginings,—she with her
black experience and hatred of all that was coarse and evil? She
closed her eyes to her womanhood no longer. It thrilled and shook
her. If he would come—She trembled a little.
All men were henceforth possible lovers. Unless the Stranger
appeared speedily his memory must give way to the definite. The
imperious demands of a woman’s nature cannot be satisfied with
abstractions. The ideal which he stood for would lend a measure of
itself to each engaging man with whom she exchanged greeting.
 XVI
“Miss Patience!” cried a strident voice.
Patience turned with a violent start. Ellen was a large blotch on
the white beauty of the wood.
“There’s a young lady to see you. She didn’t give her name as I
remember.”
Patience followed the servant resentfully. The world was cold and
dull again. But when she recognised the Peele coachman and
footman on the handsome sleigh before the door she forgot her
dreams, and went eagerly into the house.
A girl was standing before the mantel, regarding through a
lorgnette a row of photographs. She turned as she heard footsteps,
and came forward with a cordial smile on her plain charming face.
She wore a black cloth frock and turban which made Patience feel
dowdy as Rosita’s magnificence had not.
“I am Hal,” she said, “and you are Patience, of course. I hope
you have heard as much of me as I have of you. Dear old girl, I was
awfully fond of her. You look so tired—are you?”
“A little. It is so good of you to come. Yes, I’ve heard a very great
deal of you.”
“I’ll sit down, thank you. Let’s try this sofa. I’ve already tried the
chairs, and they’re awful. But I suppose dear old Harriet never sat
down at all. I wonder if she’ll be happy in heaven with nothing to
do.”
Patience smiled sympathetically. “She ought to be glad of a rest,
but I don’t believe she is.”
“She thought we were all heathens—dear old soul; but I did love
her. What was the trouble? We only had one short letter from Miss
Beale. Do tell me all about it.”
Miss Peele had an air of reposeful alertness. She leaned forward
slightly, her eyes fixed on Patience’s with flattering attention. She
looked a youthful worldling, a captivating type to a country girl. Her
voice was very sweet, and exquisitely modulated. Occasionally it
went down into a minor key.
“What shall you do with yourself, now?” she asked anxiously,
when Patience had finished the brief story. “I am so interested in
you. I don’t know why I haven’t called before, except that I never
find time to do the things I most care for; but I have wanted to
come a dozen times, and when we returned yesterday and heard of
the dear old girl’s death I made up my mind to come at once. And
I’m coming often. I know we shall be such good friends. I’m so glad
she left you her money so you won’t have to work. It must be so
horrid to work. I’m going to ask mamma to ask you to visit us. She’s
feeling rather soft now over Cousin Harriet’s death, so I’ll strike
before she gets the icebergs on. She isn’t pleasant then. I’ll tell her
you don’t wear the white ribbon yet—” She broke into a light peal of
laughter. “Poor mamma! how she used to suffer. Cousin Harriet’s
white bow was the great cross of her life. It will go far toward
reconciling her—Don’t think that my parent is heartless. She merely
insists upon everything belonging to her to be sans reproche. That’s
the reason we don’t always get along. What lovely hair you have—a
real blonde cendrée. It’s all the rage in Paris. And that great coil is
beautiful. Tell me, didn’t you find that Temperance work a hideous
bore?”
“Oh, yes, but no one could resist Miss Tremont.”
“Indeed one couldn’t. I believe she’d have roped me in if I’d lived
with her; but I’m a frivolous good-for-nothing thing. You look so
serious. Do you always feel that way?”
Patience smiled broadly. “Oh, no. I often feel that I would be
very frivolous indeed if circumstances would permit. It must be very
interesting.”
“You get tired of yourself sometimes—I mean I do. Are you very
religious?”
“I am not religious at all.”
“Oh, how awfully jolly. I do the regulation business, but it is
really tragic to carry so much religion round all the time. I wonder
how Cousin Harriet and the Lord hit it off, or if they liked each other
better at a distance? I corresponded once with the brother of a
school friend for a year, and when I met him I couldn’t endure him.
Those things are very trying. I am going to call you Patience. May I?
And if ever you call me Miss Peele you’ll be sorry. How awfully smart
you’d look in gowns. My colouring is so commonplace. If I didn’t
know how to dress, and hadn’t been taught to carry myself with an
air, I’d be just nothing—no more and no less. But you have such a
lovely nose and white skin—and that hair! You are aristocratic
looking without being swagger. I’m the other way. You can acquire
the one, but you can’t the other. When you have both you’ll be out
of sight.
“What fun it would be,” she rambled on in her bright
inconsequential way, “if Bev should fall in love with you and you’d
marry him. Then I’d have such fun dressing you, and we’d get ahead
of my cousin Honora Mairs, whom I hate, and who, I’m afraid, will
get him. Propinquity and flattery will bring down any man—they’re
such peacocks. But I’ll bring him to see you. You ought to have a
violet velvet frock. I’d bet on Bev then. But, of course, you can’t
wear colours yet, and that dead black is wonderfully becoming. Can
I bring him up in a day or two?”
“Oh, yes,” said Patience, smiling as she recalled her brief periods
of spiritual matrimony with Beverly Peele; “by all means. I’ll be so
glad to meet all of you. And you are certainly good to take so much
interest in me.”
“I am the angel of the family. Well, I must be off, or I’ll have to
dine all by me lonely. None of the rest of the family uses slang: that
is the reason I do. May is a grown-up baby, and never disobeyed her
mamma in her life. Honora is a classic, and only swears in the
privacy of her closet when her schemes fail. Mother—well, you’ve
seen mother. As you may imagine, she doesn’t use slang. Papa
doesn’t talk at all, and Bev is a prig where decent women are
concerned. So, you see, I have to let off steam somehow, and as I
haven’t the courage to be larky, I read French novels and use bad
words.”
She rose and moved toward a heavy coat that lay on a chair.
“Well, Patience—what a funny lovely old-fashioned name you have—
I’m going to bring Bev to see you as a last resource. I’ve tried him