“Was there ever anything so poetic, so suggestive?” said a charming voice.  “One might make a new Turner out of it ­if one just happened to be Turner! ­to match ‘Rain:  Steam, and Speed.’”

“What would you call it ­’Mist, Light, and Spring’?”

Captain Boyson leant forward, partly to watch the wonderful landscape effect through which the train was passing, partly because his young wife’s profile, her pure cheek and soft hair, were so agreeably seen under the mingled light from outside.

They were returning from their wedding journey.  Some six weeks before this date Boyson had married in Philadelphia a girl coming from one of the old Quaker stocks of that town, in whose tender steadfastness of character a man inclined both by nature and experience to expect little from life had found a happiness that amazed him.

The bridegroom, also, had just been appointed to the Military Attacheship at the Berlin Embassy, and the couple were, in fact, on their way south to New York and embarkation.  But there were still a few days left of the honeymoon, of which they had spent the last half in Canada, and on this May night they were journeying from Toronto along the southern shore of Lake Ontario to the pleasant Canadian hotel which overlooks the pageant of Niagara.  They had left Toronto in bright sunshine, but as they turned the corner of the lake westward, a white fog had come creeping over the land as the sunset fell.

But the daylight was still strong, the fog thin; so that it appeared rather as a veil of gold, amethyst, and opal, floating over the country, now parting altogether, now blotting out the orchards and the fields.  And into the colour above melted the colour below.  For the orchards that cover the Hamilton district of Ontario were in bloom, and the snow of the pear-trees, the flush of the peach-blossom broke everywhere through the warm cloud of pearly mist; while, just as Mrs. Boyson spoke, the train had come in sight of the long flashing line of the Welland Canal, which wound its way, outlined by huge electric lamps, through the sunset and the fog, till the lights died in that northern distance where stretched the invisible shore of the great lake.  The glittering waterway, speaking of the labour and commerce of men, the blossom-laden earth, the white approaching mist, the softly falling night: ­the girl-bride could not tear herself from the spectacle.  She sat beside the window entranced.  But her husband had captured her hand, and into the overflowing beauty of nature there stole the thrill of their love.

“All very well!” said Boyson presently.  “But a fog at Niagara is no joke!”

The night stole on, and the cloud through which they journeyed grew denser.  Up crept the fog, on stole the night.  The lights of the canal faded, the orchards sank into darkness, and when the bride and bridegroom reached the station on the Canadian side the bride’s pleasure had become dismay.

“Oh, Alfred, we shan’t see anything!”

And, indeed, as their carriage made its slow progress along the road that skirts the gorge, they seemed to plunge deeper and deeper into the fog.  A white darkness, as though of impenetrable yet glimmering cloud, above and around them; a white abyss beneath them; and issuing from it the thunderous voice of wild waters, dim first and distant, but growing steadily in volume and terror.

“There are the lights of the bridge!” cried Boyson, “and the towers of the aluminum works.  But not a vestige of the Falls!  Gone!  Wiped out!  I say, darling, this is going to be a disappointment.”

Mrs. Boyson, however, was not so sure.  The lovely “nocturne” of the evening plain had passed into a Vision or Masque of Force that captured the mind.  High above the gulf rose the towers of the great works, transformed by the surging fog and darkness into some piled and castled fortress; a fortress of Science held by Intelligence.  Lights were in the towers, as of genii at their work; lights glimmered here and there on the face of the farther cliff, as though to measure the vastness of the gorge and of that resounding vacancy towards which they moved.  In front, the arch of the vast suspension bridge, pricked in light, crossed the gulf, from nothingness to nothingness, like that sky bridge on which the gods marched to Walhalla.  Otherwise, no shape, no landmark; earth and heaven had disappeared.

“Here we are at the hotel,” said Boyson.  “There, my dear,” ­he pointed ironically ­“is the American Fall, and there ­is the Canadian!  Let me introduce you to Niagara!”

They jumped out of the carriage, and while their bags were being carried in they ran to the parapeted edge of the cliff in front of the hotel.  Niagara thundered in their ears; the spray of it beat upon their faces; but of the two great Falls immediately in front of them they saw nothing whatever.  The fog, now cold and clammy, enwrapped them; even the bright lights of the hotel, but a stone’s throw distant, were barely visible; and the carriage still standing at the steps had vanished.

Suddenly, some common impulse born of the moment and the scene ­of its inhuman ghostliness and grandeur ­drew them to each other.  Boyson threw his arm round his young wife and pressed her to him, kissing her face and hair, bedewed by the spray.  She clung to him passionately, trembling a little, as the roar deafened them and the fog swept round them.

As the Boysons lingered in the central hall of the hotel, reading some letters which had been handed to them, a lady in black passed along the gallery overhead and paused a moment to look at the new arrivals brought by the evening train.

As she perceived Captain Boyson there was a quick, startled movement; she bent a moment over the staircase, as though to make sure of his identity, and then ran along the gallery to a room at the farther end.  As she opened the door a damp cold air streamed upon her, and the thunder of the Falls, with which the hotel is perpetually filled, seemed to redouble.

Three large windows opposite to her were, in fact, wide open; the room, with its lights dimmed by fog, seemed hung above the abyss.

An invalid couch stood in front of the window, and upon it lay a pale, emaciated woman, breathing quickly and feebly.  At the sound of the closing door, Madeleine Verrier turned.

“Oh, Daphne, I was afraid you had gone out!  You do such wild things!”

Daphne Barnes came to the side of the couch.

“Darling, I only went to speak to your maid for a moment.  Are you sure you can stand all this damp fog?”

As she spoke Daphne took up a fur cloak lying on a chair near, and wrapped herself warmly in it.

“I can’t breathe when they shut the windows.  But it is too cold for you.”

“Oh, I’m all right in this.”  Daphne drew the cloak round her.

Inwardly she said to herself, “Shall I tell her the Boysons are here?  Yes, I must.  She is sure to hear it in some way.”

So, stooping over the couch, she said: 

“Do you know who arrived this evening?  The Alfred Boysons.  I saw them in the hall just now.”

“They’re on their honeymoon?” asked the faint voice, after a just perceptible pause.

Daphne assented.  “She seems a pretty little thing.”

Madeleine Verrier opened her tired eyes to look at Daphne.  Mrs. Floyd ­as Daphne now called herself ­was dressed in deep black.  The costly gown revealed a figure which had recently become substantial, and the face on which the electric light shone had nothing left in it of the girl, though Daphne Floyd was not yet thirty.  The initial beauty of complexion was gone; so was the fleeting prettiness of youth.  The eyes were as splendid as ever, but combined with the increased paleness of the cheeks, the greater prominence and determination of the mouth, and a certain austerity in the dressing of the hair, which was now firmly drawn back from the temples round which it used to curl, and worn high, a la Marquise, they expressed a personality ­a formidable personality ­in which self-will was no longer graceful, and power no longer magnetic.  Madeleine Verrier gazed at her friend in silence.  She was very grateful to Daphne, often very dependent on her.  But there were moments when she shrank from her, when she would gladly never have seen her again.  Daphne was still erect, self-confident, militant; whereas Madeleine knew herself vanquished ­vanquished both in body and soul.

Certain inner miseries and discomforts had been set vibrating by the name of Captain Boyson.

“You won’t want to see him or come across him?” she said abruptly.

“Who?  Alfred Boyson?  I am not afraid of him in the least.  He may say what he pleases ­or think what he pleases.  It doesn’t matter to me.”

“When did you see him last?”

Daphne hesitated a moment.  “When he came to ask me for certain things which had belonged to Beatty.”

“For Roger?  I remember.  It must have been painful.”

“Yes,” said Daphne unwillingly, “it was.  He was very unfriendly.  He always has been ­since it happened.  But I bore him no malice” ­the tone was firm ­“and the interview was short.”

“ ­”The half inaudible word fell like a sigh from Madeleine’s lips as she closed her eyes again to shut out the light which teased them.  And presently she added, “Do you ever hear anything now ­from England?”

“Just what I might expect to hear ­what more than justifies all that I did.”

Daphne sat rigid on her chair, her hands crossed on her lap.  Mrs. Verrier did not pursue the conversation.

Outside the fog grew thicker and darker.  Even the lights on the bridge were now engulfed.  Daphne began to shiver in her fur cloak.  She put out a cold hand and took one of Mrs. Verrier’s.

“Dear Madeleine!  Indeed, indeed, you ought to let me move you from this place.  Do let me!  There’s the house at Stockbridge all ready.  And in July I could take you to Newport.  I must be off next week, for I’ve promised to take the chair at a big meeting at Buffalo on the 29th.  But I can’t bear to leave you behind.  We could make the journey quite easy for you.  That new car of mine is very comfortable.”

“I know it is.  But, thank you, dear, I like this hotel; and it will be summer directly.”

Daphne hesitated.  A strong protest against “morbidness” was on her lips, but she did not speak it.  In the mist-filled room even the bright fire, the electric lights, had grown strangely dim.  Only the roar outside was real ­terribly, threateningly real.  Yet the sound was not so much fierce as lamentable; the voice of Nature mourning the eternal flow and conflict at the heart of things.  Daphne knew well that, mingled with this primitive, cosmic voice, there was ­for Madeleine Verrier ­another; a plaintive, human cry, that was drawing the life out of her breast, the blood from her veins, like some baneful witchcraft of old.  But she dared not speak of it; she and the doctor who attended Mrs. Verrier dared no longer name the patient’s “obsession” even to each other.  They had tried to combat it, to tear her from this place; with no other result, as it seemed, than to hasten the death-process which was upon her.  Gently, but firmly, she had defied them, and they knew now that she would always defy them.  For a year past, summer and winter, she had lived in this apartment facing the Falls; her nurses found her very patient under the incurable disease which had declared itself; Daphne came to stay with her when arduous engagements allowed, and Madeleine was always grateful and affectionate.  But certain topics, and certain advocacies, had dropped out of their conversation ­not by Daphne’s will.  There had been no spoken recantation; only the prophetess prophesied no more; and of late, especially when Daphne was not there ­so Mrs. Floyd had discovered ­a Roman Catholic priest had begun to visit Mrs. Verrier.  Daphne, moreover, had recently noticed a small crucifix, hidden among the folds of the loose black dress which Madeleine commonly wore.

Daphne had changed her dress and dismissed her maid.  Although it was May, a wood-fire had been lighted in her room to counteract the chilly damp of the evening.  She hung over it, loth to go back to the sitting-room, and plagued by a depression that not even her strong will could immediately shake off.  She wished the Boysons had not come.  She supposed that Alfred Boyson would hardly cut her; but she was tolerably certain that he would not wish his young wife to become acquainted with her.  She scorned his disapproval of her; but she smarted under it.  It combined with Madeleine’s strange delusions to put her on the defensive; to call out all the fierceness of her pride; to make her feel herself the champion of a sound and reasonable view of life as against weakness and reaction.

Madeleine’s dumb remorse was, indeed, the most paralyzing and baffling thing; nothing seemed to be of any avail against it, now that it had finally gained the upper hand.  There had been dark times, no doubt, in the old days in Washington; times when the tragedy of her husband’s death had overshadowed her.  But in the intervals, what courage and boldness, what ardour in the declaration of that new Feminist gospel to which Daphne had in her own case borne witness!  Daphne remembered well with what feverish readiness Madeleine had accepted her own pleas after her flight from England; how she had defended her against hostile criticism, had supported her during the divorce court proceedings, and triumphed in their result.  “You are unhappy?  And he deceived you?  Well, then, what more do you want?  Free yourself, my dear, free yourself!  What right have you to bear more children to a man who is a liar and a shuffler?  It is our generation that must suffer, for the liberty of those that come after!”

What had changed her?  Was it simply the approach of mortal illness, the old questioning of “what dreams may come”?  Superstition, in fact?  As a girl she had been mystical and devout; so Daphne had heard.

Or was it the death of little Beatty, to whom she was much attached?  She had seen something of Roger during that intermediate Philadelphia stage, when he and Beatty were allowed to meet at her house; and she had once or twice astonished and wounded Daphne at that time by sudden expressions of pity for him.  It was she who had sent the cable message announcing the child’s death, wording it as gently as possible, and had wept in sending it.

“As if I hadn’t suffered too!” cried Daphne’s angry thought.  And she turned to look at the beautiful miniature of Beatty set in pearls that stood upon her dressing-table.  There was something in the recollection of Madeleine’s sensibility with regard to the child ­as in that of her compassion for the father’s suffering ­that offended Daphne.  It seemed a reflection upon herself, Beatty’s mother, as lacking in softness and natural feeling.

On the contrary!  She had suffered terribly; but she had thought it her duty to bear it with courage, not to let it interfere with the development of her life.  And as for Roger, was it her fault that he had made it impossible for her to keep her promise?  That she had been forced to separate Beatty from him?  And if, as she understood now from various English correspondents, it was true that Roger had dropped out of decent society, did it not simply prove that she had guessed his character aright, and had only saved herself just in time?

It was as though the sudden presence of Captain Boyson under the same roof had raised up a shadowy adversary and accuser, with whom she must go on thus arguing, and hotly defending herself, in a growing excitement.  Not that she would ever stoop to argue with Alfred Boyson face to face.  How could he ever understand the ideals to which she had devoted her powers and her money since the break-up of her married life?  He could merely estimate what she had done in the commonest, vulgarest way.  Yet who could truthfully charge her with having obtained her divorce in order thereby to claim any fresh licence for herself?  She looked back now with a cool amazement on that sudden rush of passion which had swept her into marriage, no less than the jealousy which had led her to break with Roger.  She was still capable of many kinds of violence; but not, probably, of the violence of love.  The influence of sex and sense upon her had weakened; the influence of ambition had increased.  As in many women of Southern race, the period of hot blood had passed into a period of intrigue and domination.  Her wealth gave her power, and for that power she lived.

Yes, she was personally desolate, but she had stood firm, and her reward lay in the fact that she had gathered round her an army of dependents and followers ­women especially ­to whom her money and her brains were indispensable.  There on the table lay the plans for a new Women’s College, on the broadest and most modern lines, to which she was soon to devote a large sum of money.  The walls should have been up by now but for a quarrel with her secretary, who had become much too independent, and had had to be peremptorily dismissed at a moment’s notice.  But the plan was a noble one, approved by the highest authorities; and Daphne, looking to posterity, anticipated the recognition that she herself might never live to see.  For the rest she had given herself ­with reservations ­to the Feminist movement.  It was not in her nature to give herself wholly to anything; and she was instinctively critical of people who professed to be her leaders, and programmes to which she was expected to subscribe.  Wholehearted devotion, which, as she rightly said, meant blind devotion, had never been her line; and she had been on one or two occasions offensively outspoken on the subject of certain leading persons in the movement.  She was not, therefore, popular with her party, and did not care to be; her pride of money held her apart from the rank and file, the college girls, and typists, and journalists who filled the Feminist meetings, and often made themselves, in her eyes, supremely ridiculous, because of what she considered their silly provinciality and lack of knowledge of the world.

Yet, of course, she was a “Feminist” ­and particularly associated with those persons in the suffrage camp who stood for broad views on marriage and divorce.  She knew very well that many other persons in the same camp held different opinions; and in public or official gatherings was always nervously ­most people thought arrogantly ­on the look-out for affronts.  Meanwhile, everywhere, or almost everywhere, her money gave her power, and her knowledge of it was always sweet to her.  There was nothing in the world ­no cause, no faith ­that she could have accepted “as a little child.”  But everywhere, in her own opinion, she stood for Justice; justice for women as against the old primaeval tyranny of men; justice, of course, to the workman, and justice to the rich.  No foolish Socialism, and no encroaching Trusts!  A lucid common sense, so it seemed to her, had been her cradle-gift.

And with regard to Art, how much she had been able to do!  She had generously helped the public collections, and her own small gallery, at the house in Newport, was famous throughout England and America.  That in the course of the preceding year she had found among the signatures, extracted from visitors by the custodian in charge, the name of Chloe Fairmile, had given her a peculiar satisfaction.

She walked proudly across the room, her head thrown back, every nerve tense.  Let the ignorant and stupid blame her if they chose.  She stood absolved.  Memory reminded her, moreover, of a great number of kind and generous things ­private things ­that she had done with her money.  If men like Herbert French, or Alfred Boyson, denounced her, there were many persons who felt warmly towards her ­and had cause.  As she thought of them the tears rose in her eyes.  Of course she could never make such things public.

Outside the fog seemed to be lifting a little.  There was a silvery light in the southeast, a gleam and radiance over the gorge.  If the moon struggled through, it would be worth while slipping out after dinner to watch its play upon the great spectacle.  She was careful to cherish in herself an openness to noble impressions and to the high poetry of nature and life.  And she must not allow herself to be led by the casual neighbourhood of the Boysons into weak or unprofitable thought.

The Boysons dined at a table, gay with lights and flowers, that should have commanded the Falls but for the curtain of fog.  Niagara, however, might flout them if it pleased; they could do without Niagara.  They were delighted that the hotel, apparently, contained no one they knew.  All they wanted was to be together, and alone.  But the bride was tired by a long day in the train; her smiles began presently to flag, and by nine o’clock her husband had insisted on sending her to rest.

After escorting her upstairs Captain Boyson returned to the veranda, which was brightly lit up, in order to read some letters that were still unopened in his pocket.  But before he began upon them he was seized once more by the wizardry of the scene.  Was that indistinct glimmer in the far distance ­that intenser white on white ­the eternal cloud of spray that hangs over the Canadian Fall?  If so, the fog was indeed yielding, and the full moon behind it would triumph before long.  On the other hand, he could no longer see the lights of the bridge at all; the rolling vapour choked the gorge, and the waiter who brought him his coffee drily prophesied that there would not be much change under twenty-four hours.

He fell back upon his letters, well pleased to see that one among them came from Herbert French, with whom the American officer had maintained a warm friendship since the day of a certain consultation in French’s East-End library.  The letter was primarily one of congratulation, written with all French’s charm and sympathy; but over the last pages of it Boyson’s face darkened, for they contained a deplorable account of the man whom he and French had tried to save.

The concluding passage of the letter ran as follows: 

“You will scarcely wonder after all this that we see him very seldom, and that he no longer gives us his confidence.  Yet both Elsie and I feel that he cares for us as much as ever.  And, indeed, poor fellow, he himself remains strangely lovable, in spite of what one must ­alas! ­believe as to his ways of life and the people with whom he associates.  There is in him, always, something of what Meyers called ‘the imperishable child.’  That a man who might have been so easily led to good has been so fatally thrust into evil is one of the abiding sorrows of my life.  How can I reproach him for his behaviour?  As the law stands, he can never marry; he can never have legitimate children.  Under the wrong he has suffered, and, no doubt, in consequence of that illness in New York, when he was badly nursed and cared for ­from which, in fact, he has never wholly recovered ­his will-power and nerve, which were never very strong, have given way; he broods upon the past perpetually, and on the loss of his child.  Our poor Apollo, Boyson, will soon have lost himself wholly, and there is no one to help.

“Do you ever see or hear anything of that woman?  Do you know what has become of her?  I see you are to have a Conference on your Divorce Laws ­that opinion and indignation are rising.  For Heaven’s sake, do something!  I gather some appalling facts from a recent Washington report.  One in twelve of all your marriages dissolved!  A man or a woman divorced in one state, and still bound in another!  The most trivial causes for the break-up of marriage, accepted and acted upon by corrupt courts, and reform blocked by a phalanx of corrupt interests!  Is it all true?  An American correspondent of mine ­a lady ­repeats to me what you once said, that it is the women who bring the majority of the actions.  She impresses upon me also the remarkable fact that it is apparently only in a minority of cases that a woman, when she has got rid of her husband, marries someone else.  It is not passion, therefore, that dictates many of these actions; no serious cause or feeling, indeed, of any kind; but rather an ever-spreading restlessness and levity, a readiness to tamper with the very foundations of society, for a whim, a nothing! ­in the interests, of ten, of what women call their ‘individuality’!  No foolish talk here of being ’members one of another’!  We have outgrown all that.  The facilities are always there, and the temptation of them.  ’The women ­especially ­who do these things,’ she writes me, ’are moral anarchists.  One can appeal to nothing; they acknowledge nothing.  Transformations infinitely far-reaching and profound are going on among us.”

“‘Appeal to nothing!’ And this said of women, by a woman!  It was of men that a Voice said long ago:  ’Moses, because of the hardness of your hearts, suffered you to put away your wives’ ­on just such grounds apparently ­trivial and cruel pretexts ­as your American courts admit.  ’But I say unto you! ­I say unto you!’...

“Well, I am a Christian priest, incapable, of course, of an unbiassed opinion.  My correspondent tries to explain the situation a little by pointing out that your women in America claim to be the superiors of your men, to be more intellectual, better-mannered, more refined.  Marriage disappoints or disgusts them, and they impatiently put it aside.  They break it up, and seem to pay no penalty.  But you and I believe that they will pay it! ­that there are divine avenging forces in the very law they tamper with ­and that, as a nation, you must either retrace some of the steps taken, or sink in the scale of life.

     “How I run on!  And all because my heart is hot within me for the
     suffering of one man, and the hardness of one woman!”

Boyson raised his eyes.  As he did so he saw dimly through the mist the figure of a lady, veiled, and wrapped in a fur cloak, crossing the farther end of the veranda.  He half rose from his seat, with an exclamation.  She ran down the steps leading to the road and disappeared in the fog.

Boyson stood looking after her, his mind in a whirl.

The manager of the hotel came hurriedly out of the same door by which Daphne Floyd had emerged, and spoke to a waiter on the veranda, pointing in the direction she had taken.

Boyson heard what was said, and came up.  A short conversation passed between him and the manager.  There was a moment’s pause on Boyson’s part; he still held French’s letter in his hand.  At last, thrusting it into his pocket, he hurried to the steps whereby Daphne had left the hotel, and pursued her into the cloud outside.

The fog was now rolling back from the gorge, upon the Falls, blotting out the transient gleams which had seemed to promise a lifting of the veil, leaving nothing around or beneath but the white and thunderous abyss.