Argosy, Vol. 1 (1882) — page 276: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

FETTERED BY FREEDOM. It only needed this incident to rouse me to the fact that in my absorption in Elsa I had forgotten what I owed to Amy ; and a few days later I sent her to the mountains, where she could have entire change of scene and new occu- pations. Philip and Elsa were together every day. Often when I looked at them my heart misgave me. I hardly liked to think of the possible outcome of their renewed intimacy. she was very frank with Philip— very open about herself, disclosing her _ faults and mistakes in a way that was in itself a charm. They were seated outside my win- dows under the balmy pine branches. The distant roar of the ocean as the tide went out made a pleasant accom- paniment to their voices. He had been telling her about his life in Capri, where he had built his studio, for Philip was an artist. “T should lke Capri,” Elsa said, eagerly. “ The life there is so varied. It is the monotony of my life that is killing me. I cannot bear to do the same thing twice in succession, and here I am forced to do the same thing a hundred times. Why, Philip, if I know that I shall have to do the same thing twice I won't do it the first time, if I can help it. If I take a walk ora drive [ always try to return by a differ- ent road. I should like Capri if only for what you tell me about the vitality of the air. That would keep one up of itself. I get tired of people—lI al- ways did, you know. I come so quick- ly to the end of them. Even mother and Amy tire me, and sometimes | think that if I should hear Polly’s voice another moment I should go out of my mind. “Do you know, Philip,” with a short, dry laugh, “ mother and Amy are always trying to entertain me. They tell me everything. Amy tells me even about the cow that she can see from her back window. She tells me how it spends its days and all about Aa 267 its moods. Fancy the moods of a cow! And I try to look interested, for I know her kind intention. And then they are always reading me things and telling me things which they think ap- plicable to my case—and all of us pre- tend that we don’t see the allusion, and it is all a ghastly farce. It is awful having people watch your moods and gauge your feelings. And they bore me so!” It seemed as if a knife went through my heart. ‘Now you interest me without try- ing,’ she went on. “ You must be like the air of Capri. And you don’t bother me about my debts—they are bad enough, Heaven knows—or suggest what my duty is toward Polly. I know it all a-great deal better than any one can tell me. ‘ Philip, they don’t know what it is to be torn up by the roots—they don’t know the feeling of dire dismay that takes possession of your whole being, or what it 1s to be afraid to allow your- self to think, for fear that something in your head, that is always at a tension, will snap. Oh, they torture me with their small transparent efforts to make me forget the past! They only make me remember it the more. “Tf they will only give me time I will get over it. I am glad to be free—my freedom is very dear to me, but I have not got used to it yet. It is said that a prisoner released from the dungeon where he has been confined for years will languish in the sunshine and pine for his chains. It is so with me. I have not got used to the sunshine yet. “You remember what a busy life I led with Percy. When he was not at home he was at the other end of the telephone—you remember we had a telephone in the house. He was al- ways ringing me up. Sometimes it was to tell me to be ready for a drive ata certain hour—or that he would bring one or two men home to dinner. Very often I would stay in for hours for a possible message from. his” INool<s CO